The Secret Code of Monsters.

Chapter 1048 (Ch.1047) Tom Barka

According to Old Tom, this "fire of justice" was captured by a group of cultists who called themselves believers in the "God of the Spindle"—of course, of course, the remnants of the Silver Spindle that never stops sewing. Who doesn't know that this cult has a very good mass base in society?

I just don't know what "righteous things" the previous cultist who wielded the "Flame of Justice" actually did with it...

Anyway, it belongs to me for now.

Rose thought to herself, playing with the beautiful flame patterns.

Old Tom said its price was hallucinations—and coupled with the name 'Flame of Justice,' it wasn't hard for Rose to imagine what this strange object would turn its wielder into…

But she only fired one shot, so...

There won't be any problems.

The girl, itching to get her hands on the house, never saw the old butler.

A young man I'd never seen before arrived; he looked like the gardener.

"Miss--"

He walked with a rustling sound, and each pocket of his jacket contained scissors of different sizes, rags, and cloth bags tied with leather straps.

"Miss Shelley!"

Rose didn't want to talk to this unfamiliar man any longer. She held out a hand, palm up—no matter how stubborn she was, it had to be said that, soaking in the golden can of 'Shelley,' some of Rose's 'stubbornness' was slowly dissolving without her body's owner noticing…

"Mr. Tom asked me to give you—"

He ran up to Rose, breathless, and rummaged through his pockets before stuffing the contents into her hands.

It's not a bullet.

The sun was high in the sky in the afternoon.

Abandoned firing range due to windblown dust.

A beautiful girl, and a breathless male servant.

--Revise--

In an instant, Rose's hair stood on end—the sudden fear prevented her from making any correct response. Subconsciously, she rubbed her chaotic emotions in her hands, and a 'crunching' sound came from her palms under the quiet, scorching sun.

"Your bullets have arrived!"

The male servant grinned.

His lips, like the two ends of a leaf-shaped boat, were stretched endlessly by the silver moonlight on the sea—stretched ever longer. In the blink of an eye, Rose stared straight into his torn lips—

A passageway covered with sharp teeth.

A pair of eyes that met her gaze.

"A family once as glittering as brocade of gold and silver has been reduced to ruins..."

"Justice always prevails in the world..."

Or a distorted form of justice.

A muffled, thunderous wail shattered Lillian Rose Vancittat's thin, fragile wall of reason.

She retreated in a panic, amidst the gardener's painful struggles and the horrifying sounds of dislocated joints, as one after another, stark white bone spurs tore through her flesh.

The glimmer of hope belonging to the 'Gardener' gradually died out amidst the tearing—he seemed to have regained his senses before the end of the world, waving his hands and touching his crumbling flesh in disbelief, his two swollen eyes looking at Rose.

'Help me…'

He has something to say.

then.

It shriveled with a hiss.

His aged skin gave birth to a divine child; the flesh and blood, gradually becoming clearer after the membrane was torn away—the man's face, the dry skin peeling away rapidly, the arms pulling off the iron shears tearing open the belt tied around his waist like skin being ripped off—

He was like a visitor before a tour, brushing off the sticky, smelly dust from his clothes in front of the host's door.

"Good day."

"Miss Shelley."

The guest greeted them.

An ominous force blasted open the gates of Shelley Manor like a waterfall.

…………

……

When the crimson "field" passed through the manor, dyeing the sky red.

William was squatting on a low stool, building the poker tower he had been carefully constructing for half an hour.

After a deafening roar, half an hour's worth of hard work was reduced to ruins.

'Oh shit…'

The man muttered as he jumped off the chair, then suddenly froze like a statue.

He turned his head to listen to a rustling sound coming from somewhere, and then, from all directions—before the wall collapsed, an invisible armor enveloped him. Debris flew everywhere.

"Intruder!"

He roared as he tried to unleash his "secret," only to find that the power of the fourth ring crumbled almost instantly in the surging waves—the high-ring ritualist.

Mr. Shelley.

Mr. Tom.

Two names popped into my head.

The man leaped up, stepping over the ruins of playing cards on the table, and landed lightly on his bed, pulling a dagger from a hanging leather bag.

Behind.

The rats swarmed in like a tidal wave…

…………

……

Shiny knight armor stood silently on both sides of the corridor.

This is from Mr. James Shelley's collection, a "high-end item" he hastily bought in his youth—Tom can only describe his eccentric old master as having bought it "in a hasty" manner.

When they were both young.

James Shelley was not like he is now.

He knew nothing about history, art, or what true 'value' was: for a businessman who was good at speculation and calculating people's hearts, the fact that these rows of armor were sought after was enough to give him a reason to buy them.

Add to that a little bit of vanity.

Tom is different.

He was Shelley's butler, who had followed him since he was young, and came from a noble family (though only a baron). He was the seventh son in his family, and his mother had passed away long ago.

Through a series of life-threatening twists of fate, he encountered the man who would cause him a lifetime of headaches…

Young James Shelley was like an obnoxious gorilla.

It’s really…

Annoying.

Armor too.

In the gleam of light reflected from the maid's repeated wiping, the old butler saw his own smiling face.

"I'm getting old too... sir."

He touched the wrinkles on his face, and the many foolish words he had sworn never to forgive had, over the years, brewed into cups of precious memories…

But he and James never drank heavily.

Memory diminishes with drinking.

"If I live a few more years, I'll be able to see Miss's child..."

The old man muttered something, breathed on his armor, and wiped it several times with his sleeve: a patch of dust had gone unnoticed by the careless cleaning maids.

"poor."

As he was talking, he suddenly heard slow, leisurely footsteps—swaying from the corner at the end of the corridor—reaching his tiger-like ears.

"Tom Barca."

Sound arrives before people do.

It was full of absurd, shameful, and vulgar so-called 'romanticism' rhetoric that was so prevalent in the newspapers.

Old Tom frowned, took half a step forward, and sidestepped to block his newly polished knight's armor.

Turn the corner.

A man with white hair and gray eyes strolled over.

As if strolling leisurely in their own home, each step created an invisible wave that swept across the entire estate.

The wallpaper that was repaired every year began to rot, developing tangled hematomas; some unseen bulges spread rapidly from the blankets at the base of the drum.

Fine drops of blood fell onto Tom Barca's nose.

The long, drawn-out melody emanating from the abyss of death stirred up unrest in people's hearts.

Last time.

Tom Barca experienced this 'hallucination' while facing an eight-ringed opponent.

Eighth Ring Road...

"Given the name, shouldn't we try to be friends? I know a very skilled bartender... and frankly, this estate is one of the most exquisite I've ever seen..."

(End of this chapter)