The Secret Code of Monsters.

Chapter 335 Ch.334 Goodbye Victor

The two, one adult and one child, were discussing 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 being intimate. Those who heard clearly...

Even those who heard it clearly didn't dare to say anything.

A little inquiry will reveal Roland Collins's identity.

No one wants to mess with an Inquisition executive, especially not one in today's world.

"Is my brother's friend dead?"

"Yeah, Betty."

"Oh."

The blonde said "oh" and didn't understand what "death" was - perhaps she had never really felt how happy it was to be "alive". In the muddy oil paint and the quiet afternoon sunlight shining on the oil paint, who would tell her how happy or painful life was.

"So, he disappeared."

"It's gone forever, Betty." Roland led Beatrice to the most secluded table and chair and pushed the cake on the table to her: "It's gone forever and will never come back."

Beatrice blinked and said in a crisp voice: "It'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 from heaven."

This made Beatrice reveal a rare look of 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, making a canopy over her forehead, saying that she didn't want anyone to secretly look at her - especially when she was painting.

The sneaky girl with her neck shrunk attracted some attention.

Roland was dying of laughter.

"Roland!"

"what happened?"

"Long, how much does it cost?"

"How much money do you need..." Roland supported his chin with one hand and pretended to think: "...I think it might cost a lot."

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

“That’s expensive.”

"My brother has lots of money!"

She leaned forward and placed part of her burden on the table, "I have more brothers."

The white flames condensed into arrows again.

"The seduced blond cow."
-
Could you please not use such vulgar words?

"The enchanted blonde moo."

Roland: ...
-
Then you are the enchanted white snap.

wrench:……

"Can I ask what Kaka is?"
-
The sound of a wrench turning.

"It should be Gaga, right?"
-
White quack.
-
Or white squeak.
-
Which one is better.

“…Why am I discussing this with you?”

As they were chatting, Roland heard a low cry.

Many people have noticed something 'wrong'.

The dim light passed through the statue, leaving characters of varying heights on the lawn.

Every one of them.

"Character!"

A man shouted.

“…Here too?”

The ladies noticed too.

Soon, everyone present saw that wherever the light hit the statue, it did not cast a complete shadow - unlike their shadows, but hollowed-out, slender, clear and even letters.

It starts from the "childhood" that Roland had seen.

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

Arrange them neatly, adjusting the order according to the shadows cast by dusk.

The scene was a bit chaotic.

The exclamations of some ladies were particularly noticeable.

"That is..."

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

Because it is no longer a series of strange, vulgar and superficial expressions.

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

As clear as a long thin word. Start from "childhood".

A crying mother and a panicked child.

"Disappearance":
A boy sitting with his knees hugged.

"Night of Thunder":
Window and screen, a hand holding up a hammer.

"Leaving Sun":
The rough stones symbolizing the coast, the upright backs, and the fallen old-fashioned pipe.

"storm":
A crudely carved, vaguely expressed ship on a long voyage.

"disgust":
The hand still holding the hammer was grabbed by another hand by the wrist.

My Bastard:
A man in a suit and leather shoes was standing, with a figure with disheveled hair squatting on the ground at his feet.

"Drunken Vulture":
However, the statue emphasizes his obscene appearance after drinking: he rips open his collar, stands, one foot without a leather shoe, steps on the table, and seems to be shouting something.

"waste":
Gold Pound.

Gold pounds and deposit slips flowed out of his open pockets.

"Beloved":
A female sculpture with half of her face broken.

"madness":
A man was crying with his hands covering his face - but from his clothes, it could be seen that this was the same guy in a suit who looked so rude in the bar.

These numerous sculptures of varying sizes are arranged to form stories that anyone with eyesight can easily understand:

Two good friends.

A funder and a funded person.

They made friends in anger and drank in taverns.

There was a quarrel over money and a fight with a person with a blurred face.

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

then.

Some people began to discuss in low voices.

It started out as a soft sound, then grew uncontrollably louder, more frequent, and noisy.

Each statue represents a researcher.

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

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

'She' is so similar to the original 'childhood':
Likewise, there was a boy grabbing someone's skirt.

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

The name of the statue is: "My Childhood"

Just like at the beginning.

It's like an endless cycle.

What finally comforted the boy was his own work.

A woman began to sob.

They were moved by the touching story and the extraordinary talent and genius of the creator of these works. They seemed to be able to feel from every scratch on the stone carvings his every touch and chisel, and every time dust flew up, the sharp, painful particles inhaled into the lungs.

The knocking sounds day and night have created the art of silence at sunset.

The few people who know the inside story think further and think more.

They can't wait to share their 'discoveries' with their friends:
So, this is the 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, the shame and pain, and the ship that will never return...

In the salon, everyone gave it a more brilliant and mysterious color.

Victor Sala is miserable, pathetic, and brilliant.

But, what about his friends?
What about "Tyler", who has always been kind to him, helped him, relieved his worries, and lent a hand when he was in the most difficult times, but now feels guilty about it?

What about the overlooked Randolph Taylor?

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

The shadow that fell through the hollow statue finally condensed into a line of clear and slender words.

Everyone can see clearly:
'It's not your fault, asshole.'

Some people cried out loudly.

Roland sat next to Beatrice, using a napkin to clean the corners of her mouth from time to time.

The fenced statue and the constantly praised "Taylor" shone brightly in the dusk light - it didn't feel like dusk, it was even the dawn.

"Everyone! We have witnessed a true friendship..."

"This is Mr. Sarah. This is his gift to the world... Thank you for your kindness..."

Roland heard someone shouting excitedly.

Obviously, it is not left for the world.

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

Only left for him.

These works, which will not decay like flesh and blood, will only perform their due miracles after the death of their creators: untying the knot in their friends' hearts and fulfilling their reputation.

What exactly is art, Mr. Sara?

Everyone has a different answer.

(End of this chapter)