The Secret Code of Monsters.

Chapter 1051 Ch1050 The Intestine Piercer

Chapter 1051 Ch.1050 The Intestine Piercer

As that ominous force enveloped the entire manor, the head, accustomed to dancing on the edge of a knife for years, finally warned the body: this also prevented the girl lying in front of the blood-stained man from having her thigh cut off in one fell swoop.

Rose rolled backward in a flustered manner, avoiding the crimson blade, and scrambled to her feet and ran away!
What a joke!
These are cultists! Intruders! They might even be enemies James made when he was young!

She had no desire to confront a high-level ritualist directly—Roland had repeatedly warned her that no matter how much fun she had, no matter how small the difference, she shouldn't think she could 'win against a stronger opponent'...

Oh, really?
At first, she didn't believe it at all—Rose had witnessed plenty of Roland's victories against all odds. From the moment she met him, from the moment he arrived in London.

He killed a ritualist while he was an apprentice (though it wasn't his doing alone).

Later, he faced Gao Huan countless times.

"Maybe I'm the 'protagonist,' and you're not, Rose. Those who aren't the protagonist should be wary of the possibility of dying at any moment..." In the training ground, someone leaned against the wall, teasing her with a grin: "Winning against all odds is the protagonist's privilege..."

What a load of rubbish about the main character.

Novelists who can write stories like this can't be much better.

As Rose thought about it, she felt like she was walking on air.

of course.

She turned and ran now, completely unrelated to the fact that someone had taught her a lesson (at least she considered it a 'draw'): What's it like to fight a ritualist on the "fantasy" path?
Rose can tell you.

Annoying.

Annoying as hell.

After finally overcoming the softened slate, the sharp pieces of paper, the bullet-like ink, and the carpet that suddenly 'froze' after sinking into your calf—after passing through one maddening level after another…

We have to try to deal with one...

Swift as a cheetah, with a powerful punch capable of piercing a wall, the 'Iron Cavalry' or 'Holy Flame' are formidable warriors.

That's utter nonsense.

No ritual performer is 'omnipotent'—James Shelley had told her that.

Just as the "Iron Cavalry" and "Horse," with their vigorous vitality and physical strength surpassing most other paths, are not adept at dealing with curses, the "Holy Flame" struggles to hunt down the "Horse," and the "Everlasting Ones," who are forever an army wherever plants are present, find it difficult to defend against the withering curse of the "Elegy."

The one without rituals is omnipotent.

then.

Roland then gave her a very real lesson.

The two men tried to have a gentleman's duel in the manner of ritualists.

The result is.

Neither dueling nor behaving like gentlemen.

—When did Roland develop the habit of spanking people?
The girl, feeling an itch somewhere, pulled her wandering thoughts back.

'Running for her life... Little Roland...' She gathered the fungus hanging from her ear, skillfully slipped into the ant-nest-like stone path of the manor, and ran towards the main house of James Shelley—James was a high-ring rite-taker, and old Tom was probably at home too.

When they arrive…

These cult members are in for a lot of trouble.

Rose skipped lightly when she suddenly felt something whistling past her ear.

She instinctively gathered the mycelium, rolled to the side, got up, and continued running without looking back.

Step by step.

She suddenly felt an unbearable discomfort coming from her abdomen: not pain, but a very strange feeling…

She wished something could crawl into her stomach and tear her vagina apart.

Bow down.

A patch of faded pink hung outside the torn dress.

Like a dog's tail that has been stripped of its fur and is waving in the wind.

what is this?
Rose knew exactly what it was.

But anyone who has experienced a major disaster understands one thing: when disaster strikes, the human mind does not allow the body's owner to accept it prematurely—

Like an old man lying on his deathbed, wailing as he watches his cold-hearted descendants leave him one by one, only in his dying moments does he recall the mistakes he made many years ago:

'Damn it, I shouldn't have gone in back then…'

Rose's shock came much faster and more suddenly than that of the terminally ill patient. She instinctively clutched her lower abdomen, her feet treading through brown feces and blood, continuing her frantic run step by step.

She could neither smell the stench nor feel the pain—the jolts only rippled through her lungs, while the other end of her soul, tied to the saddle, felt the chill of the darkness.

The man who followed was overjoyed.

He almost crouched down like a hunting dog searching for someone, sniffing the sweetness of revenge and the sour bacon crumbs that hadn't been fully digested that morning, the greasy, thick soup and plant roots mixed in with the dung that wasn't ready to gather with its own kind.

Dig them out.

It was scooped out with a spoon, a spoon studded with diamonds and gold, and respectfully placed under a magnifying glass. The best scholars in London were summoned to study it and cherish it.

No matter how many brilliant minds they examine, they will all arrive at the same conclusion:

revenge.

It smells like it, reads like it, pronounces like it, and tastes like it on your tongue.

That's the smell of revenge.

Thomas Terry was as happy as Tom Linus, dancing around with joy.

He had long since abandoned the scales, drifting further and further away from the gods and paths he revered—now, he was the Crimson Apostle, the son of the Mother Goddess…

"This manor...is London's first hell..."

suddenly.

He twitched his ears, and his skull turned toward the other end of the path.

Not far away, at the other end of the trail that had followed him, two muskets, spitting fire, lay sprawled in the mud after parting a decorative wall of bushes. If Rose were there, she would recognize that this was the man who had carried her around in his carriage on many occasions.

A participant in the Three Rings ceremony.

It was just covered in gray, fuzzy 'decorations'.

He screamed and swatted at the monster that was constantly wriggling inside his flesh like he was swatting a mosquito.

After only ten or so breaths, he fell completely silent.

"This is just the beginning."

Thomas Terry has waited far too long for this day.

He raised his index finger, which made a constant squeaking sound, and gently tapped it on the tattered corpse.

The swarm of rats rushed inside.

Like bubbles, they burst open and then glue back together. The resounding explosions celebrated the death of the enemy, and also the arrival of a newborn soul.

half a minute.

A massive, fleshy golem, nearly fifteen feet tall and composed of a swarm of rats, stood silently beside Thomas Terry.

It does not have a human body; instead, it grows lumps that cannot be called limbs.

Only the head.

They used the head of that three-ring ritual performer.

It was just that its two eye sockets were crammed with constantly rotating mouse eyeballs.

A creepy 'creature'—if it were actually alive.

"The power of flesh and blood..."

This manifest power, which arbitrarily manipulates, assembles, and distorts flesh and blood, is merely the most insignificant corner of this path…

Without Tom Linus's 'support', the rats wouldn't obey anyone's orders.

but…

That's enough.