The Secret Code of Monsters.

Chapter 320 Ch.319 Paranoia
Victor Sala looks quite old.

He was tall and thin, with long curly gray hair and a sickly-looking face.

The brown apron hanging around her neck was tied tightly at the back of her waist, and underneath it was a white shirt with yellowed frayed edges.

He held the scraper in his hand and hid in the shadow behind the door to avoid the light when he opened it: he used force with his eyes and eyebrows at the same time and tilted his head deliberately.

The three of them faced each other in the dust.

"Good day, Victor. Be careful with the knife."

The sickly man took two or three seconds to see who was coming. He turned the tool made of bent iron in his hand and said with a fake smile: "If you are really that afraid of death, you should use a file to flatten your chin first."

Randolph stroked his pointed chin and said, "You guessed why I came here today."

Victor curled his lips and moved his gaze to Roland.

"Oh, this is my friend, a...good friend."

The sculptor said nothing and turned and went into the house.

"He's always like this. Once you get familiar with him——"

"Just... cordial?"

"I will start to insult you without any scruples." Randolph shrugged, stepped into the house, and motioned Roland to follow: "You have a solution, right? If you don't tell me, I won't let the servants serve you."

"You should have known that the Taylors have ritualists."

"And because you didn't hide anything, Roland."

The room was as empty as a warehouse.

Dirty level too.

Roland now believed what Randolph said, that Mr. Victor Sala did not employ any servants. If he had employed a servant and the scene before him was still like this, the servant should be hanged.

There was trash and tools everywhere.

——In fact, Roland couldn't tell the difference between trash and tools. It was hard to tell which was the tool and which was the trash, a wooden stick with an iron head and a wooden stick.

There are spider webs in the corners.

There is an unpleasant 'dust' smell in the room.

Each wall maintains the style of the previous owner: light brown wallpaper, but it has begun to be damaged in large areas.

He and Randolph walked through the corridor that should have led to the living room, and the first thing that caught their eyes was countless pale sculptures in various poses.

There are men and there are women.

They strike different poses, face different directions, and are fixed in their own time.

The scene is chilling.

"No wonder you don't like going out, your home is lively enough."

Randolph had seen this kind of scene countless times and was no longer surprised - didn't he have another one at home, which was given to him by this friend (a 'gift' worth a loan of two thousand pounds).

"I hope you can keep your hands to yourself."

The sound came from the side.

The scraper in Victor Sala's hand disappeared, replaced by a wine bottle and three glasses.

"These are all my hard work. If they lose an arm or a finger, you have to pay for it."

"I didn't touch it."

"Randolph, what you have used most in recent years are your lips and fingers."

In front of Roland, the two men started bickering openly about their pasts and the women in the tavern, cheating drunkards out of their money, stealing in public, and hanging the dead dog in front of someone's door...

Wonderful youthful times.

"After you finish your drink, go back and count your money and stay away from me."

Three wine glasses were stacked on the bare concrete countertop.

Victor poured some of each and glanced at Roland again: "...You have a friend who is much more beautiful than you."

There was a pause.

"it's a pity."

He obviously noticed every time Roland turned around. His head and body always moved, but his eyes were much slower.

So, this is a blind man.

He was very perceptive. "I'm sorry I can't see your work, Mr. Sarah."

"Then you should consider yourself lucky. If you really saw it, you would probably regret it for the rest of your life."

He walked around the cement table and pressed the glass into Roland's hand.

At this moment, Roland noticed the back of his hand: it was not pale from blood loss, but grayish white like plaster, without a trace of flesh and blood.

Go up the back of your hand, or perhaps all the way up your arm inside your sleeve.

After drinking the wine in his hand, he picked up a hammer from the wall under Randolph's helpless eyes - the handle was almost as long as his arm, similar to the sledgehammer used for forging iron.

"Randolph?"

Randolph said nothing, holding the bottle, and poured Roland another half glass.

Under the gaze of the two people, Victor Sala walked step by step towards the sculpture closest to him - the veiled woman.

One that Roland found so exquisite that he could hardly imagine how it was created by human hands:

The woman clasped her hands together and lowered her eyes in prayer.

A thin layer of gauze covered her head, passed across her cheeks, and was blown by the wind.

This is a whole piece of stone.

It's incredible that people can do such things.

Victor Sala, this is definitely a—

Bang.

The thin man swung the hammer with great effort, drawing an arc and hitting the face of the sculpture.

The stone statue broke with a sound.

Her head was knocked to the ground, her body swayed, and then the angry man kicked her down and broke her into large and small pieces.

White stone powder was everywhere.

He supported himself on the hammer and breathed heavily.

"…I'm busy, Randolph, please go back."

Roland was stunned.

Because a few minutes ago, he warned Randolph not to ruin his hard work.

Now, he destroyed it himself.

why?
Roland put down his glass: "Sir? What are you doing?"

"Anyone with ears should know." Victor Sala grinned, sweat on his forehead - just a swing of the hammer: "You can't read it, so you don't have to comment. Wrong works should not be kept. Let me tell you, this is 'correction'."

Ever since he entered the room, Roland felt that he was talking to an abnormal person.

"Corrections?"

"Yeah, the angle is wrong." He let go of the pole and let it fall to the ground with a clang. He staggered to the mud platform and poured himself a glass of wine: "The wind doesn't blow like that. Eyelashes... no, the eyeballs should be more obvious under the eyelids."

"The veil is just covering the head, if I look from the side..."

He stared down at the red cloud in the cup, muttering to himself as if he had found a demon, and seemed to have completely forgotten that he was still talking to Roland the last second - he just muttered and commented on his own techniques, and from various professional perspectives, he also brought up many currently well-known or historically famous artists.

He leaned against the cement platform, then suddenly stood up straight; he paced for a while, and his voice suddenly became louder.

Randolph quietly sipped the cheap red wine, watching him torture the slowly passing time.

"…This posture is too common. No, I would say it is vulgar! Everyone, every mud smearer and stone smasher, has tried to use… No, if we think about it like that before, it would be suspected of sensationalism…"

"Expression, expression, my expression..."

"Randolph, what do you think?" He suddenly raised his head, stared at Randolph, and asked, "Maybe the previous one is better, right?"

Randolph seemed to really understand and nodded seriously: "I think the previous one is good."

"Yes, I consider expression, but too much focus on complexity can easily lead to..."

Roland sighed.

The white flames had already passed through this empty and crowded room countless times.

There were no suspicious signs.

(End of this chapter)