The Secret Code of Monsters.

Chapter 367: The Clever Burglar

Old Butch was old enough to know that every human being had an infinite number of faces.

How you treat your family, how you treat your business partners, how you treat your friends or enemies.

A few minutes ago, this green-eyed bastard had demonstrated in front of him a superb technique of 'how to change one's temperament in half a sentence' - it must be said that women are better at this than men.

The most important thing is…

Men really believe it.

Just like every exciting midnight, his wife would say: You need to be more restrained, more restrained. I am just a weak woman who washes clothes, cooks dinner, and kicks the children at most.

I don't have much strength, you have to be more restrained.

This made old Butch very proud.

He felt like an undiscovered horse trainer who should have been world-famous, majestic and admirable.

until someday.

His daughter was running around the yard with a metal bar.

The one that looked like a walking stick, or was a few sizes larger than a walking stick, already had signs of corrosion and peeling on it.

You have to tone it down...

Back off the fucking bastard.

He was furious and mad, and he opened fire to his heart's content, just like hunting wildly in his youth!
He wants revenge on his wife!
half a month later.

He hugged his wife and said the same thing.

'You need to tone it down.'

"I'm just a policeman. I have to get up in the dark every day, in the cold wind or the scorching sun. I have to deal with those nasty people, and physical conflicts are inevitable."

'My dear, you need to tone it down.'

Old Bachi looks back today and thinks that if he could meet his former self, he would definitely pat him on the shoulder and tell him:

Convergence point.

Shit ball.

Otherwise that metal rod is what will happen to you.

It took him a long time to work up the courage to pursue his wife.

Later, it took me a long time to muster up the courage to open the bedroom door every night.

This is the character of the green-eyed little piece of shit in front of him - just like his wife, it sounds sweet and looks sweet, but only those closest to him know how terrible it is in reality.

Old Butch turned around and looked to see who the unlucky guy was.

Coming down from the carriage...

what.

This piece of shit is quite...handsome?
To be honest, he had seen many people bragging about themselves - whether it was women or men, so-called handsome, strong, elegant, gentle, wise...

Old Butch had seen a lot of people, but this shit ball was the most...

A pretty or handsome one.

It all makes sense.

To put it in simple terms: he can live a life of ease and comfort with this face.

"Hi, Lillian."

"Call me Rose." The girl curled her lips.

She liked him calling her Rose. It was a short word, but Roland would always pull the corners of his mouth upwards when he pronounced it—he had a beautiful smile.

"The stink of one shit ball meeting another." Old Butch half-raised his hand and shooed the posturing girl away from the scene.

She can't afford to curse now...

Oh, she probably has never scolded anyone in her life.

"Kid, this isn't a good place to talk about love. I suggest you go find a pub or a hotel." Old Butch rummaged through his pockets, weighed the empty cigarette in his hand, and squeezed it, saying unkindly, "Don't learn from those well-fed little fat pigs who seek excitement. If you had eyes, you would know what my clothes represent--"

He came closer.

Saw the pair of unfocused amber.

“…Excuse me.”

The old sheriff frowned slightly, took off his hat and put it on his chest, revealing his sparse, thin hair.

"Excuse me, sir."

He said.

"Stay away from here with your friends."

Rose turned around and looked at him in surprise - she knew exactly what had happened to Roland's eyes.

This old guy's reaction is rare.

"What happened?" Roland asked.

"A man is dead, sir."

"It's been restless lately, more than ten times, right?"

"To be exact, it is..." Old Bach was stunned and looked at Roland again: he was dressed in black, with clean leather shoes and a cloak, and a gold button on his shoulder.

The cane was exquisitely lacquered, the hair was neatly combed, and the cuffs were spotless.

There seems to be a ring on the little finger...

This is not a person who is short of money.

"you are…"

"I haven't been introduced yet." Roland smiled and stretched out his hand. "The official executive officer of the Tribunal, Roland Collins."

"Black Wu--" a policeman suddenly whispered. Old Butch turned around and yelled, "Shut up your ass... Get in there!" He winked at his nephew, and then, when he turned back, his face was only respectful.

He gave Roland a firm bow.

standard.

Maybe he only did that in the early days of his police career.

"Sir, can I take a look... Yes, I do. Don't mind." He saw Roland unbutton his collar, revealing the golden badge pinned on his chest under his cloak, and then he continued: "...There have been several murders in the East District recently."

"The body...is not quite complete."

He gave Roland a brief account of the situation, saying that Scotland Yard could not handle the case and was preparing to transfer the matter to the court.

"We have some guesses, but you know that they are just a bunch of kids who haven't grown up yet. If something goes wrong in the case, it might delay the important things of the big shots... so."

Roland understood all his hints.

"You're a pretty good leader."

Rose put her hands behind her back and swept one shoe across the ground.

Old Bachi no longer dared to speak like that, and smiled awkwardly: "I doubt them, but they probably can't do it. If it's delayed..."

"I understand, Mr. Budge." Roland nodded. "You have considered it carefully. Please transfer to the office of Fernandez de Vinson of the Tribunal. By the way, can you tell me more about it?"

Old Butch was not without doubts.

The person who contacted him said: This was too crude a crime, and it was not the work of a mentally ill murderer who acted alone - usually, fewer people means less evidence left behind.

"You know, we deal with gangs all the time. The Gold Teeth..."

Old Budge mentioned this gang, currently the largest one active in the South Side.

"We have been covering up for a group of people recently. If my people were even half a minute late, they would no longer be able to distinguish anything from the scene... We are lucky today."

He raised his thumb and shook it over his shoulder.

"A group of women."

"Someone witnessed their intrusion...at night."

Roland glanced at his Snitch.

Rose is just like old Butch.

I've also been eyeing that group of ladies who are running around like rats in the East End lately -

John Shelley, Madeleine Terry.

And her girls.

This group of people gathered around the puzzle box, but they were not just there for it.

"Some of them are fifty years old, and some are girls who are not yet adults..."

On the return carriage, Rose was worried about this.

She has two men who didn't come back today.

Otherwise, she wouldn't have tracked him down personally and been scolded by the old man.

"I'm afraid I'll have to report this, Rose. I don't think this is right."

Roland leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes as the car rocked.

There can be attacks in London, such as the low-ring ritualists in the salon.

Ghosts can exist, and there can be nobles who trade with cultists.

But it should never happen that a group of cultists openly hunt mortals, eat their flesh, walk away, and do the same thing again the next day.

Cultists are not fools.

They will soon be sent to the courtroom to warm themselves by the fire.

What's more, the people who participated in cannibalism this time were most likely led by John Shelley and Madeline Terry.

A Shelley heir.

The daughter of a Golden Libra Arbiter.

Roland found it hard to imagine how this happened: How did the cultists hiding behind these two people gain their trust?

What does the cultist want?
Pure hatred?
Or is it a ritual with serious consequences?

"Guess who was dumber: John Shelley or Madeleine Terry?"

Rose, standing on the sidelines, raised a more interesting point.

"Roland."

"Ok?"

"You think these two people are of noble status and would not be without the personal protection of the ritualists, right?"

"of course."

"But from my experience - well, Ms. Anne was considered a noble person among us, right?" Rose seemed to be tired after running all day. She leaned on Roland's shoulder and muttered softly, "But she never brought anyone with her."

"Do you often go out alone to pick out cigars, or buy a cup of coffee, or go to the West End Open Square to listen to performances... or something like that?"

"Everyone thinks that big shots have to have protectors around them - in fact, the Gold Fang Gang never tried to attack Anne, it was always her who caused trouble..."

"Honestly, if they do this and are careful, they will definitely succeed."

"I mean."

The girl leaning on his shoulder came closer, rubbed her face against Roland's clothes, and raised her head: "You say."

"is it possible…"

"There are no cultists behind them at all."

(End of this chapter)