The Secret Code of Monsters.

Chapter 392: His Name
The cost of lies is high.

At least for this 'Lord of Dreams', the price of asking for her help was very high.

"Find my sanctuary and send me the puzzle box - I only want the box, not the nonsense inside it."

"I only give you fifty years..."

Roland stared at the key symbol gradually fading away in his palm, as if interested.

On the other side, James Shelley just knelt on the ground, covering his ears.

The jumping and twisting doors around him made him suffer terribly. He could sense the danger behind each door and the terror that was almost about to break out.

"You don't seem to like them."

When the girl came over holding her head, her body had become somewhat transparent.

“…The Lord of Dreams.”

"I want your puzzle box, human. You won the contest, so bring it to me - and unlike the boy, you can choose your own reward."

A smirk appeared on the head.

"For example, to allow a person who is doomed to die to survive."

The old man knelt on the ground and fell silent.

She didn't say much to James Shelley, perhaps because he had not been able to touch the door of giant snakes and spiders, had not been invited by the door, and had no possibility of breaking the shackles.

He is undoubtedly also a prisoner of his soul.

Unfortunately, he is too ordinary.

Ordinary means boring.

"...My son, the Lord of Dreams, the continuation of my bloodline, a part of my soul..."

The old and hoarse voice went through a long and difficult choice.

James Shelley was well aware of the consequences of this choice, and he would summon from his dreams a cultist trapped in the flesh who was full of resentment towards him and with whom he could never repair his relationship.

That was no longer his son.

He would be an enemy of Shelley.

But, but.

Did he have any other choice?
He was so old, and just as the dreamer had said - his heart had grown cold and it was no longer possible for him to move forward.

Rather than trying to cure the "dragon poison" in his body, he was more impressed by flesh and blood or something deeper, and longed to leave his bloodline in the world before his life came to an end.

This is a curse upon males and females, a curse that is in the instincts and blood of every living thing that lives in the waking world.

"Oh…"

The head blinks:
"I thought you would save your other child."

"Biased humans."

She said it playfully, but it undoubtedly sounded like thunder in James Shelley's ears.

“W-What did you say?!”

The old man suddenly raised his head, his wrinkled face full of hope, "What did you say?"

"Don't you know?" The girl laughed: "In this dream, there are two people who carry your soul and the continuation of your bloodline..."

she says.

"But one mystery box, only one quota." She pushed aside the darkness, revealing a corner of the still space - in the room, the stunned John and Rose were as thin and quiet as a painting:

"He and she both have your blood... Human, which one will you choose?"

I have fulfilled my promise to you, enemy of the Messiah.

Now, let me see, can you win the bet?
A soul dancing on the edge of a knife.

It would be more fun to see your madness grow and grow until it collapses...

The girl looked at the old man quietly.

This lie undoubtedly caused him to struggle.

He was not afraid of death, and he had already imagined his own death: his extinguished pipe fell on his hand-woven wool blanket, and he fell into a deep sleep in his favorite armchair.

The old house was in chaos, flames were blazing, and the son was probably staring at his body and crying in pain amid the servants' disorderly footsteps...

Or chuckle secretly.

But all of this is based on the fact that Shelley still exists.

His thin bloodline made him care more about inheritance.

And rejecting the cradle of flesh and blood means rejecting the possibility of having many offspring.

John Shelley was the sole heir.

Now, this monster holding his head told him: There was his daughter in the dream? !

"Is this... true?"

The girl taunted, "I am different from you humans. I don't tell meaningless lies."

But if it's interesting enough...

James Shelley was moody, holding his trembling knees, his face abandoning the respect that almost penetrated into his bones. He had seen clean and dirty London, had been exposed to the sun here, had been drenched in the feces-stinking rain, and had killed black slaves, women, children and Goths. You can question his lack of knowledge of teaching and being an unqualified father - but you can never question his courage.

James Shelley was not afraid of death.

"Didn't the young man who received the award with me make such a request?" he asked.

The girl laughed and said, "He doesn't have the mystery box, so he is not qualified."

"You'd better be sincere, Lord of Dreams."

The old man suddenly changed his words.

The heat of the frank words ignited from the shadows, like the sharp red flame that blooms on the head of a match after being rubbed, sharp and dazzling.

"I know the secrets of dreams. If dreams have an owner, then they must abide by their own rules. I deserve a reward, so I want my bloodline to survive."

"If the girl isn't, you're breaking the rules..."

"Although I don't know the price of breaking the rules..." James Shelley said sincerely, "But for a being close to the sky, why should it pay a high price and make things difficult for mortals?"

A hint of admiration appeared on the head held in his hands.

"It seems you have been to many dreams, explorer. Your heart coal has cooled, but your experience is rich. When you go to the land of the dead, you will have no regrets - oh, who do you believe in?"

"…the daughter of hustle and bustle."

The girl curled her lips.

"Well, I swear, for the sake of the puzzle box." She muttered: "If you insist on your bloodline living..."

James Shelley's experience was unmistakable.

Very few dreams will give birth to a master, perhaps a consciousness, a memory, or a tangible alien species, or even an unnamed existence that some ritualists have never seen before.

These very few existences usually abide by the rules of dreams and rarely violate them.

Humans are just strange ants to them.

of course.

All of the above comes from James Shelley's life experience and the experience he gained from his adventures as a ritualist (not entirely accurate).

He is thinking.

As long as, as long as this thing is the master of this dream, and was born from the dream——

"I thought you would doubt that I am one of your human beings...what's that called?"

"Immortal?" the old man asked.

"Oh, yes, that's what you call the immortal souls."

"Of course you are not," James Shelley shook his head. "I have faced immortals, but you give me a much higher feeling than they do."

What's more, immortals definitely don't have the ability to pull irrelevant people into dreams based solely on the "coordinates" of the waking world.

"You are very shrewd and courageous."

The girl holding the head suddenly approached the old man. From the base of her shoulder, a mass of flesh and blood suddenly swelled up, squirming like a snake ant in a tumor, and then burst.

Along with the thick yellow liquid, two slender white arms also flowed out.

Those were her third and fourth arms.

She used the extra to grab old Shelley's head.

She pulled him towards her, causing him to kneel down.

"Two winners, you only have fifty years to bring the mystery box to my sanctuary."

"Now."

"Say what you want."

Old Shelley could almost smell the stench of decay on the girl's head. The two eyeballs close at hand had already decayed and were oozing thick green juice.

The tide is coming.

The mystery is surging.

Thousands of doors around her danced and twisted to the sound of her voice.

"…I have to know your name first." He said with difficulty.

"name?"

She smiled.

"If you want to open the way, you must first open yourself. You and he——will definitely bring me good news..."

"Or, you should die in this history."

"You are not allowed to mention my name to the ignorant. I will watch you--"

Some kind of dry language hidden deep in the desert or born with it was imprinted in old Shelley's head, and the fine sand made his brain ache.

His name.

Saint Archbishop of Rome.

(End of this chapter)