The Secret Code of Monsters

Chapter 392 Ch.391 His Name

The price of lies is high.

At least for this 'Lord of Dreams', the price for her help is high.

"Find my sanctuary and bring the mystery box over - I want the box, not the nonsense in it."

"I only give you fifty years..."

Roland looked at the key symbol gradually fading in his hand, if it was interesting.

On the other side, James Shelley just knelt on the ground and covered his ears.

The jumping and twisting doors around him made him miserable. He could sense the danger behind these doors and the horror of almost breaking through them.

"You don't seem to like them."

When the girl came over holding her head, her body was already somewhat transparent.

"…Lord of Dreams."

"I want your mystery box, human. You won the tournament, so bring it to me—well, unlike the boy, you get to pick your own reward."

A smirk appeared on his head.

"For example, let someone who is bound to die survive."

The old man knelt on the ground and fell into silence.

She didn't say so much to James Shelley, perhaps because he failed to touch the door of giant snakes and spiders, failed to be invited by the door, and had no possibility of breaking the shackles.

He is undoubtedly also a prisoner of the soul.

Unfortunately, he is too ordinary.

Ordinary means boring.

"...My son, the Lord of Dreams, the continuation of my bloodline, part of my soul..."

The old and hoarse voice went through a long and difficult choice.

James Shelley is well aware of the consequences of this choice. He will recall from his dreams a flesh-and-blood cultist who is full of resentment towards him and can never repair the relationship.

That was no longer his son.

He would make an enemy of Shelley.

But, but.

Did he have any other choice?

He is so old, and according to what the dreamer said - his heart has cooled down, and there is no possibility of moving forward.

Rather than undoing the "dragon poison" on his body, he was more impressed by flesh and blood or something deeper, and he longed to leave his own blood in the world before his life came to an end.

This is a curse for both males and females, a curse in the instinct and blood of every creature living in the waking world.

"oh…"

The head blinked:

"I thought you would save your other child."

"Eccentric humans."

She made a playful remark, but the words undoubtedly sounded like thunder in James Shelley's ears.

"W-what did you say?!"

The old man suddenly raised his head, his ravaged face full of hope, "Tell me, what...what?"

"Don't you know?" The girl laughed: "In this dream, there are two people who bear your soul, the continuation of your bloodline..."

she said.

"But a mystery box only changes one place." She pushed aside the darkness, revealing a corner of the still space - in the room, the stunned John and Rose were as thin and quiet as a picture:

"He and she both have your blood...Human, which one do you want to choose?"

I have fulfilled my promise to you, enemy of the Messiah.

Now, let me see, can you win the bet?

The soul dancing on the tip of the knife.

It would be more fun to watch your madness expand until it collapses...

The girl looked at the old man quietly.

The lie undoubtedly caused him to struggle.

He was not afraid of death, and had already envisioned his own death: the extinguished pipe fell on the small hand-woven woolen rug, and he fell asleep in his favorite easy chair.

The old house was in chaos, with flames soaring into the sky. Perhaps the son was quietly staring at the servant's body and crying bitterly amid the chaotic footsteps of the servant...

Or snicker secretly.

But all of this is based on the fact that Shelley still exists.

The thin bloodline made him care more about inheritance.

And by rejecting the cradle of flesh and blood, you also reject the possibility of enriching your heirs.

John Shelley was the sole heir.

Now, the monster holding the head told him: Is there his daughter in the dream? !

"Is this...is this true?"

The girl sneered: "I'm different from you humans. I won't tell meaningless lies."

But if it’s interesting enough…

James Shelley was uncertain, holding on to his shaky knees, his face abandoned the respect that almost penetrated into his bones.

He has seen clean and dirty London, basked in the sun, been soaked in rain that smelled like shit, and killed black slaves, women, children and goths. You can question him for not knowing how to teach and being an unqualified father - but you can never question the courage in his heart.

James Shelley was not afraid of death.

"Didn't the young man who won the award with me make such a request?" he asked.

The girl smiled and said: "He doesn't have a mystery box, so he is not qualified."

"You better be sincere, Lord of Dreams."

The old man suddenly changed his words.

The blazing heat in the confession burned from the shadow, like the sharp red flame blooming from the head of a rubbed match, sharp and dazzling.

"I know the secrets of the dream. If the dream has an owner, then it will definitely abide by its own rules - I should be rewarded, so I want my bloodline to survive."

"If the girl isn't, you're breaking the rules..."

"Although I don't know the price of breaking the rules..." James Shelley said sincerely: "But for a being who is close to the sky, why should he pay a high price and embarrass mortals?"

A hint of appreciation appeared on the head held in his hand.

"It seems that you have had a lot of dreams, explorer. Your heart has cooled down, but you have experienced a lot. When you go to the country of death, you will have no regrets - Oh, who do you believe in?"

“…the daughter of the hustle and bustle.”

The girl pouted.

"Okay, I swear, for the sake of the mystery box." She muttered: "If you insist on keeping your blood alive..."

James Shelley’s experience is unmistakable.

A very small number of dreams will give birth to a master, perhaps consciousness, memory, perhaps a tangible alien species, or even some unnamed existence that the ritualist has never seen.

And these very few existences usually abide by the rules in dreams and rarely violate them.

Humans are just alien ants to them.

certainly.

The above all come from James Shelley's life experience and the experience gained from his adventures in his career as a ritualist (not entirely accurate).

He is thinking.

As long as, as long as this thing is the owner of this dreamland and was born from the dreamland——

"I thought you would suspect that I am one of your humans... so what is my name?"

"Immortal?" the old man asked.

"Oh, yes, that's what you call the immortal soul."

"Of course you are not," James Shelley shook his head: "I have faced immortals directly, but you give me a much more noble feeling than them."

What's more, immortals have absolutely no ability to drag unrelated people into dreams just by using the "coordinates" of the waking world.

"You are shrewd and courageous."

The girl holding the head suddenly approached the old man. From the base of her shoulder, a mass of flesh and blood suddenly swelled and squirmed like snakes and ants in the tumor, and exploded.

Along with the thick yellow liquid flowing out, there were two slender white arms.

Those were her third and fourth arms.

She used the extra to grab old Shelley's head.

He pulled him towards him until he knelt down.

"Two winners, you have only fifty years to bring the mystery box to my sanctuary."

"Now."

"Say what you want."

Old Shelley could almost smell the rotting stench on the girl's head. The two eyeballs close at hand had long been rotten and leaked green thick juice.

The tide is coming.

Mysterious surge.

Thousands of doors around her danced and twisted in response to her voice.

"...I always want to know your name first." He said with difficulty.

"name?"

she laughed.

"If you want to open a road, you must first open yourself. You and him will definitely bring me good news..."

"Or you should die in this history."

"You are not allowed to call my name to the ignorant, I will watch you -"

Some kind of dry language hidden deep in the desert or innate was burned into old Shelley's head, and the fine grains of sand made his brain hurt.

His name.

St. Artemisia.