The Secret Code of Monsters

Chapter 319 Ch.318 The Story of Victor Sala

Now, Roland finally knew who the sculpture he saw in Randolph's house before came from.

Victor Sala.

Sculptor, stonemason.

London native.

When his mother was young, she worked as a tutor for a while and died of pulmonary edema; his father was also a stonemason, and later went to sea to find a job and never came back.

It's not that he can't survive, and he is not like those workers Roland has seen who need to walk in the moonlight every day to find food and drink in the humming - he has some family property, his parents left some money, and he has a good friend like Randolph Taylor.

Why did he suddenly borrow such a large sum of money?

Two thousand pounds.

"That's what I suspect too." Randolph sighed: "I really hope he met a liar, not a cultist. I would rather the money be cheated away, even if it's two thousand pounds more."

While he spoke, he kept observing Roland's expression, and his words revealed unprecedented weakness and temptation.

Roland also understood what he meant.

Frankly speaking, his experience with Nina Collins made it impossible for him to stand on the same side as the cultists - he would not even consider why the cultists joined the cult, or what kind of painful past they had before they turned to the cultists for help...

For Roland, none of this mattered.

Most of the executors in the Tribunal had an irreconcilable hatred for the cultists or aliens. They would not be soft-hearted to a mother who made a deal with the cultists just because she had a baby in her arms.

They would kill her in the most cruel way.

In front of the baby in her arms.

"You made the right decision, Randolph. If you try to conceal it, Victor Sara is in trouble, and you are in trouble too; if you turn a blind eye, soon, the detectives from the Supervisory Bureau or my brothers and sisters will come to him... They probably won't buy anyone's account."

Randolph certainly knew what the executors were like.

"Help me, Roland." He said, "I don't have many friends left...if possible."

If Victor Sara is really as 'deeply trapped' as Roland said...

Then, he hopes Roland can make him suffer less.

Burning is too cruel.

"One chance, or one bullet, Roland." Randolph rubbed his hands, looking tired: "I use a magical item to buy a chance to survive...or..."

He couldn't let his former friend struggle in the flames.

Before looking for Roland, he had inquired from the ritualist of the Taylor family: the so-called burning is not just 'burning' - before that, who knows what will happen in the cell?

His friend can't be Joan of Arc.

Roland couldn't promise Randolph anything.

"Take me to see him, to see your friend, Victor Sara."

…………

……

Artists are not all poor - there are also those who are drunk and absurd to sleep with women all day long. These prodigals who spend money like water and are full of syphilis never stop for anyone, as if they are born with an ignorant and fearless mind, and they can only rush forward like wild bulls.

However, what makes people jealous is that as long as they want, as long as they calm down, the pen can flow out intoxicating, sweet or bitter honey.

That is talent.

At the salon where Cherry invited him, Roland saw many "artists" like the above-mentioned ones - writers, poets or painters.

They all have strange habits. While enjoying luxury, they can easily create a work that may be difficult for ordinary people to achieve in their lifetime.

This desperate talent, like a distortion in the depths of the soul, does not follow any rules and does not pass through blood.

They are like fire.

It's just an accident.

Of course, there is another, the opposite one - Victor Sala.

He lives in seclusion, does not participate in social activities, and does not enjoy food, wine, and beauty. No wife, no children, no friends except Randolph Taylor - he lived in a very spacious house in the suburbs of London.

He did not hire servants, and he was alone in the huge empty house...

And hundreds of statues.

Yes.

He was a sculptor.

With the unremitting promotion of his good friend Randolph Taylor, Sarah became a little famous -

Unfortunately, he really couldn't accept talking about art with those stupid people who couldn't even distinguish colors. For a long time, the public only heard the name of Victor Sarah, but never saw him appear in any salon.

Even if a lady sent someone to visit and presented an invitation letter in a proper manner.

The response was not a rejection, but:

'Why don't you spend more time with your husband and children? '

He was not a likable guy.

Gradually, no one came to visit him anymore.

He didn't argue with his colleagues in the newspapers, and he seemed to have never fought back against the ridicule of himself.

Randolph Taylor did say a few words for him, but then he slowly gave up.

He didn't like this, and he didn't buy it.

On the way to Sarah's house in the suburbs, Randolph simply introduced his friends.

In short, there was nothing good to say.

"I doubt if you are friends."

"Some friends say more than just good things, Roland." Randolph pulled aside the curtains and looked at the woods sweeping back: "And I don't think this is a 'bad word' - if you have seen us get along."

"You won't fight, will you?"

"We fought quite a few times when we were young." Randolph said he was very 'sinister' - Taylor had servants, but every time they argued, Victor told Randolph that a real man would never rely on others to fight, but would face the enemy on his own.

Then he fought Randolph one-on-one, beating the heir of the Taylor family black and blue.

"The third time I was beaten, I realized that the bastard had deceived me."

Thinking of what happened before, Randolph was angry and amused: "When we beat that drunkard, he didn't say he wanted a one-on-one fight."

As the carriage got closer and closer to their destination, Roland also saw the appearance of the villa.

It was not as clean as those factories that were emitting black smoke - no one had repaired it for a long time, and the outer walls were covered with ivy.

The messy dead branches and shrubs completely blocked the only way out of the building. I wish Randolph's carriage could build a new one: there should have been a fountain here for a long time, but since the previous owner sold the house, the fountain has never exercised its power.

Roland and Randolph walked in on a thick layer of dead leaves.

"How does he live?"

Roland couldn't help but ask.

"Every week, someone comes here to deliver food." Randolph answered. He knew his friend's life very well, and even spent a few more dollars every week to add some meat to his great artist who never left his house.

"I always ask the person who delivers things to see Victor."

"You worry..."

"Yes, I'm worried that he died quietly in the house." Randolph picked up his cane, tucked it under his pocket, and walked through the dead leaf carpet with Roland, one foot deep and one foot shallow, and came to the front of the old building.

He pushed the brim of his hat and prepared to knock on the door.

Roland found that every window facing them had curtains drawn.