The Secret Code of Monsters.

Chapter 1054 Ch.1053 The Pipe
"William!!"

Rose instinctively called out the other person's name.

The intruder remained calm, his balloon-like body as agile and cunning as a kingfisher in the forest. He poured the scalding heat from the dagger into Thomas Terry's stunned neck, his feet on Thomas's shoulders, using his waist to drive his shoulders, and whipping his arm like a whip.

Twist the dagger.

Then, without any hesitation, it kicked off with both legs, landing like a cat and dodging a few of the puppets' swings before rolling around on the blanket.

Before he could greet his master and mistress, he shook off his long shawl, leaving them with an even longer, curved blade, and then leaped like a monkey onto the desk, the stool, the burnt fragments of the bookshelf, the charred fireplace, and the recliner.

He leaped lightly across any place he could land, which undoubtedly highlighted the clumsiness of those few flesh-and-blood puppets.

then.

Use the dagger to repeatedly find opportunities to leave cuts on them.

When the wound was cut open, clumps of scarlet baby mice flowed out.

The power emanating from the Third Ring "Scout" allows him to anticipate future attacks from the 'past'. At the same time, each of his thrusts can miraculously traverse space, insidiously penetrating the puppets' most vulnerable and unguarded spots.

The fourth-ring "soldier's" arcane armor serves as a bulwark after a mistake, and 'rage' further protects his originally upright soul from being corrupted by the constantly dissolving and spreading flesh and blood around him.

He seemed completely at ease, gracefully navigating and dancing among the flesh and blood puppets that could be called 'giants'.

That's everything that happened in a single moment.

Thomas Terry only reacted with a look of astonishment when William completely severed the puppet's head, touching the hole in his throat.

"amazing."

he admired.

As an arbitrator for the Church of Justice, Thomas Terry had undoubtedly seen far too many ritual practitioners, both excellent and inferior—the "ring" often proved a person's qualifications, but could not represent his true 'power' and 'level'.

Generally speaking, disasters are the best sieve.

Some things that have been stable for too long... even those at the sixth ring level, cannot demonstrate the power of the fourth ring level in times of crisis.

These products of a distorted world were, at first, just ordinary people.

"amazing."

Thomas Terry repeated, and when he removed his hand, the hole in his neck had long since disappeared—almost all the flesh and blood in his body came from Tom Linus. This, though, left him at the mercy of others…

But it also instantly endowed it with some of the 'characteristics' of the seventh or even eighth ring.

such as…

"Mortal weapons cannot harm the Apostle of Joy."

“Apostles of Pleasure?” William crouched down and chuckled, his hand flashing out in a clean arc as he severed a massive hand. “We prefer to call you scum of the ‘Flesh and Blood’ path—Pleasure? You certainly know how to paint yourself…”

"Pleasure," or "flesh and blood."

Aside from certain naming gurus, only the ritualists themselves who embark on this path truly care.

"You are more valuable than Tom Barka. What is your name?"

Thomas Terry asked, snapping his fingers a few times.

Soon, the rats swarmed in.

Several larger and more bloated puppets were re-erected amidst the waves.

William, James, and even Rose noticed it.

Thomas Terry is playing tricks on them.

"The Shelleys will certainly become London's first hell—but not everyone has to die."

With a calm expression, William focused only on brandishing his dagger, spilling a stream of oil from his cloak and igniting the flames with the candlelight.

His response was simple and direct.

"Fuck you."

He said.

Thomas Terry was unfazed. His gaze swept past the increasingly struggling warriors and landed on the old man with the pipe in his hand. A cruel glint of pleasure flashed in his eyes: "Mr. Shelley, I'm here to kill your daughter..." James Shelley held his pipe, unmoved.

—Once this strange object was activated, he was unable to move.

Lillian…

His Lillian…

Rose's wounds were too large.

To be honest, with feces contaminating his abdomen, James Shelley couldn't think of anyone who could help save him right now—the Holy Cross might, perhaps Gary Kratoff, or other high-ringed ritualists close to the Immortals—

"Craftsman", "Unfading One".

But now, how can he find these people?

In his youth, he had seen many people whose stomachs had been cut open, and their deaths were all incredibly gruesome...

He needs to hurry.

Faster.

Once this wondrous object is activated…

He has enough time and definitely has a way to save Lillian.

'This artifact's power is even comparable to that 'paper' I've heard about that's kept by the royal family, Jaime.'

The conversations from the past resonate deeply in the old man's wrinkled memory.

'but…'

The person inside the cloak pondered.

'Startup time is a curse... Seriously, putting aside the 'user is forever immune to mystery' part—a ten-minute startup time, James, do you know what that means?'

In the dream, Shelley held the fang, his voice gentle: 'It represents that when I'm in a desperate situation requiring a do-or-die mentality, during these agonizing ten minutes, I will watch helplessly as important people die before my eyes—Mr. Jeffrey Banks can't save me.'

The cloaked figure chuckled a few times: 'You usually don't need anyone to save you…'

As he laughed, his voice grew increasingly hoarse.

'I shouldn't have been so greedy as to covet that dragon... James. I no longer deserve to be in that position...'

'So what can we do? Everyone likes Mr. Banks.'

Jeffrey Banks shook his head.

The two old men remained silent for several days and nights atop that high cliff, in their storm-filled lair.

'I've been poisoned too... James, you know, if we want to live, we'd better not sit in that seat anymore...'

'What's in the box?' James Shelley remained noncommittal: 'We must always know whether the price is worth the gain.'

"As expected, James, the prophecy of the saint," Banks' voice was hoarse, "mentioned a path destined for destruction..."

He told the name of the road.

"fantasy".

'Fantasy…that sounds a bit 'omnipotent,' Shelley joked, grinning and patting Banks on the shoulder. 'Just my opinion.'

Banks turned his head, making a listening gesture: 'Of course, your idea is always the best.'

'My advice is—stop messing around with the mystery box and prophecies. I don't really believe in fate… but if such things exist, this is a warning from them, isn't it?'

In reality, Shelley knew that this advice was meaningless to someone who had gone further down the path of "secret documents"—the flame they relied on would not be extinguished by a few words of long-standing trust.

He couldn't persuade Jeffrey Banks.

Just like those fellow ritual practitioners who couldn't be persuaded to perish because of the fire of greed.

The man, whose face was covered by the hood, did not respond immediately.

He paused for a long time.

(End of this chapter)