The Secret Code of Monsters.

Chapter 1028 (Ch.1027) Finding Joy in Suffering
"A suitcase, three pounds."

“Two thin blankets, seventeen shillings.”

"Twelve wooden cups, two pounds and nine pence."

“A chair… two pounds. Two pounds, Norco, two pounds, a chair two pounds—” Falcon Potts chanted “two pounds” as if possessed, the receipt in his hand trembling as if struck by lightning. He gritted his teeth and approached the terrified man, grabbing him by the collar with all his might, pulling him close, and spitting out the word he had repeated so many times: “Two pounds, Norco.”

With a swift movement, Phalcon kicked over the nearly 100-year-old chair beside him.

It couldn't even withstand a fall.

"Two pounds! Two pounds! And this is all you and my brother bought! Two pounds! Norko! Tell me, how much is the noose that hanged you?!"

Norko was terrified.

He didn't seem like a greedy businessman who would sell a noose at all; large beads of sweat rolled down his brow.

"Mr.-Mr. Potts! He said..."

Extreme fear is similar to extreme shyness.

They can't even speak clearly.

"...saying they'd do a big deal...and quickly make up the money back..."

The brilliant Jeff Potts found a great business opportunity.

That makes perfect sense.

He planned to 'temporarily' acquire some cheap, readily available goods, then divert the funds to make a large profit—without anyone noticing, he would become rich.

It will only take about ten days.

"Far, far, far away..."

“I told you, when my brother and I got to London, we should have asked around and found out what was going on in the industry… I told you, Norko.”

Falcon Potts realized that it was pointless to criticize the manservant at this point.

He loosened his grip, letting the trembling servant fall.

A thud.

Like the well in Falcon Potts' heart.

He's in big trouble.

"I told you, I told you all, didn't I?" The vice dean hadn't yet erased the 'vice' from his name; he hadn't truly become one with the Grey Party—frankly speaking, neither the Grey Party nor the Secret Party, nor the Church, the Hyman family, nor even the Queen.

He didn't care at all about the pointless fighting of these immature kids.

What's the difference between them and children fighting over candy?
If you throw a shilling into a shed full of newsboys, you'll see the same thing happen—at least two newsboys will start fighting, without the other newsboys needing to categorize themselves or foolishly raise their hands to vote on who gets the shilling.

He didn't care about them; he only focused on his own goal: the opportunity he had finally gotten.

"You've ruined everything... my Norko, my dear brother..."

Norko lay prostrate on the ground, not daring to look up: "...Sir, Mr. Potts is also thinking of you and hopes to share some of your burden. He only plans to use it for about ten days..."

Falcon Potts, hands on his hips, bent over with an air of extreme humility: "But not now, and not with such foolishness, Norko."

The benefactor is above.

“You’re like men who haven’t seen an oyster in two hundred years; you’d take the bait even if you threw in a sock—Noko, Noko, if my brother dies, will you live?”

Noko cried out, crawled forward, grabbed Phalcon's ankle, and kept kissing his shoes.

Falcon remained indifferent.

He casually picked up the receipt on the table and lit it on the flame.

The paper burns slowly.

The ashes in his eyes seemed to be telling him an answer.

flame…

"Noko".

“Sir?” “You still have a chance… for my brother, and also for yourself.”

The servant only smelled the charred residue left after the fire.

…………

……

Edward Snow, despite carrying his mentor's handwritten letter, was unable to enter the city. He knew very well that if he were to shout outside the city gates that "the Church of Justice is a cult," he would probably be arrested within half a minute.

He retraced his steps and tried to visit Falcon Potts—as Williams Jenner had said, this fat man, whatever he wanted, would never have the guts to cooperate with a cult.

He was clearly misled.

"The gentleman has returned to London, Dr. Snow. If you wish to see him, you can make an appointment in advance and wait for his return—"

“I won’t be the one coming after him next.” Edward Snow gave the smug gatekeeper a cold look, then turned and hurried back to the camp.

The number of patients is increasing.

The hot and humid weather has made excrement a huge problem.

"Quickly! Soldiers! Grab your weapons! Hummingbird! Shovels—hurry! The enemy won't wait!"

Amidst the astonished gazes of the adult men, the boy, hands behind his back and head held high, strode confidently through the cesspool they were diligently digging: Mr. Leiden's mental state was just right, and the men didn't dislike him.

"Being crazy is better than being sick."

"That's what the man with the shovel said."

They huddled together in twos and threes, cigarettes dangling from their lips, and worked surprisingly swiftly.

"how old is he?"

"I heard he was only nine...or ten? Miss Nightingale ordered him to do it." A thinner man sat on a protruding stone stool, knees crossed, a cigarette tucked behind his ear. "...These days, it's always better for a madman than a normal person..."

He made a few remarks and then praised the woman he had just mentioned.

He had met many doctors and caregivers. Florence Nightingale was one of the few who was 'gentle'—not just in the literal sense, but he could distinguish between good and bad.

"The treasure lies at the bottom of the lake," the burly man said, jokingly calling it the only bit of luck they had amidst their misfortune. He asked the thin man who in his family was sick (it certainly wasn't him), and then told him that his eldest son stayed in the city, only coming out with his wife to accompany their younger son to the doctor.

The thin man said his wife was sick.

The conversation gradually fell silent.

Not a few minutes.

The woman carrying a basket walked along with light, quick steps.

"Hans! The young lady gave me clean wine!" The closer she got, the faster the woman walked, as if she wanted to rush to her husband's side and throw herself into his arms. She shoved the basket at the man, only to see her husband pick it up, pull out a small bottle, and hand it to someone behind him.

The thin man on the stone pier behind him.

"My friend, what's your name again?"

"Ben, Hans, you can call me Ben."

"Alright, Ben. I think we should be good friends for a while... Here we go."

The woman glanced at her husband, then at Mr. Ben, who had taken the bottle, unscrewed it, and was taking small sips—men always make friends everywhere, sometimes without even knowing each other's names…

Clean water is so precious, and it's just being given away to 'strangers' like this?

The wife hesitated, but looking at her husband's sweaty blouse, she thought for a moment and swallowed the words back.

"Get to work, you lazybones!"

The boy walked back and forth with his head held high. As he passed, the men put down their shovels and gave him a grotesque military salute: "Give our regards to Miss Nightingale, 'Sir'!"

Young Layton's face hardened: "Shut up! Get to work!"

This drew bursts of laughter.

On the scorching, angry earth under the blazing sun, someone hummed a song softly.

(End of this chapter)