The Secret Code of Monsters.

Chapter 1058 Ch.1057 Timing and Destiny

James Shelley was perfectly clear-headed—he knew that many times, the outcome of something was not so pleasant: it might have nothing to do with the vast majority of those involved.

For example, the many business deals he made throughout his long life, whether successful or unsuccessful.

Some steps.

Some of the participants were his store managers or those specifically in charge of ensuring the safety of cargo transportation.

The outcome of fate's tapestry is not always static.

At every crucial moment, he could convince himself that it was just a bad deal, a business deal that was over and didn't need him to vent or unleash pointless anger.

This time is different.

Lillian is different.

When Thomas Terry stared in astonishment at the room filled with the dust of time, when he was sliced ​​into tiny, indistinguishable particles by clusters of sharp breaths—James Shelley felt no pleasure whatsoever.

His forearm had vanished, leaving only the smooth joint that connected it.

He was not saddened by his disability.

"William!!"

He chose to take his anger out on his guardians, following Tom Barca's "Iron Cavalry".

A very rare emotion.

William lowered his head, his lips trembled, and he didn't dare to argue further on the topic.

Next.

These were the pieces of wood and stone that kept flying onto his face, body, and legs, things that James Shelley could easily reach—including his pocket watch and the pipe on the table.

The old gentleman, who had been 'gentle' and always smiling in a way that was hard to read, suddenly started crying like a child sitting in front of a hat shop window, whose head would melt in the sun if he didn't have this hat.

He first smashed something hard, then covered his face with one hand, and his sobbing voice was filled with childlike, willful mutterings.

For example, 'I shouldn't have let you go looking for it,' 'You don't listen to me like Tom,' 'If only I had known,' 'If only I hadn't'—

in case.

—If it were Mr. Barca, he would have made the same choice.

William remained silent.

He hadn't spent his days and nights with this cheerful yet foolish thief, so he couldn't possibly understand the feelings of James Shelley and Tom Barca: to be frank, he was even more relieved than saddened.

It doesn't matter that a girl who wasn't Shelley's bloodline died.

Look at this steel behemoth that is the Empire.

How many people have dedicated their lives to advancing this train, their lives marked by sloppy handwriting and stingy use of printed words?
This is a necessary sacrifice.

As long as it's worth it—and of course, this worth is judged only by William, only by Victoria, by the Grey and Secret parties, and by the gentlemen and ladies whose shoes never get muddy.

even.

William even believed that the amount of loss one could bear represented the amount of responsibility one could shoulder: for example, the tens of thousands of soldiers who "disappeared" in Kabul... even the Queen wept for them.

She must have cried secretly.

William listened to the sobbing around him, the old woman's gasps for breath, her eyes vacant as she stared at the bloodstain that had long since crumbled into a 'meat porridge'—she had been identified as belonging to the 'nest' by the owner of the strange object, and had thus 'survived' as a matter of course.

only…

What should I say to avoid Mr. Barka hitting me?

The man, nearing forty, was unaware that he too had fallen into a 'teenage trap'.

His thoughts wandered aimlessly, elusive and circling in his empty brain, which was more exhausted than his limbs—until it shoved its fingers into the folds of his scalp, climbed over the hill, and reached out its arm toward another part of William.

Look!

It made the person performing the ritual, who was deep in thought, raise their chin.

then.

Another 'unbelievable' scene.

"Master—"

The man who hadn't flinched in the face of a monster several feet tall couldn't control his voice at this moment—he raised his arm, mimicking the strange thoughts swirling in his head, and pointed tremblingly to the location of Rose's 'corpse'.

If a puddle of mud can really be considered a 'corpse'...

The corpse. If James could stand up, he would have gone over and punched him long ago.

"Master? I can't be your—" He instinctively vented his cold anger, his eyes following William's gesture to the location of Rose's corpse: he couldn't bear to see his daughter's gruesome state, but was equally astonished to discover in that pool of flesh...

and many more.

What the hell is that?!
A miniature version of "Goddess Above"! I fucking know this thing!
The old man raised his hand.

He looks exactly like William.

"That, that is—"

"Yes, sir! That is—"

It's Roland Collins...

A smaller version of Roland Collins.

Damn.

Even after Lillian left, he still managed to spot this troublesome little crow... slightly prettier than the others...?

Hallucination?

The ritualists of the Cradle of Flesh and Blood are skilled at bewitching people, but they don't like to deliberately provoke someone—like using Roland Collins to bewitch him and William?

“It’s true…” James raised his hand toward William.

The latter understood and quickly helped his master up.

The two walked around in a circle, examining the white creature sitting on the ground. Upon closer inspection, they realized it was a doll-like structure made of twisted strands of mycelium—mycelium?
"You're the person Mr. Collins is keeping with Lillian..."

Old Shelley tentatively uttered a sentence.

They discovered that the 'thing' actually started nodding.

It understands.

This is a sentient being.

“I don’t care who you are, Lillian is gone—you certainly didn’t protect her…Go back and tell Mr. Collins about this.”

Old Shelley didn't want to show weakness in front of the little raven's pet anymore.

Like other men, he was raised to be a tough guy, and even if he could never pull himself out of his misfortune, who could he complain to?
Nothing matters anymore.

"Go."

He waved his hand, and the old man being helped seemed like an ancient tree that had been destroyed for hundreds of years—from today onwards, he would learn to adapt to the life of an ordinary person.

Like a fish that has come ashore.

"What...what exactly are you saying?"

But Collins doesn't seem to want to let him go.

The disheartened old man noticed that the little creature had stood up and was gesturing at him while standing on tiptoe.

He can not understand.

"I don't understand..."

He turned to William, who also looked puzzled.

The mycelium was so angry that it put its hands on its hips.

Before the old man could ask any more questions, he suddenly burst forth with a silvery light, which spread and grew in the dark and bloody room, like a new nest chosen by plants: he gradually lost his human form, melted and stretched out veins, filling the study inch by inch.

He waved to old Shelley.

this time.

James Shelley 'read' it—an action that is universal to all humans, regardless of the language they speak.

Goodbye.

The mycelium waved its hands, melting into the pulse of the room, sometimes bright, sometimes dim. It breathed slowly, each of its fine, hair-like tendrils gently curling around the carpet, the cracks in the wooden planks, and many invisible debris—those 'debris' belonging to Lillian Rose Van Sittard.

They produced hollow tubes, so much so that William and Shelley could even hear them swallowing with a 'glug-glug' sound.

The pipelines extend in all directions.

It is in…

(End of this chapter)