The Secret Code of Monsters.

Chapter 407 Ch.406 Healing Again
The three people had the same destination, and when they started chatting, they found they had common topics (for some reason they all excluded old Collins).

Everyone has different strengths, which can lead to various discussions.

For example, as Rose mentioned before, she is good at seeing through lies.

Kingsley added that this method should actually be compiled by someone with great knowledge, and perhaps it could become a book - when it comes to how to detect lies, Lillian Rose Vansittart is ahead of many people in this regard.

Of course, even with the compliments, some words made Rose feel uncomfortable.

It's really not a good communication skill, Mr. Kingsley.

Afterwards, he said that like Lillian, he also had abilities far beyond those of ordinary people:
It was easy for him to notice details that ordinary people overlooked - not intentionally, but subconsciously, even in places he had not thought of, those details played in his mind like pictures.

He has an incredibly good memory:
He can remember which page and line a word is from a book he read three years ago.

Rose was amazed.

then.

He asked Roland again what he was good at.

Roland said he was good at heartbreak.

"You are good at talking in a slick way, you bad guy." Rose rolled her eyes at him. Not wanting Kingsley to look down on Roland, she answered for him, "My friend has very good hearing. As you can see, he has some eye problems, so his ears are very good."

Unexpectedly, this made Kingsley even more... Can I use fanaticism?
He asked Roland about his hearing in detail, and then said that he had thought about a question. If everyone has a different weight, different shoe materials, and even different genders that lead to different walking styles, then the sounds produced should also be different, right?

Rose had no idea what he was talking about: "...right?"

"So, the same thing applies to sounds - footprints, right?"

Roland understood.

"You mean, judging a person's weight and gender by the size and depth of their footprints?"

"Yes, and height." Kingsley waved his arms a few times, not noticing the white ash from the cigar head splashing all over him. "Height, weight, pace - I've read some information, sir. The taller the person, the bigger the foot. There are some minorities among them, but I think, at least most of them are like this, right?"

"I even speculate that if everyone walked differently..."

"Can we identify a murderer by the depth of the footprints?"

“As long as there’s a large enough database of records.”

He spoke more and more anxiously, his voice was excited - but with that expressionless face...

It's a bit scary.

"It seems my friend lied to me. He said tobacco can help stabilize people's emotions." Roland teased and said with a smile: "You should really be a policeman, not a detective."

The fire in Kingsley's heart came and went quickly.

His shoulders slumped, and his tone returned to its leisurely pace: "Oh, but I don't like those 'hat dogs', Mr. Collins. Honestly, what have these people accomplished besides wasting taxpayers' money?"

"I see, very good statistics, right?"

“You can count them on one hand.”

At this moment, old Collins, who was squinting and pretending to be asleep, suddenly said, "He's right, little bastard. The police don't have his ability - those rubbish who wear gold labels and badges on their hats all day long and hide bills and coins inside, except when they are excited when they go to a prostitute's house to collect money, the rest of the time they are like an eighty-year-old walnut who has just finished a job."

"Do you have a grudge against older people?"

Old Collins curled his lips and ignored Roland, looking at Kingsley: "You are quite capable. You should go to London and open a detective agency or something... I don't care about making money, but with your brain, you can always get into that circle."

"I'm not very interested, sir."

"But you will be interested in the bullshit in that circle," Old Collins smacked his lips twice, pulled the armrest, struggled to stand up, and poured himself a glass of red wine: "The higher the level, the more bullshit there is - people of your status should know this best."

Kingsley looked down at his outfit: shirt, vest, cloth pants, nothing special?

"Don't look at it. It would be strange if you weren't a rich young master." He grabbed the glass and gulped down the red wine like a cow, wiping his beard and mouth with the back of his hand. "People who work in this industry are either low-class bastards who can't afford to eat, or they are rich young masters who have nothing better to do."

"Look at you. You still have time to slowly check your pocket watch. Can you afford to eat?"

Kingsley was silent for a moment, then nodded: "You are right. I have no worries about food and clothing."

Old Collins squinted at him: "You are not 'well-fed and well-clothed', you are 'very rich', don't play this trick. Let me tell you, I have never misjudged anyone with these eyes." "Yes," Roland joined in: "My uncle not only has a good eye for people, but also has all kinds of abilities, such as writing poems, or reciting loudly in the house--"

"Just shut up."

Rose just laughed out loud.

Old Collins looked at the girl who showed her true colors after pretending for a short time, and couldn't help but ask Roland angrily: "How did she know I was reading poetry in the room?"

Rose gasped: "...I don't know...Sir...I just think you and Roland are very interesting...I...I don't know..."

"I didn't tell her anything," Roland said frankly, "but she should know everything now."

indeed.

Not only her, but Kingsley also knew about it.

…………

……

All four of them got off at one station and then took a carriage to different places.

"See you in Innstown." Kingsley took off his hat, bowed, opened the door and got into the car.

The weather in Fork County was about the same as usual.

The setting sun sinks from the dome, dyeing the world as it goes.

When Roland stepped onto this land again, a wonderful feeling came over him.

A fragile and timid childhood, a painful but hopeful adolescence, some vicious or kind people, bumpy waves and a quiet life like a summer afternoon...

Then a letter.

A series of wonderful stories.

a ceremony.

a fire.

A pair of hands covered with scars.

Like a circle at the end of a title, Roland returned to the starting point again.

But neither Falkshire nor he was anymore.

The factory, belching out black smoke, opened the cage doors and let out the livestock that had been bleeding all day.

They held cigarettes, chatted arm in arm, swore, and spit; they held wooden barrels filled with clothes and "odd bits and pieces" they thought they had gotten a bargain from the factory - everything was as dull as usual.

That's what James Jones thought.

Until, at the end of the road back home, she saw a 'boy' who had been waiting for who knows how long.

Golden eyes.

Her black hair was neatly combed from under the brim of her hat.

That familiar face.

Smiling.

"…Roland?"

The woman screamed in disbelief, dropped the basin in her hand, and ran away stumbling like a madman.

Under the setting sun, the two people hugged each other tightly.

Like the skin and flesh on both ends of the wound finally healed again.

(End of this chapter)