The Secret Code of Monsters

Chapter 335 Ch.334 Goodbye Victor

The big and the small discussed in the salon how to steal Randolph Taylor's property and buy a real dragon.

Those who didn't hear clearly thought they were just intimate. Those who heard clearly...

Those who heard clearly didn't dare to say anything.

A little inquiry will reveal the identity of Roland Collins.

No one wants to mess with an executive of the Tribunal, especially the Tribunal today.

"Is my brother's friend dead?"

"Yes, Betty."

"Oh."

The blonde girl said "Oh", and didn't understand what "death" was - perhaps she had never really felt how happy "living" was. In the muddy oil paint and the quiet afternoon sunshine shining on the oil paint, who would tell her how happy or painful life is.

"So, he disappeared."

"It's gone forever, Betty." Roland led Beatrice to the most remote table and chair and sat down, pushing the cake on the table to her: "Gone forever, never to return."

Beatrice blinked and said in a crisp voice: "That's lonely."

"Who?"

"The disappeared person." She said: "It's sad wherever you go, right? There's only one person left."

"No, Betty, the dead will go to heaven, spend every day happily, and can see us in heaven."

This made Beatrice show a rare disgust.

"That's terrible, Roland."

"Why?"

"I don't like it. I don't want people to look at me."

She hurriedly waved her hands and made a canopy on her forehead, saying that she didn't want people to look at her secretly-especially when she was painting.

The sneaky girl with her neck shrunk attracted some attention.

Roland was about to die of laughter.

"Roland!"

"What's wrong?"

"Long, how much money do you want?"

"'How much' money..." Roland supported his chin with one hand and pretended to think: "...I think it may take a lot of money."

Beatrice pouted: "I know! I already know money!"

"That's expensive."

"My brother has a lot of money!"

She leaned forward and put part of her burden on the table, "My brother has a lot."

The white flames condensed into arrows again.

"Enchanted blond cow."

-

Can you use less vulgar words.

"Enchanted blond moo."

Roland:...

-

Then you are the enchanted white Kaka.

Wrench:...

"Can I ask what Kaka is?"

-

The sound of the wrench twisting.

"It should be Kaka?"

-

White Kaka.

-

Or white Squeak.

-

Which one is better.

"...Why am I discussing this with you."

While talking, Roland heard a low cry.

Many people noticed some "wrong" shadows.

The drowsy light passed through the statues, leaving characters of varying heights on the lawn.

Every one of them.

"Words!"

A man shouted.

"...Here too?"

The ladies also noticed it.

Soon, everyone present saw that all the statues that were hit by the light did not cast a whole shadow - unlike their shadows, but hollowed-out, slender, clear and uniform letters.

Starting from the "childhood" that Roland had seen.

Randolph hurried through the crowd, shouting for Bronte and Theresa to order the servants to move the tall and heavy statues.

Arrange them neatly and adjust the order according to the shadows cast by the dusk.

The scene was a bit chaotic.

The exclamations of some ladies were particularly obvious.

'That's...'

When these dozens of statues from different holders were arranged in order, everyone present fell into a brief silence.

Because they were no longer strange, vulgar and superficial expressions.

They are memories, like a complete story that can be read and understood.

As clear as a long and thin text.

Starting from "childhood".

A crying mother, a panicked child.

"Disappearance":

A boy sitting with his knees hugged.

"Thundering Night":

Window and window screen, a hand holding a sharp hammer.

"Leaving Sun":

Rough stones symbolizing the coast, upright back, and a fallen old-fashioned pipe.

"Storm":

A ship with rough carvings and vague expressions on a long voyage.

"Disgust":

The hand still holding the sharp hammer, but the wrist is grabbed by another hand.

"My Bastard":

A man in a suit and leather shoes, standing. At his feet is a squatting, dishevelled back.

"Drunk Vulture":

Drinking, a man in a suit. However, the statue emphasizes his obscene appearance after drinking: ripping open his collar, standing, one foot without a leather shoe, stepping on the table, and he seems to be shouting something.

"Waste":

Gold pounds.

Gold pounds flowed out of the open pockets, deposit slips.

"Beloved":

A female sculpture, but half of her face was broken.

"Stupid":

A man crying with his face covered - but from the clothes, it can be seen that this is still the guy in a suit who was in a tavern without a good appearance.

These numerous sculptures of different sizes are arranged into stories that anyone with eyes can see can easily understand:

Two good friends.

A sponsor and a sponsored person.

They made friends in anger and drank heavily in the tavern.

They quarreled over money and fought with people with blurred faces.

They were so close that the people who watched in order became extremely quiet, put down their glasses and knives, and carefully studied every detail of each statue with their eyes, trying to find new discoveries from them.

Then.

Some people began to discuss in a low voice.

At first it was low, and then it became uncontrollably louder, denser, and noisier.

Statues, researchers.

Some even left their female companions and went to the statue.

The last statue was a stiff "statue" without facial features, obviously uncoordinated limbs, and "inadequate" techniques - Victor used a statue to express a statue.

'She' was so similar to the "childhood" at the beginning:

Similarly, there was a boy grabbing someone's skirt.

But 'she' did not hide her face in pain, but bent her knees and gently stroked the boy's head.

The name of the statue is: "My Childhood"

It corresponds to the beginning.

It is like an endless reincarnation.

The boy was comforted by his own work in the end.

Some ladies began to sob.

They lamented the touching story and the extraordinary talent and talent of the creators of these works. They seemed to feel every touch and chisel he had made from every mark on the stone sculpture, and every sharp and painful particle inhaled into the lungs after the dust was raised.

The knocking sound day and night created the silent art under the sunset today.

And the few people who knew the inside story thought further and more.

They couldn't wait to share what they "discovered" with their friends around them:

So, this real story about Taylor and Sarah, about the previous generation of Taylor and Sarah, about this generation of Taylor and Sarah - the deep feelings and friendship between them, shame and pain, the ship that will never return...

was painted with a more splendid and mysterious color by everyone in the salon.

Victor Sala was miserable, pitiful, and talented.

But what about his friends?

What about the "Taylor" who had always supported him, helped him, relieved his worries, and lent a hand when he was in the most difficult time, but felt guilty?

What about the neglected Randolph Taylor?

As those eyes became more respectful and soft, the light happened to find its right angle.

The shadow falling through the hollow statue finally condensed into a line of clear and delicate words.

Everyone could see it clearly:

'It's not your fault, bastard. '

Someone cried out.

Roland sat next to Beatrice, and from time to time he used a tablecloth to clean the corners of her mouth.

The surrounded statue and the constantly praised "Taylor" shone brightly in the light of dusk - this didn't look like dusk, it should even be the dawn of dawn.

"Everyone! We witnessed a sincere friendship..."

"This is Mr. Sala, the gift he left to the world... The benefactor is above..."

Roland heard someone shouting excitedly.

Obviously, it is not for the world.

It is just a gift from the cunning Victor Sala to Randolph Taylor in his last days.

It is only for him.

These works that will not decay like flesh and blood will show their due miracles after the death of the creator: untie the knot in the heart of his friend and fulfill his reputation.

What is art, Mr. Sala?

Everyone has a different answer.