The Secret Code of Monsters

Chapter 321 Ch.320 Gray Skin

Roland felt like he was falling into a fog full of gypsum dust.

He couldn't see anything, he could only hear the sound of the statue breaking, gasping and the heavy muffled sound of the hammer hitting the ground.

He didn't know what art was, but he spent the next hour figuring out what an artist's paranoia was.

Why does Victor Sala hate his own work so much?

Perhaps he was disappointed with his works and was too embarrassed to let them be seen, so he smashed them with a hammer.

Then, why did you use a hammer to grind it into fine powder, and cursed at the same time? Why did you pull out your own hair, kick the statue with your legs like a wild dog, and even wished that they would come back to life immediately, and then He, the Creator, smashed it to pieces with hammer after hammer.

He hated them so much that he wanted to poop on them.

‘The turd bucket that won’t move. ’

He commented like this, as ferocious as a murderer in action. Faced with a room full of corpses, his anger did not decrease but increased.

‘This is shit. ’

‘White, not cheap shit. ’

He seemed to want Roland and Randolph's approval, but also seemed to be simply venting his anger.

Until this weird and scary behavior ended, he slowly held onto the wall and curled up in a corner, silently as if dead, with only two eyeballs staring at the debris on the floor.

Roland has seen truly stupid lunatics.

I’ve also seen crazy cultists.

But Victor Sala is neither of those, he's somewhere in between, sometimes a little to the left, sometimes a little to the right. He can control himself to be normal, but he can go crazy uncontrollably when faced with his own works.

He curled up for about ten minutes, and finally spoke to the bored Randolph.

"...Why haven't you left yet?"

Randolph raised his glass: "I'm really worried about the person who comes to the door every week. You won't do anything to him, right?"

Victor Sara snorted.

"Tell me, what are you doing to me?"

Randolph thought for a moment: "I want to know where the two thousand pounds went, Victor. You know that I don't care about the money, but I am worried that those who use it will go to hell."

Every time he saw Victor, he felt something accumulating in his chest, growing more and more, constantly expanding.

He was afraid that one day, what he would see was not Victor Sala, but a burst of flesh and blood full of 'art'.

Victor had a strange expression and spread his hands towards the broken ground: "I guess you are different from your friends, right?"

Randolph: ...

He did not dwell on how many materials two thousand pounds could buy, and lowered his voice: "...I saw animal fur, an incomplete ritual. Victor, tell me, you didn't do anything illegal, right?"

Surprisingly, Victor did not hide much about this issue. He told Randolph frankly: It was indeed a ceremony.

"I paid for it from the salon," the gray-haired man said, "but obviously, I was cheated."

He got up, dusted his hands, and walked hunched across the hall.

After about two or three minutes, the man came back with a box in his hand.

It did contain what Randolph had seen: animal fur, pieces of flesh that had begun to rot and become infested with maggots, and a purple liquid of unknown purpose.

Half a sheet of parchment paper.

Patterns are outlined on it.

Randolph looked at Roland as if asking for help, but did not touch it, only turning the direction of the box.

"Not a cult ritual."

The ritual of the true cradle of flesh and blood cannot be used by Victor Sala.

The so-called ‘cult’ is actually just an ‘invisible art’.

"This is a way to make people energetic." Victor stared at Roland and explained: "The gentleman asked me for five hundred pounds, saying that he could succeed with animal blood..."

However... no.

Roland only glanced at it before closing the lid.

"Can I see your hands?"

Victor unzipped his sleeves nonchalantly.

"...By God! Victor! You are sick!"

Before Roland could speak, Randolph shouted loudly - he held Victor's wrist and tore open the sleeve: the entire arm turned an unnatural gray-white color.

Humans don't have skin of this color.

"Every sculptor has something wrong with him, Randolph, so don't make a fuss about it."

"I have never seen any sculptor with such a problem." Randolph was extremely angry. He didn't understand what his friend had been obsessed with these years: "Stop, stop Victor! See a doctor! Don't do it all day long. Looking at those broken stone carvings——"

However, this sentence angered Victor Sala.

He suddenly grasped Randolph's collar tightly and pulled him in front of him!

"Stop interfering in my business, Randolph."

"Your father said before he left that he hoped we could—"

"If my father hadn't been working for your father and the Taylor family, he wouldn't have gotten on that ship that never looked back!!" Victor Sala roared, with a ferocious expression: "Why are you worried? Why? Shame? Our friendship? Or a dead soul that shouldn’t be gone?”

The two gazes burned with each other's honesty, and just when Roland thought they were going to retaliate with fists at the next moment, Victor Sara let go of Randolph.

His mood was waning, he shook his arm, poured a glass of wine by himself, and drank it all.

At this moment, he seemed to have aged a few years again.

"…My father was the best stonemason, Randolph. He should have been great."

Randolph was silent.

"I'm not blaming you - if anything, it should be the sea breeze, the black waves and the bumpy and broken ship that should go to hell."

Randolph opened his mouth and exhaled a foul breath: "... It's much easier to send me to hell than to send the sea breeze to hell."

"We will go sooner or later." Victor smiled, poured the last of the bottle to Randolph, and handed it to Randolph. He pinched the thin neck, like a blood-stained glass flower: "What my father didn't do, you should pray that I can do it."

"Victor, to be honest, I never think that what you pursue has any value." Randolph shook his head: "If you want the newspapers to speak for you, and let those who like to point fingers praise you - I'm afraid I can do it without spending a few dollars."

Victor Sara was accustomed to the "money smell" of his friend.

He said a name.

"The Elite Art Society."

"The ongoing art exhibition, Randolph, I am honored to tell you: your friend, Victor Sala's work has been selected for the Sculpture Hall."

"That's not something you can do with money, right?"

Looking at his proud and excited old friend, Randolph swallowed his instinctive rebuttal.

Of course...

Yes.

The Elite Art Society, the so-called top art exhibition in the whole of Britain, the pearl on the crown, any work selected for the exhibition, its author is equivalent to getting a unique certificate: this thin piece of paper may not cost a few pennies, but it is the Eden Sutra that many people can't get or read in their entire lives.

That is the pursuit of almost all artists.

The secret pursuit of all artists who don't care about fame and fortune, and the open pursuit of all artists who care about fame and fortune.

But...for people like Randolph.

That is just a more advanced playground.