The Secret Code of Monsters.

Chapter 319: Victor Sala's Story
Now, Roland finally knew who the sculpture he had seen in Randolph's house came from.

Victor Sala.

Sculptor, stonemason.

A native of London.

My mother worked as a tutor for a while when she was young and died of pulmonary edema; my father was also a stonemason, but later went to sea to find a job and never came back.

It wasn't that he couldn't survive, nor was he like the workers Roland had seen who had to walk under the moonlight every day to find food and drink in the humming woods - he had some property, his parents left him some money, and he had a good friend like Randolph Taylor.

Why did he suddenly borrow such a large sum of money?

Two thousand pounds.

"That's what I suspected," Randolph sighed. "I really hope he met a liar instead of a cultist. I would rather the money be swindled away, even if it's two thousand pounds more."

He kept observing Roland's expression as he spoke, and his words revealed unprecedented weakness and temptation.

Roland also understood what he meant.

Frankly speaking, his experience with Nina Collins made it impossible for him to stand on the same side as the cultists - he would not even consider why the cultists joined the cult, or what kind of painful past they had that led them to seek help from the cultists...

To Roland, none of this mattered.

Most of the executors in the Inquisition have an irreconcilable hatred for cultists or aliens. They will not show mercy to a mother who made a deal with cultists just because she has a baby.

They would kill her in the most brutal way possible.

In front of the baby in the cradle.

"You made the right decision, Randolph. If you try to hide it, Victor Sala will be in trouble, and you will be in trouble too. If you turn a blind eye, he will soon be approached by the detectives of the Inspectorate or my brothers and sisters... They probably won't buy anyone's story."

Randolph certainly knew what kind of person the executive was.

"Help me, Roland," he said. "I don't have many friends left...if it's possible."

If Victor Sala is really as 'deeply trapped' as Roland said...

Then, he hoped that Roland could make him suffer less.

Burning by fire is too cruel.

"A chance, or a bullet, Roland." Randolph rubbed his hands together, looking tired: "I use a magical item to buy a chance to survive... or..."

He couldn't let his former friend struggle in the flames.

Before he approached Roland, he had asked the Taylor family's ritualist: the so-called burning punishment is not just 'burning' - before that, who knows what will happen in the cell?
His friend could not be Joan of Arc.

Roland couldn't promise Randolph anything.

"Take me to see him, to see your friend, Victor Sala."

…………

……

Not all artists are poor—some are so extravagant that they spend all day sleeping with women. These prodigals who spend money like water and are full of syphilis never stop for anyone, as if they were born with an ignorant and fearless mind, and they can only rush forward like wild bulls.

However, what makes people jealous is that as long as they want, as long as they calm down, the pen can flow out intoxicating, sweet or bitter honey.

That is talent.

At the salon where Cherry had invited him, Roland had seen many "artists" like the above - writers, poets or painters.

They all have strange hobbies. While enjoying luxury, they can easily create a work that perhaps ordinary people can hardly achieve in their entire lives.

This desperate talent, like a distortion deep within the soul, did not follow any rules and was not passed down through blood.

They are like fire.

Just a coincidence.

Of course there is another one, the opposite one - Victor Sala.

He lived in seclusion, did not participate in social activities, and did not enjoy good food, good wine, or beautiful women. He had no wife, no children, and no friends except Randolph Taylor. He lived in a very spacious house in the suburbs of London. He did not hire a servant, and he was the only one in the huge empty house...

and hundreds of statues.

Yes.

He is a sculptor.

Thanks to her good friend Randolph Taylor's tireless promotion, Sarah became a little famous.

Unfortunately, he really couldn't accept discussing art with those fools who couldn't even distinguish colors. For a long time, the public only heard the name of Victor Sala but never saw him appear in any salon.

Even if a lady specially sent someone to visit and presented an invitation in a proper manner.

The response was not a rejection, but:

'Why don't you spend more time with your husband and children?'

He is not a likable guy.

Gradually, no one came to visit him anymore.

He did not engage in verbal battles with his peers in the newspapers, and seemed to have never fought back when faced with sarcastic remarks about him.

Randolph Taylor did say a few words for him, but then he gradually gave up.

He doesn't like this and doesn't buy into it.

On the way to Sarah's house in the suburbs, Randolph briefly introduced his friend.

All in all, nothing nice to say.

"I doubt you guys are friends."

"Some friends say more than just good things, Roland." Randolph pulled aside the curtains and looked at the woods sweeping back. "And I don't think it's 'bad' if you've seen us get along."

"You guys won't fight."

"Quite a few times when I was young." Randolph said he was very 'sinister' - Taylor had servants, but every time they argued, Victor told Randolph that a real man would never rely on others to fight, but face the enemy on his own.

Then he fought Randolph one-on-one and beat the Taylor heir black and blue.

"The third time I got beaten, I realized that the bastard had tricked me."

Thinking of what happened before, Randolph was both angry and amused: "When we beat up that drunkard, he never said he wanted to be one-on-one."

As the carriage got closer to their destination, Roland could see the appearance of the villa clearly.

It is not even as clean as those factories emitting black smoke - no one has repaired or maintained it for a long time, and the outer walls are covered with ivy.

The only way out of the building was completely blocked by a tangle of dead branches and shrubs, and Randolph's carriage was expected to build a new one: there should have been a fountain here a long time ago, but since the previous owner sold the house, the fountain had never exercised its power.

Roland and Randolph walked in through thick layers of dead leaves.

"How does he live his daily life?"

Roland couldn't help but ask.

"Every week, someone comes here to deliver food," Randolph replied. He knew his friend's life very well, and even spent a few extra cents every week to give his great artist, who never left his house, some meat.

"I always ask the person who delivers the things to meet Victor."

"You worry..."

"Yeah, I'm worried that he died quietly in the house." Randolph picked up his cane, tucked it under his arm, put it in his pocket, and walked through the carpet of dead leaves with one foot deep and one foot shallow, and came to the old building with Roland.

He pushed up the brim of his hat and prepared to knock on the door.

Roland found that every window facing them had curtains drawn.

(End of this chapter)