The Secret Code of Monsters

Chapter 332 Ch.331 Death and Rebirth

"How long have you had these symptoms?"

"Three months."

"Three months?"

"I can't remember exactly...young people today like to stare at someone they hate all day long?"

"I took the money, Mr. Sara. A lot of money."

Victor was noncommittal, but he smiled much more happily than when he saw Randolph.

"A young police officer with a bright future like you won't do it just because of this little money - especially your appearance... It's too easy to make money with your appearance."

He and Roland each have their own things to do:

One is staring out the window in a daze, and the other is focusing on his own work.

The two people did not make eye contact or face each other, but their words continued to exchange words.

"Because he's my friend."

"He really needs a good friend, a friend who is honest and enthusiastic, who can let him turn aside the gold and see the true flesh and blood friend."

Victor carved out the details of his fingers, and the sound became much quieter along with the chisel sound.

"...His shrewdness is all used in his career. He has a forty-year-old business acumen and a fifteen-year-old lover's eye." His wonderful and correct metaphor made Roland nod in agreement.

"He did exactly what you said to the lady."

"Trouble him, Collins. Trouble him. That's what I used to do when I was young. It's fun."

As he spoke, he suddenly covered his mouth and avoided the delicate fingers as if there was a burning fire in front of him. After taking a few steps back, he dared to cough wantonly.

On the decaying fountain, the crows have long since disappeared.

Roland turned his head.

This may be Victor Sala's last work.

"Why are you obsessed with..." Roland thought for a while, but couldn't find a suitable adjective in his head.

But Victor Sala knew what he meant.

"In the beginning, it was just for my mother."

He kept coughing, so he simply put down the chisel, sat on the ground, and took out a crumpled cigarette from his trouser pocket - but found that he could not find a flame that could light it.

I had no choice but to hold it in my mouth.

"My father was the best stonemason, until he got on that ship..."

He said.

"Masons don't make a lot of money - I mean, they're not very famous. In this business, only the best can make a comfortable living."

Roland cut a cigar for himself, lit it with a lighter, and then took out a box of matches and threw it to Victor.

He rolled his eyes.

"She said that since I lost my father and she lost her husband, I couldn't survive."

Victor lit the cigarette and sucked the smoke into his mouth with his dry cheeks.

Soon, Roland couldn't tell the difference between smoke and white ash.

"She said she would leave for two months and ask relatives to borrow some money so that I could continue my father's business... She said I was talented, and sooner or later..."

Low quality tobacco leaves burn very quickly.

"She was gone for more than two months."

Been gone for more than twenty years.

"Perhaps you should think on the bright side: For example, your mother, who had been away for just a few days, had an accident on the road, and her head was cut off by a robber. It was not that she left and never came back, but that she died early."

"What a talker, Mr. Collins."

"Sometimes I am jealous of myself. Is this an art of expression?"

Victor held a cigarette and nodded blankly: "...Forget it."

He told Roland: In the beginning, he was just filled with anger and wanted to use chisels and hammers to cut a way so that his mother, no matter where she was, could read about 'Victor Sala' in the newspaper. The name made her sleep poorly every day and made her cry every night.

He didn't want her to repent, he wanted her to regret - regret abandoning a child who should have brought her endless honor and material and spiritual enjoyment, a child who was connected to her by blood and should have been happy every sunrise and sunset. Relatives.

He wanted her to regret it.

That's what he originally thought.

But later, as the sharp hammer fell again and again, the target changed unconsciously.

"She doesn't matter anymore."

Victor Sala said.

"It's a pleasure."

"for me."

“Later, it turned into passion.”

He said.

“Ultimately, it becomes the mission.”

He said.

"Maybe you can't understand how a loser who is sick and relies on his friends for a living dares to say 'mission' - but I still want to tell you, young you." Victor Sara seems to have never been more serious than now.

He stared at Roland like a crow on the shoulder of a broken sculpture looking at the people in the room through the glass.

At this moment, he seemed to be standing in nature, standing in freedom, and a bird standing in the sun.

And Roland is an ignorant person who lives in a dark room without seeing the light of day.

“I’m telling you this: everyone has a mission.”

He said.

"It's just that most people, most people in this world...can't find it."

"It's right there, waiting there."

Victor threw away his cigarette butt, got up, and stared devoutly at the real-life female sculpture like a saint gazing at the everlasting cross.

"Just waiting here..."

he murmured.

"How blessed is this life for those who can find their 'calling', Mr. Collins."

"It's the happiness that those ignorant people can never feel..."

“They mocked…dressed in expensive clothes, drove magnificent carriages, were served by servants, and wore the most expensive gems…”

Victor sighed: "But 'mission' is the highest expression of a person's life..."

"Those who can't find it are not pitiful, perhaps, they still live a rich and happy life..."

He said.

"But there is always something missing, right?"

"Something is missing..." He gestured, trying to modify the confused words with his hands: "If fate, if history, are the same tablecloth, what should we do?"

"Take a table knife..."

"Stab it!"

"'Fuck! I'm here!' We have to do this... Mr. Collins."

He said.

"It's not that I don't want to do it, I have to do it."

Roland looked at this almost crazy but extremely sober man, and suddenly a lingering emotion arose in his heart-he didn't like him, even hated him.

But he wanted to know more about him.

"It would be great if you could still live. Maybe I can invite you to join us."

Victor adjusted his expression and smiled, "Someone scolded me just now."

"Tomorrow, Mr. Sarah. Because it doesn't mean that you didn't disappoint and hurt Randolph - the dead don't feel pain, the living do."

Victor didn't answer, turned around, and started polishing the last work again.

He was too tired recently.

He sat down, and then lay down again.

He was too tired.

He coughed up blood under Roland's gaze, as if he had drained all the dirty blood in his body, and finally became an immortal stone sculpture.

He fell asleep.

Under the gaze of Roland and his work.

He was like a butterfly, and the work he carved was like his offspring - and once he completed the task of reproduction, his life would come to an end.

"A person who needs love too much can't get it from anywhere else, so he has to seek it in his imagination."

"Maybe."

Roland got up slowly.

"But every fate should have its spring."

He watched the woman, who was carved by loneliness and paranoia, gently flutter her eyelashes...

Miraculously opened her eyes.

She was 'born'.

The stone statue was covered with powder.

The stone statue looked over curiously.

The stone statue bowed slightly.

"Welcome to this world, new lady."

Roland bowed in return.

She blinked her eyelids, as if she was born with a 'mission' like her creator, or that every chisel and grind had already carved the surging emotions into a soul without a heart.

She slowly leaned over.

Touched the tip of Victor's nose.

Carefully, and intimately stroked his face.

The cold and delicate palms were just like when he carved them, bringing peace to a soul that was sleeping forever.

She looked at Roland again.

After getting consent, she knelt on her knees, gently passed her arms through, and hugged her creator's head.

Put him on her legs.

Pat him gently one by one.

Just like his mother lulled him to sleep when he was a child.

He carved her, but he was the fragile one.