The Secret Code of Monsters

Chapter 330 Ch.329 Randolph and Victor

"Clay...shape."

"The embryo...becomes a mold."

"Little erotic draft...cough cough cough..."

cough.

The gray man shook off the white dust from his head like an old dog walking in the snow, muttered something self-deprecatingly, compared it with the plaster statue on the left, and raised his hammer.

Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang by clang from

Ding-ding-ding-ding.

The cold stone may also be mixed with white clay. The delicate, moist feeling spread from the fingertips to the eyelids, and drops of spring water from the mountain stream fell into the dry and tired eyes.

Not light enough.

Not heavy enough.

Not clever enough here.

Not rude enough there.

When I was young, I lifted up a sharp hammer and chisel, but when I dropped them, I didn’t realize it, and my back was no longer straight.

So Victor Sala is willing to sit hunched over and walk hunched over. He doesn't have to avoid the sun or other people's sight, he just needs to put in a little effort when observing his own works.

But every time he touched the stone texture, it felt the cold vitality.

He regained his youth.

"...cough cough cough cough."

The stiff limbs almost crack during movement. The movements became slower and slower, and more and more precise.

"The work is alive."

he murmured.

The straight bridge of the nose separated two compassionate eyes, but the hard stone flowed into long soft hair under the gentle chisel and slow grinding.

The gauze covers its charming eyes.

The lingering eyes hidden by the gauze stared at the man who was chiseling it.

Then.

There was a huge explosion.

The door was kicked open.

"Victor Sara! You bastard who never listens to advice! Do you have to be like a child?!"

Because a certain artist is not happy to have strangers 'monitoring' him in the room...

The servants arranged by Randolph had no choice but to set up a temporary foothold in the withered garden outside the door - but he could not stop a second-ring ritualist who was very good at climbing walls.

so…

His behavior of raising the sharp hammer privately was exposed.

Roland did his job.

"I should take all your tools and give them to those gangsters in the South District, right?"

"What did you promise me?"

Randolph took out his handkerchief, put it under his nose, and cursed as he walked.

The hall, which was previously empty due to the smashed sculptures, is now filled with new works of various postures.

Randolph kicked one of them down.

The woman holding flowers fell straight to the ground and was broken in half at the neck.

"You want to die, don't you? You take my fucking money and you don't give me anything in return?"

Randolph was furious.

He rarely loses his temper, really. But his friend is so stubborn - is this a trivial matter?

"You're going to fucking die, you know that?"

He stood still and looked down at the gray-haired man sitting cross-legged without saying a word, then raised his head to look at his friend's latest masterpiece.

ha.

again.

"You insist on it, don't you?"

He kicked the chisel off the ground, and the metal head hit the wall and bounced off, making a clanking sound.

"If this continues..."

There is no sound.

Randolph's chest rose and fell, and the anger almost burst out of his eyes, burning this bastard who was not as obedient as Betty.

He didn't get an apology or even an ounce of remorse.

Victor scratched his scalp and lowered his head to fiddle with the badly worn sharp hammer in his hand.

"Is she pretty?"

Pointing to the stone sculpture behind him.

Randolph snorted, and regardless of the dust and waste on the floor, he used his shoes to sweep out an empty space, and followed Victor Sara's example, sitting cross-legged.

That pair of handmade casual trousers worth dozens of pounds will end its short life today.

The blond man with blue eyes took off his coat, took out a flat leather bag from the inner lining, and pulled out two cigars.

Cut and light.

Throw one to the other side.

The cigar that had been rolled a few times in the ashes came to the tip of another pair of shoes, where it was picked up by rough, old hands and bitten by yellowed, crooked teeth.

Saluted by dry, dusty tongues.

Then get sucked.

The end of the cigar was facing the end of another cigar that had fallen into the dust, and the firelight was as bright and dark as breathing in the dark room.

The words and the smoke were spat out by Randolph faintly: "...not bad."

Victor smiled.

Just as Randolph described it.

Laugh like a child.

"I just knew she was gorgeous."

Randolph tugged at the collar irritably, and then used force to unbutton the button and open it.

"I told you, if you come into contact with this thing again, I'm afraid you will..."

"Then why are you here?" Victor asked.

"Because I'm an idiot, how about that?"

Victor just laughed.

"Listen, Mr. Pacifier. I know a doctor who is knowledgeable and skilled. When he comes back, maybe everything will be back to normal..."

"I'm in a hurry, Randolph."

Victor held his cigar in his mouth and gently pushed the bent cuffs up a few inches.

Then.

Pull the clothes off your chest.

Randolph moved his lips and only made short, shapeless sounds.

"This disease is spreading faster than I thought. You should stay away from this house, Randolph."

He said.

"You seem to have a sister."

This sentence will undoubtedly push away what is close.

Randolph smoked quietly, looking up from time to time at the sculpture that was silent in the dust.

The woman looked down at her creator with an expression of pity.

"No, Randolph."

Victor's voice was very soft.

"If you don't listen to me, then..."

"you can not."

"I should be able to." Randolph put up his cigar, half a finger thick of ash piled on the end: "Such as sending someone to break in every day and smash your new work... Do you want to compete with my gold pound for patience?"

"Randolph Taylor." Victor was a little dissatisfied.

That was his hard work, how could he——

"I'm almost turning into Randolph Sala! Come on, Victor! I'm not your father! Can you stop acting like a child?!" With an outstretched arm, Lan shook off the hat with the cigar butt. Dolph pointed to the sculpture.

"When you're cured, when you're done, when it's over, why can't you wait a little longer?!"

"The sculptures won't run away like your mother! Do you understand? You have plenty of time to face them!!"

Victor stared at Randolph: "She died of pulmonary edema."

"She ran away, idiot. She abandoned you and her husband! What's wrong with your fucking head?! A prostitute will despise that man's morality when he sees her! For God's sake, can you act like a man? Take on your responsibilities!”

Victor sucked his cigar in silence.

"I have fulfilled the responsibilities that a man should fulfill, Randolph." There was an unexplainable meaning in his eyes. If an artist asks you to guess a mystery that you don't intend to reveal, you'd better choose it from the beginning. Surrender or just call him bad names.

"What?"

Randolph really didn't understand.

"You have done your duty, Randolph, my friend. You and Mr. Taylor have supported me for thirty years. Thirty years of living--art is expensive everywhere."

Randolph pouted: "This bit of mud isn't worth much."

Victor held his cigarette and looked carefully at the sharp hammer in his hand.

A full half hour until the cigar burns out.

"…Thanks, Randolph."

He said.

"Thanks."