The Secret Code of Monsters.

Chapter 1077 (Ch.1076): Failure...or Success?
A finger bone from Paroye Mede's ancestor.

Immersed in blood and salt.

The corpse of the strange bird.

The silent, green-robed children of nature bowed their heads in prayer.

On the ever-flowing jade altar, a man holding a wooden bowl is making the blood wine in his hand boil.

"A heart that pumps like a drum can always find its ever-vigorous boulder in the dense forest."

"Salute to the storm, salute to the thunder, salute to the dyed nature and the surface of the earth."

"After the mortuary bird drowned, we smelled the scent of eternal protection for our land..."

"A Feast from Nature"

The special grand ritual that should have belonged to the entire "Great Maelstrom," originating from the "Undying Ones" or the "Hordes"—a grand ritual held by generations of Westeviks—finally awaited its activation.

This cruel spell requires the "aptitude" of several ritual practitioners to be consumed in order to invoke and open the gap between wakefulness and sleep.

It is neither a "secret," nor "lifespan," nor "soul."

'The punishment for living'.

It requires "qualification".

After all, who loves this world more passionately than them?
"The sky is the drum, and the earth is the skin."

"We were inspired by the thunderous footsteps..."

Florian Westwick held the Holy Bowl aloft. And everything that was happening in London seemed to be just a small corner of his bowl—it ​​was boiling, burning with blue flames, with thunder surging above it, snow and storms melting and extinguishing, then being reborn, melting, and extinguishing once more.

A savage roar echoed in the ears of every participant in the ceremony.

It strikes the soul, sprouting drill-like tentacles that relentlessly burrow into the deepest wounds of their hearts: this power, brimming with rage and relentless fury, cannot be concealed by any firm will, ideal, trained body, or magic.

It is the pain that can make martyrs submit, the chant that makes robbers go on pilgrimage, and the attempt to reduce all colors to a deafening roar.

soon.

They started to leave.

The stone steps that were originally meant to allow one to continue upwards have been polished smooth as a mirror by a force like a file.

These once spirited warriors, wielding magic and the disdainful children of nature like swords on a wet horse, only shone brightly for a dozen breaths before their robes were soaked with sweat. Like a magnificent horse, they were pulled out limply, snorting without a sound, hastily ending their mission.

But they were not saddened by it.

The green-robed men stopped their prayers, looked up at Florian, whose eyes were glazed over—their short but fruitful lives would surely bring about the faction's renewed greatness.

'I saw a dense forest…'

The murmurs on the altar further solidified their belief.

'Silver…'

Florian's soul seemed to have been blown out of his body by a gust of wind.

He floated lightly, neither soaring towards the heavens nor descending towards the fiery hell at the earth's core. He seemed to have crossed into another dimension, passing by colossal beasts slumbering like mountains, ancient trees dripping with blood, and lakes boiling with life.

then.

He heard the clear sound of chains.

It was a 'thing' that combined flowers and a tree—an object that occupied almost his entire field of vision, like a stone pillar supporting the sky, imbued with every color he had ever seen in the world.

A vibrant, eerie color.

Florian Westwick tried to hold his head up high.

His soul felt insignificant, equally insignificant, as did the iron chain—and the 'person' chained to it.

He was chained tightly to the roots of that endless giant tree, the rough chains grinding against him until he bled profusely, his sores repeatedly turning into abscesses that oozed yellowish-brown pus.

His hair was so long that it covered his calves, almost blending into the brightly colored flowers.

Florian smelled wave after wave of pungent stench.

He heard sobs. They came from the person bound under the tree.

He wanted to control his soul to get away from this terrifying, towering monster, fearing that he would become one of the chains at any moment—but he couldn't control the gusts of wind that were blowing through his soul.

He heard laughter.

Above the heads of those who are bound.

It swayed back and forth among the treetops and flower branches.

'No, that's impossible…'

The Green Robe cultists gazed longingly at this generation of Westevik, until an unspeakable astonishment and fear appeared on the pilgrim's face.

They looked at each other, bewildered, unsure of what had happened.

'This is impossible—'

Florian struggled, the holy bowl he held in his hands swaying, billowing out plumes of pale smoke.

'Impossible! Impossible! Impossible!!'

The dejection and disbelief on his face were heartbreaking to see—the man looked haggard almost instantly, and his mutterings were no less than those of the drunkards many people see in London at night.

As long as you have a keen eye, you can protect your fists.

Go to London's East End, to the oldest part of the city.

Find a late night, find an alley near a bar.

Everywhere you look, there are men who mutter 'impossible' or 'I should'.

In a bizarre silence.

Florian's voice was particularly clear.

"grown ups…"

A green-robed priest tried to step forward, but was stopped by the others—this was a grand ceremony. If something went wrong and the bloodline and soul of the Westwick family were harmed… who could bear such responsibility?
Florian's face was as pale as anyone else's.

He almost knelt down, his hands holding the holy bowl, which swayed left and right, spilling the salt and blood-infused wine, gradually revealing a section of his ancestor's finger bone.

Click.

Finally, a crack appeared in the wooden bowl.

That small, concentrated, yet incredibly powerful storm once again disappeared into the clouds.

The storm and the fire subsided, the boiling and the abundance receded—the force that swirled and shrouded London did not, like a truly noble and holy priest, touch the pure and bitter mysteries of his new holy child with his fingers that had passed through countless narrow gates.

As the murky liquid seeped through the cracks, Florian's trembling fingers finally lost their aim and loosened their grip on the rickety wooden bowl.

There was a snap.

It landed on the altar, stood upright, and slid down the moss-covered stone steps in a long line.

It passed through the silent believers, circling unsteadily, making a small loop.

It landed completely with a buzzing sound.

In the silence, amidst the rising dust, someone pushed open the heavy stone door of the sanctuary and strode in.

The leading man was frighteningly strong, with both arms wrapped in bandages covered in symbols of varying sizes made of dark green liquid. Behind him followed a giant light brown wolf that was nearly ten feet long.

His robe was torn at the arms, his waist was covered with animal hide, and unsheathed scimitars hung on either side, curving backward.

"Am I too early or too late?"

The giant wolf howled, its footsteps like drums.

These green-robed men, who had just completed the ritual, were quickly subdued by the Tree Mother cultists who rushed into the secret chamber—for the sake of that giant wolf with fangs as thick as a forearm, no one thought they could get past it and face an eight-ringed warrior.

soon.

In Horn's gentle and concerned smile, Florian glimpsed a hint of triumphant malice.

(End of this chapter)