The Secret Code of Monsters

Chapter 320 Ch.319 Paranoia

Victor Sala looked quite old.

He was thin, with long curly grey hair and a sickly face.

The brown apron hung around his neck and was tied tightly behind his waist. He wore a white shirt with yellowed edges underneath.

He held the scraper in his hand and hid in the shadow behind the door to avoid the light when he opened the door: he used his eyes and eyebrows at the same time and tilted his head deliberately.

The three of them were facing each other in the dust.

"Good day, Victor, be careful of the knife."

The sickly man took two or three seconds to see the person coming. He turned the tool made of bent iron in his hand and smiled: "If you are really so afraid of death, you should use a file to flatten your chin first."

Randolph touched his pointed chin: "You guessed why I came today."

Victor pulled the corner of his mouth and moved his eyes to Roland.

"Oh, this is my friend, a... good friend."

The sculptor turned his head and went into the house without saying anything.

"He's always like this. When he gets familiar with you--"

"He'll become... friendly?"

"He'll start to insult you without any scruples." Randolph shrugged, stepped into the house, and motioned Roland to follow: "You have a way, right? If you don't tell me, I won't let the servants serve you."

"You should have known that there are ritualists in the Taylor family."

"That's because you didn't hide it, Roland."

The house was empty like a warehouse.

It was also dirty.

Roland now believed what Randolph said, that Mr. Victor Sara didn't hire servants-if he hired servants, and the scene was still like this, then the servants should be hanged.

There was garbage and tools everywhere.

-In fact, Roland couldn't tell the difference between garbage and tools. A wooden stick with an iron head and a wooden stick, it was hard to tell which one was a tool and which one was garbage.

There were spider webs in the corners.

There was an unpleasant smell of "dust" in the house.

Each wall maintained the style of the previous owner: light brown wallpaper, but it had begun to be damaged in large areas.

He and Randolph walked through the corridor that should have led to the living room, and the first thing that caught their eyes was countless pale sculptures with different postures.

There were men and women.

They were in different postures, facing different directions, fixed in their own time.

This scene was chilling.

"No wonder you don't like to go out, the house is lively enough."

Randolph had seen such scenes countless times and was no longer surprised - there was still one at home, which was given by this friend (a "gift" worth a loan of two thousand pounds).

"I hope you can control your hands."

The voice came from the side.

The scraper in Victor Sala's hand disappeared, replaced by a wine bottle and three glasses.

"These are all my hard work. If they lose their arms or fingers, you have to pay for them."

"I didn't touch them."

"Randolph, you have moved your lips and fingers the most in recent years."

The two began to bicker openly in front of Roland - about their past and the women in the bar, cheating drunkards' money, stealing in public, hanging dead dogs in front of someone's door...

A wonderful youth.

"After drinking, go back and count your money, stay away from me."

Three glasses were stacked on the bare cement table.

Victor poured some of each and glanced at Roland again: "...You have a friend who is much more beautiful than you."

Paused.

"What a pity."

He obviously noticed every time Roland turned, his head and body always moved, but his eyes were much slower.

So, this is a blind man.

He is very perceptive.

"It's a pity that I can't see your work, Mr. Sarah."

"Then you should be lucky. If you really saw it, I'm afraid you will regret it for the rest of your life."

He walked around the cement table and put the glass in Roland's hand.

At this moment, Roland noticed the back of his hand: it was not pale due to blood loss, but gray and white like plaster, without a trace of flesh and blood.

Going up along the back of his hand, perhaps the whole arm hidden in the sleeve was like this.

After he drank the wine in his hand, under Randolph's helpless eyes, he picked up a hammer from the wall - a hammer similar to the one used for forging iron with a handle almost as long as his arm.

"Randolph?"

Randolph didn't speak, holding the bottle, and poured Roland another half glass.

Under the gaze of the two people, Victor Sala walked step by step towards the sculpture closest to him - the veiled woman.

A sculpture that Roland thought was extremely delicate, and it was even difficult to imagine how it was created by human hands:

The woman put her hands together and prayed with her eyes down.

A thin layer of gauze covered her head, brushed across her cheeks, and let the wind blow.

This is a whole piece of stone.

It is incredible that people can do such a thing.

Victor Sala, this is definitely a -

Bang.

The thin man swung the hammer with great effort, drawing an arc and hitting the face of the sculpture.

The stone statue broke with a sound.

Her head was broken to the ground, her body swayed, and was kicked down by the angry man and broke into large and small pieces.

White stone powder was everywhere.

He supported the hammer and panted heavily.

"… I'm busy, Randolph, please go back."

Roland was stunned.

Because a few minutes ago, he warned Randolph not to ruin his hard work.

Now, he destroyed it himself.

Why?

Roland put down his glass: "Sir? What are you doing?"

"Everyone with ears should know." Victor Sala grinned, sweat appeared on his forehead - just a swing of a hammer: "You can't see it, so you don't need to comment. Wrong works should not be left. Let me tell you, it's a 'fix'."

Since entering this room, Roland felt that he was talking to an unusual person.

"Correction?"

"Yeah, the angle is wrong." He let go of the wooden pole and let it clang to the ground. He stumbled to the mud platform and poured himself a glass of wine: "The wind doesn't blow like that. Eyelashes... no, the eyeballs should be closer under the eyelids. obvious."

"The gauze just covers the head. If I look at it from the side..."

He stared down at the Chixia in the cup and muttered something as if he was possessed by a demon. He seemed to have completely forgotten that he was talking to Roland just a second ago - he just muttered, commented on his own skills, and pulled out the words from various professional perspectives. There are many artists who are well-known today or famous in history.

He was leaning on the concrete platform, then suddenly straightened up and stood up; for a while he was pacing, and for a while his voice suddenly became louder.

Randolph quietly sipped the low-quality red wine and watched the time slowly passing under his torture.

"...This gesture is too common. No, I would almost say vulgar! Everyone, everyone who smeared mud and smashed rocks, has tried to use... No, if you had considered it that way before, it would have been suspected of being sensational..."

"Expression, expression, my expression..."

"Randolph, what do you think?" He suddenly raised his head, stared at Randolph with good eyes, and asked, "Maybe the previous one is better, right?"

Randolph seemed to really understand, and nodded seriously: "I think the previous one was good."

"Yes, I consider expression, but focusing too much on complexity can easily lead to..."

Roland sighed.

The white flame waves have already passed through this empty and crowded room countless times.

No suspicious traces.