The Secret Code of Monsters.

Chapter 1079 (Ch.1078) Rules and Plans

Theodore knew he was 'unworthy' to enter the Sanctuary Chamber, much less to participate in the great ritual that called for immortality—his blood was not mixed, but his soul had been twisted into a deformed child intolerable to nature by the torment of day and night.

He was deeply in love with a certain man.

But everyone knows that when you deeply love a woman, you cannot be a woman yourself; similarly, when you deeply love a man, you cannot be a man either.

Theodore Gabriel Thackeray was in unbearable pain and hated this absurd world with a madness.

Isn't that absurd?

The priests of the Holy Cross were always pondering something, yet their robes were hailed as the most sacred fabric in London.

The ritualists of the "Circle of Eternal Silence" consume infants, refine oil, skin them, and desecrate the dead—exactly. Grave robbers other than them should be hanged, but the followers of the Circle of Eternal Silence can "legally and legitimately" purchase "assistance for climbing the ladder" through clubs and red-light districts.

"The Great Whirlpool"?
How long has it been since the Noti Golden Lamp incident?
Look at the Thunderstorm Ritual of the "Church of Justice," and the arrogant "purebloods" of the "Elite Arts Association"—frankly, he prefers the despised "private alliance" to other crowned cults.

It's not just because these believers, who inherited the 'imperial humor,' arbitrarily altered the doctrines and modified the 'appearance' of their gods to attract more followers; they even occasionally made jokes about their own gods.

This is the only sect in this absurd world that isn't absurd.

But Mr. Thackeray was not a man of courage or the willingness to break the rules: his habit of keeping his promises became even more ingrained after Mr. Westwick’s death—but before that, he was just as obedient a man who always followed the rules.

Even though he had some suspicions that Westwick's death was inextricably linked to the "Great Vortex"...

Perhaps Florian knows something.

But should he get angry?

Should he resent his own sect and the god who gave him power?

As the scriptures say.

He and Westevik did indeed have an impure relationship—since they were unable to reproduce, it clearly meant that they did not conform to the 'rules' set by nature long ago.

But he didn't get angry.

He neither got angry nor spoke.

In the dead of night, he always imagined himself as a "herd of beasts," with each of his contracted animal companions being a different kind of tortoise—and so he shrank back, laughing more brightly than the sunlight piercing through the smog over London.

That's fine then.

He said to himself.

Past mistakes have been punished, and the same mistakes should not be repeated in the future.

He had planned to return to Mr. Westwick's hometown once Florian officially became a High Ringer.

cowardly.

Theodore.

A cowardly act.

The other, incessantly talking 'he' was locked in a box of souls by Theodore, along with his distorted emotions, never to see the light of day again.

Florian…

Once the ceremony is successful, perhaps he won't need me anymore.

When the man sitting in the shade of the tree noticed the storm rushing in from the sky and then rushing away, a rare look of heaviness appeared on his face.

no doubt.

ceremony…

Failed.

…………

……

Before Horn 'dismissed' Florian and took him and the other Green Robes to the sanctuary of the Tree Mother for confinement, the men had half a day to tidy themselves up—Theodore did not meet with Horn, and in Florian's spacious room, he thought he would see a mad Westwick.

Just like Mr. Westwick back then.

No.

Florian Westwick showed no signs of anything amiss—whether the ritual failed, or he was stripped of his leadership of the Nature Walkers, or perhaps he would never again have the chance to give the name 'Westwick' a chance to shine in the secular world…

Nothing at all. He sat casually on the edge of the bed, quietly folding his priest's robe, his boots gleaming, as if nothing had happened.

This left Theodore speechless.

He stood outside the door and silently tied the short curtain on the door panel into a neat knot.

Florian found him quickly.

"Don't try to comfort me, Uncle."

Theodore couldn't think of anything to say to comfort him.

"The ceremony failed."

He said.

"But it wasn't entirely fruitless..."

Theodore stepped into the bedroom and asked softly, "Have you seen Lord Bear?"

These words made Florian laugh—a laugh that seemed undeniably sarcastic.

"Florian?"

“Yes, Uncle. I met the ancestor of the Westevik family, our greatest Great Bear—”

“Florian.” Theodore stopped in front of him and snatched the belt from the other’s hand. “What happened?”

Florian laughed: "A failed ritual, Uncle. I suddenly have a question I'd like to ask you—just as you taught me how to fight when I was young, you're still here to answer my questions today, aren't you?"

He looked up at the man whose face was half-hidden in the shadow of the bed curtains, as if he had returned to his youth and become that child who would never give up until he got to the bottom of things.

Theodore took a half step back, slowly bent down, and knelt before Florian.

“I’m doing my best,” he said softly.

“Excellent,” Florian said in a flat, monotonous tone, his voice dry and devoid of any emotion. “Are rules more important than my father’s life?”

These words caused the temperature, which had been warming up, to plummet to freezing point.

Theodore closed his eyes in anguish.

He didn't know what Florian had gone through in the ceremony that led him to bring up Mr. Westwick again, but he could assure him that every time he would give the most sincere answer: "If I could, I would wish he were alive and I were the one to suffer."

Florian shook his head in surprise: "You didn't answer my question, Uncle."

“…You know…Florian…we’ve ended up like this because we didn’t follow the rules…” the blond man stammered.

Florian raised his hand to interrupt him.

He knew exactly what kind of person his uncle was: he looked strong and handsome, elegant and composed, but in reality, he harbored a disgusting girl in his heart—a girl who was like a rag doll and should be sold to the red-light district.

The "Great Whirlpool" could never give him peace.

His beliefs are 'distorted'.

The same goes for people.

He deserves to be hanged.

“I understand, Uncle.” He patted Theodore on the shoulder, stood up, and put the neatly folded robe into the wooden chest. “Now, Horn won’t bother me—he’s waiting for the new leader of the ‘Beast Fangs’ to do the job… I advise you to leave London as soon as possible, perhaps… go back to my father’s hometown, what do you say?”

Theodore hurriedly stood up: "You've forgotten one thing—Florian!"

Florian turned around: "I don't think so?"

“Ms. Gilles Fonseca!” Theodore said gravely, “She escorted us to the Sanctuary, and you must fulfill your promise: give her a clean slate, one that will not be subject to future retribution…”

Given Gilles Fonseca's ability to manipulate rats, the green-robed figures in the sanctuary wouldn't actually leave anyone outside to unleash their evil magic in this absurd disaster.

They locked her up and imprisoned her in the sanctuary's basement.

"Oh."

Florian rubbed his fingers together, a hint of schadenfreude in his voice: "According to the 'rules,' Uncle, I don't have the final say now... After all, we all have to follow the 'rules,' right?"

(End of this chapter)