The Secret Code of Monsters.

Chapter 321: Gray Skin
Roland felt himself falling into a mist filled with plaster dust.

He could not see anything, but could hear the sound of the statue breaking, gasps, and the heavy thud of the hammer hitting the ground.

He didn't know what art was, but he spent the next hour figuring out what an artist's paranoia was.

Why does Victor Sala hate his own work so much?
Perhaps he was disappointed with his own works and was ashamed to show them to others, so he smashed them with a hammer.

Then, why did he use the hammer to grind it into fine powder, cursing as he ground it; why did he pull his hair and kick the statue with his legs like a wild dog, even wishing that it would come alive immediately so that he, the creator, could smash it to pieces with one hammer after another.

He hated them so much that he wanted to shit on them.

'A motionless dung bucket.'

He made this comment, looking as ferocious as a murderer who was committing a crime. Faced with a room full of "corpses", his rage grew instead of diminishing.

'This is shit.'

'White, not cheap shit.'

He seemed to want to gain the approval of Roland and Randolph, but also seemed to be simply venting.

Only after this strange and frightening behavior ended did he slowly hold onto the wall and curl up in the corner, silent as if dead, with only his two eyes staring at the debris on the ground.

Roland had seen truly lunatics.

I've also seen crazy cultists.

But Victor Sala is not any of them, he is somewhere in between, sometimes more to the left, sometimes more to the right. He can control himself to be normal, but he can go crazy uncontrollably when facing his own works.

He curled up for about ten minutes, and finally spoke to the bored Randolph.

"…Why haven't you left yet?"

Randolph raised his glass. "I'm really worried about the guy who comes every week. You won't do anything to him, will you?"

Victor Sala snorted.

"Tell me, what do you want from me?"

Randolph pondered for a moment. "I want to know where the two thousand pounds went, Victor. You know I don't care about this little money, but I'm worried that the person who spent the money will go to hell."

Every time he saw Victor, he felt something building up in his chest, growing bigger and bigger.

He was afraid that one day, what he would see was not Victor Sala, but a body full of flesh and blood bursting with "art".

Victor had a strange expression on his face, and spread his hands towards the broken pieces on the ground: "I guess you are different from your friends, right?"

Randolph: ...

He didn't dwell on how much material two thousand pounds could buy, and lowered his voice: "...I saw animal fur, an incomplete ritual. Victor, tell me, you didn't do anything illegal, right?"

Surprisingly, Victor did not try to hide the truth on this issue. He told Randolph frankly: It was indeed a ceremony.

"I paid for it from a salon," the gray-haired man said, "but apparently, I was cheated."

He got up, dusted his hands, and hunched across the hall.

After about two or three minutes, the man came back with a box in his hand.

It did contain what Randolph had seen: animal fur, pieces of meat that had begun to rot and become infested with maggots, and a purple liquid of unknown purpose.

Half a sheet of parchment.

There are patterns outlined on it.

Randolph looked at Roland for help, but did not touch the box. He just turned it.

“It’s not a cult ritual.”

Victor Sara couldn't use the ritual of the true cradle of flesh and blood.

The so-called "cult" is, in fact, just an "invisible technique".

"This is a method that can make people energetic." Victor stared at Roland and explained, "The gentleman asked me for five hundred pounds, saying that using animal blood would be successful..."

But... no. Roland took only one look and closed the lid.

"Can I see your hands?"

Victor pulled back his sleeves nonchalantly.

“…Blessed One! Victor! You are sick!”

Before Roland could speak, Randolph shouted - he grabbed Victor's wrist and tore off his sleeve: the entire arm was an unnatural grayish white.

Humans don't have skin of this color.

"Every sculptor has some faults, Randolph. Don't be surprised."

"I've never seen a sculptor with this problem." Randolph was extremely angry. He didn't understand what his friend had been obsessed with all these years: "Stop, stop, Victor! See a doctor! Don't stare at your broken stone sculptures all day long--"

However, this sentence angered Victor Sala.

He suddenly grabbed Randolph's collar and pulled him in front of him!

"Stop interfering in my business, Randolph."

"Before your father left, he said he hoped we could—"

"If my father hadn't worked for your father and the Taylor family, he wouldn't have boarded that ship that never returned!!" Victor Sala roared, his expression ferocious. "Why are you worried? What are you ashamed of? Our friendship? Or, a dead soul that shouldn't have died?"

The two gazes burned each other's honesty, and just when Roland thought that they were going to punch each other in the next moment, Victor Sara let go of Randolph.

He was losing interest, so he swung his arms, poured himself a glass of wine and drank it all in one gulp.

At this moment, he seemed to have aged a few years.

"…My father was the best stonemason ever, Randolph. He should have been great."

Randolph was silent.

"I'm not blaming you - if anything, it's the sea wind, the black waves, and the bumpy and broken ship that should go to hell."

Randolph opened his mouth and exhaled a breath of foul air: "…It's much easier to send me to hell than to send Haifeng to hell."

"We have to go sooner or later." Victor smiled, poured the last of the bottle to Randolph, and handed it to Randolph. He pinched the thin neck, like a blood-stained glass flower: "What my father didn't do, you should pray that I can do."

"Victor, to be honest, I never thought that what you pursued had any value." Randolph shook his head: "If you want the newspapers to speak for you, and want those who like to point fingers to praise you - I'm afraid I can do it without spending a few dollars."

Victor Sara was accustomed to his friend's money-mindedness.

He said a name.

“Ilet Art Association.”

"The ongoing art exhibition, Randolph, I am honored to tell you: your friend, Victor Sala's work has been selected for the Sculpture Hall."

"That's not something you can buy with money, is it?"

Looking at his proud and excited old friend, Randolph swallowed his instinctive rebuttal.

certainly…

can.

The Elet Art Society is the so-called top art exhibition in Britain, the pearl in the crown. The author of any work selected for the exhibition is equivalent to obtaining a unique certificate: this thin piece of paper may not cost a few pennies, but it is the Book of Eden that many people cannot obtain or understand in their entire lives.

That is the pursuit of almost all artists.

The secret pursuit of all artists who don’t care about fame and fortune, and the open pursuit of all artists who care about fame and fortune.

But...for people like Randolph.

It's just a more advanced playground.

(End of this chapter)