The Secret Code of Monsters.

Chapter 717: Departure
The Beagle will be docked in Newquay.

We set sail two days later, sailed down the coast, and arrived at the Royal Docks on the north bank of the Thames east of London in three days.

So, two weeks before the ship arrived, Fernandez was going to set off for Newquay with Roland and Shandel.

Oh.

And the blade.

This lady is superb at telling dirty jokes.

Departure early in the morning.

As a damp mist seeped out of the oak forest, someone fastened the last brass antler buckle.

Ms. Blade arrived early.

The camel-colored hunting suit with meticulous stitching was obviously made by a skilled craftsman. Every inch of the design transformed the aesthetics of imperial torture instruments into a sharp tool for sculpting grace. She chose the latter between her travel skirt and the hunting suit, and also matched it with a pair of deerskin gloves of the same color.

She was wearing a pair of long boots of similar color, her wild brown hair was hanging down without being tied up, and she stood at the agreed intersection with an expression that said "no approaching" on her face.

When he saw Roland behind the carriage window from afar, the ice melted instantly.

"I didn't wait long."

Without waiting for Roland to get out of the carriage, she opened the door for him and spoke inside.

"I haven't asked yet."

"A thoughtful lady won't wait for a man to ask first." She waited for Roland to land, then took a half step back and looked him up and down with a look of surprise. "If I were ten years younger, I would take the initiative to pursue you. Unfortunately, I am too old to enjoy the relationship with someone like you..."

"Only meat is left."

Roland was used to it.

"Isn't Fernandez here yet?"

When talking about other people, Blade's smile faded. He brushed his left shoulder, passing by the bronze buckle, and said calmly, "Probably just got up from the bed... on the bed in Hua Street."

The early morning air was filled with the pungent stench of coal ash and feces.

The milkman's tin bucket rattled and clattered in the car.

Roland could see window-knockers with long poles moving through the mist from room to room—groups of gentlemen in fedoras arm in arm, spitting, telling dirty jokes, blowing smoke rings as they went.

These people who are allergic to yeast just can't gain weight.

"Would you like one?"

Blade squeezed the cigarette case.

"No, I don't smoke."

"Cigar or pipe?"

"cigar."

"Oh, I still prefer gentlemen who smoke pipes." The woman lit a pipe for herself, gargled in her lungs with the not-too-cold air, and exhaled happily: "Heller smokes a pipe."

An old morning newspaper with a picture of the Queen's profile fell into the mud, and her face showed traces of being run over by wheels.

"Shelley's pipe."

She finished her cigarette in a few gulps and lit up the second one.

"I thought you had to go with Kratov."

"Xandel? We don't live together."

"I didn't say you lived together," Blade rolled his eyes at Roland, "I meant you only slept together. Enid Jutia obviously can't satisfy a man's desire for conquest and possession, but Cinder Kratov is a good choice..."

Roland agreed: "It's just that the mortality rate is a bit high."

Blade laughed: "I can see that she likes you very much. She wants to dig out her eyes and put them in your pocket."

After saying that, he bumped into Roland's shoulder.

"…How does it feel to be targeted by the 'Saint'?"

Roland sniffed the pungent smoke blowing across his cheeks. He raised his index finger, middle finger, ring finger, and pinky finger in turn and knocked on the handle of the silver-wrapped bird-beak cane. "I have never really understood it, and Fernandez has never explained it to me in detail. Madam, what does a saint mean?"

Blade explained in a deep voice: "It means a holy, divine woman."

Roland: ...

She seemed to have the same habit as some women and loved to see Roland make such an expression.

"Ha... it means 'dedicated to the gods', Collins."

She held a cigarette between the corners of her mouth and her eyes swept over the workers' oiled fur-edged jackets.

"A 'ritual' in the church that only the most holy and pious women can perform."

Roland looked at her profile and asked what kind of ceremony it was. "A ceremony that can communicate with the gods," the woman also looked over and winked at him, "It requires sufficient 'dedication' and 'sacrifice' spirit - I don't know the details, and I bet that it's the same for Cinder Kratov."

Dedication and sacrifice...

die?

"Or worse than death."

Roland lowered his eyes.

"So, your path is related to the Holy Cross?"

"Oh, I thought Fernandez told you," Blade shrugged, flicked the cigarette away, and knocked out the third one: "Can you guess... make a bet?"

Why bet again?

"Everyone has a little hobby. A little hobby to deal with this boring and miserable life. I don't like poker, but I'm interested in horse racing and other more direct gambling. How about ten pounds? I guess you will lose."

She raised her eyebrows at Roland seductively, took out two five-pound coins from the front pocket of her hunting jacket and tossed them up and down in her hand.

"Well, guess it in the Holy Cross."

Holy Flame, Saint, Meditator, Craftsman.

Choose one of four?

"You are neither the Holy Flame nor the Thinker."

Blade pulled at his shoulder blades and stretched, "I'm not going to give you any hints."

Roland thought about it.

"saint."

He said.

"You and Shandel are on the same path."

This time the woman was really surprised.

"Quite right, Collins. You have a life-saving brain—but how do you know that, I ask?"

Because every "saint" I've ever met was not quite normal.

Gary Kratov, Chandel Kratov, and you.

"Because every "saint" I have ever met is excellent enough, extraordinary and outstanding."

"No wonder you were assigned to Fernandez," Blade curled his lips, "You guys are all very knowledgeable, especially your mouths."

She moved her boots and moved closer to Roland, speaking in a low voice:

"How come you know everything? You know everything. Maybe you even know the birthmark on the inside of my thigh... right? You little cutie digging a well in my heart..."

Another carriage stopped by the roadside.

Fernandez arrived in a dusty state, with fatigue still on his face.

"What are you talking about?"

"Talk about my birthmark."

Fernandez: ...

He watched Blade put two coins into Roland's pocket, looked at Roland suspiciously for a few seconds, and then warned in a deep voice:
"You'd better not do this kind of thing over and over again in the Inquisition, boy."

Roland: ...

Blade smacked his lips: "You have a problem with our relationship?"

Fernandez stared at them for a long moment longer.

But contrary to his usual behavior, he said nothing.

A few minutes later.

Shandel has also arrived.

She is different from the blade in hunting clothes.

A convenient lake-colored soft skirt and a triangular leather shoulder bag, and a wide-brimmed hat with a stuffed ermine on it (you can never figure out what women are thinking, and in this era, you can never figure out what they wear on their hats every time they go on a date.)
"Good day, all three."

The delicate girl, as if going for a picnic in the suburbs, stepped down the steps and bent her knees slightly.

"What are you talking about?"

Blade tilted his lips: "My birthmark."

Shandel: ...

(End of this chapter)