The Secret Code of Monsters.

Chapter 1044 (Ch.1043) The Avengers

“Mr. Terry, how wondrous are human loves and hates! Look at Miss Madeline Terry—in their words, ‘such a little darling deserves a luxurious villa, complete with a beautiful greenhouse’—such a person—”

Not far from the manor.

The man, who was gesticulating wildly, was quickly grabbed by the collar.

At this moment, Thomas Terry was like a madman who hadn't slept for ten days, his fat covering him into a greasy cowhide—so big that if you pinched him with your fingers, you could stretch him to a size that every man knows (of course, some who say they look like donkeys don't count).

At this moment, he had no wondrous love, only inexhaustible hatred.

"You'd better not joke about Madeline..."

The ramming face that haunted people's nightmares of naval battles cast a shadow over the white-haired, gray-eyed man's face.

He gritted his teeth and didn't open his mouth completely when he spoke, as if afraid that the full load of shells would fall out.

"Of course, I promise."

Linus raised his hand dismissively, his slightly exaggerated smile only making him more repulsive.

Thomas Terry shoved the man, sending him staggering.

"You'd better remember..."

He murmured his daughter's name, Madeline, Madeline, and he swelled up like a balloon in her mother's womb, shedding his feathers and becoming the alluring enchantress of the world—his dreams, fantasies, and joys…

source.

He died tragically in a manor that should have been erased long ago.

Thomas Terry slowly turned around.

The gaze seemed to pass over the walls entwined with green vines, and then, like a parabola, followed the window lattice into the villa that had been meticulously renovated and then demolished, and was now beginning to take shape.

His anger, or perhaps the betrayal of his soul, made his finely woven robes feel even tighter. His large bones swelled violently, as if he were deeply aggrieved.

Thomas Terry didn't care at all.

He knew what had happened to him, and he was also clear about what had happened between him and his daughter—or rather, whether 'that thing' could even be called 'daughter' was not even certain…

Kleinus.

Linus, with his white hair and gray eyes, did it.

He brought back his daughter's tormented yet alluring soul, bones of all sizes, and skin made of soft milk.

Her mountains and valleys must have taken so much effort from the gods, causing them countless headaches day and night.

The man lowered his head and clenched his fist.

He could recall the sensation of breaking open the dry bones, with muscles and membranes sprouting from both ends like wings, and the hooves kicking wildly like an immature cat.

He started talking to it, and the echo crashed against him, bounced back, and each time it was shorter.

He temporarily impersonated the soft padding on the soles of wooden shoes, or the green fruit-like socks, wanting her to grieve and then happily acknowledge her family.

He tossed and turned, even sitting in the bathtub once.

That was the first time in decades that he felt 'liberated'—freed from constraints and able to confront his true self: was he really like this?
Regrettably.

The answer is of course no.

But he was not angry at all, nor did he complain like some traitor on the Holy Cross's stake, saying, "It was the cultists who bewitched me"—if that were true, every knife in London would have been dead within a month.

He faced his own distortion, or rather, his distorted soul, with equanimity.

The ritualists of the Church of Justice place the skewed balance on the most important thing.

He helped Tom Linus mix poison into blood wine and tricked Francis Whittle, his disciple doing things that orthodox ritualists should never do—but he also got what he wanted.

He was fair, and Tom Linus kept his word.

He saw his daughter...

Of course, he wasn't 'too grown up' yet. Otherwise, it would be incredibly awkward for him to be sitting in a bathtub with a woman in her early twenties.

“You’ve got what you wanted, Mr. Terry. I’m wondering, shouldn’t you be with Miss Terry now?”

Tom Linus stood beside him with his hands behind his back, using one hand to shield his brow from the sun and standing on tiptoe.

"Shelley's estate...it's really magnificent."

Thomas Terry wanted to fill the entire manor with the winter he saw. "Lillian Shelley."

He said.

The white-haired, gray-eyed man turned to look at him: "What?"

"Lillian Shelley. Old Shelley's found daughter..."

He was also the one who hurt Madeline.

Tom Linus read Terry's unfinished words aloud and raised an eyebrow: "Oh, really? That's a shame, because I've 'changed' your daughter back to... Tadah!"

Terry stared at him coldly.

The ritualists of the Just Church are not 'crazy'.

Although he's not entirely a "Libra" anymore...

"Seriously, my fellow countryman. I suggest you go back to where you came from—my little darlings are about to burst out…bursting everywhere. Take advantage of the chaos, and you and Miss Terry can get far away from London…What do you like? I recommend Bristol…ah…Bristol is wonderful…a place that's just been through a disaster…I can introduce you to some important people…like…"

Tom Linus snapped his fingers.

"I know the best bartender."

Thomas Terry was already used to his ravings.

“After I kill her…do everything she did to my daughter…I will take Madeline away.”

He said.

"What do you intend for me to do? To cheer for your sect? Or to throw a banquet for an arbitrator who corrupts a just church? Your followers will be proud of you, won't they?"

Obviously.

Even though he knew it in his heart, Thomas Terry was still dissatisfied.

Even if Tom Linus 'reverts' his daughter back to normal.

“Oh, a follower, a follower, a little follower… a lovely, chosen little swallowing messenger—oh dear, I don’t do such filthy things,” Tom Linus fanned away the foul wind that had tainted the topic and said with a grin, “We’ve known each other for so long… Mr. Terry, do I have a ‘follower’?”

Indeed not.

Tom Linus.

The high-ring ritualists of the cradle of flesh and blood.

He had no followers—at least not these days, Thomas Terry hadn't seen any.

Are you kidding me?
Even a small merchant nowadays has three or five servants surrounding him.

“A cult is a cult.”

“Don’t speak ill of yourself like that, Mr. Terry,” Tom Linus reminded him, noting that he was no longer the arbitrator of the Church of Justice—after the rat infestation.

Even though most ritual practitioners, like ordinary people, have a silly brain that should be stuffed back into another channel immediately after birth... they are not really that stupid.

Thomas Terry will soon become a “serious sin”.

Along with his disciples.

“I don’t understand what you’re trying to do with all this, Tom.”

As the 'executor,' Thomas Terry certainly didn't understand Tom Linus's thinking: what was the point of putting on such a grand drama, such a comedy—just to target the Holy Cross? For the Holy Cross, the plague would have been enough.

There absolutely has to be rats...

There's no need for those who manipulate rats.

This plague cost Tom Linus dearly: those who survived two rounds of selection as 'humans' had the potential to become 'ritualists'.

of course.

They are the ritualists of the path of flesh and blood.

If you want to find followers, why make such a big fuss?
Now, it's probably not just London; the entire empire knows about the existence of the 'Rituals'—something they've been avoiding, has been exposed by Tom Linus as if he were a rough, uncouth man facing a thin, bony three-shilling.

What exactly is Tom Linus trying to do?
Thomas Terry was deeply puzzled by this.

(End of this chapter)