The Secret Code of Monsters.

Chapter 807 Ch806 Jim Walker's Past

Chapter 807 Ch.806 Jim Walker's Past

Unfortunately.

Roland's "nostalgia" was not triggered.

This is normal.

Because it is 'with probability', not 'absolutely every time' - if he can make his wish come true, he will be the protagonist of the story.

He obviously isn't.

Besides, the protagonist in the story also has to go through a lot of hardships... right?

"You are no longer qualified. The protagonists in most stories are cultists."
-
me too.

"I mean the real thing."
-
for real?
"Hmm, for example, you are born into a cult, and are chased and forced to hide from others. You keep climbing up the ladder in the pursuit, and every time you kill the pursuers, you gain adventures, comrades, and lovers... That kind of thing."
-
What does it mean to be born a cultist?
-
I don't think babies are guilty of anything.

"I don't mean the baby."

The flames formed a strange smiling face.
-
About the Golden Boots…

"You can't see anything, right?"

The characters swayed left and right with a gloating look.

"I don't know, then you don't know."
-
This is the knowledge that Miss Nina gave you.

"Bullshit! You would have already--"
-
what?
"I want to eat meat."
-
Sooner or later you will beg me to listen.

"Oh, really?"

Roland didn't want to pay any attention to it.

--so.

and so.

I want to know the origin and function of the Golden Boot.

I have to ask people who have used these boots...

Right?

Mr. Jim P. Walker.

He lost that foot.

Obviously the "price".

"Tell me the truth, Mr. Walker. Otherwise, I'll let you go." Roland waved his boots in front of him. In the moonlight, Roland seemed to see a slap mark on his face.

Half of my face was swollen.

"Who hit you?"

Jim Walker stared at Roland in silence.

Are you asking me to tell you the answer?

“…I hit it myself.”

"It's unlucky. Come on, tell us a story about those two scimitars, these boots, and you - the story of you and Iron Lily. If it satisfies me..."

Jim Walker pulled his arm and bared his teeth: "You can let me go? Or give me my head back?"

"If you know my uniform, you'll understand that my current treatment is good enough." Roland used his free hand to tap his raised collar. "It seems that you are not really well-informed."

Jim Walker was 'abused' all night.

Finally, he could no longer suppress the anger in his heart and it exploded in an instant.

"you this--"

He stared at the golden-eyed man in front of him, his eyes sliding down along his chin.

Slide across the button.

Badge.

A pair of black trousers without a single wrinkle.

Leather boots.

The solemn feeling that came over me under the moon mist pierced through my vague memories like an ice needle.

A word popped into his head and began to whip his flaming ass.

"you this--"

The sound stopped suddenly.

Then there was a long silence.

"'This one of mine'?"

Roland blinked.

"…I mean: God, you are so handsome, I have never seen a man who can compare to you…" Jim Walker forced a trace of flattery from his angry face: "Well, as long as you ask me, I will answer, and I will never tie my hands and feet - do I dare to lie to you?"

"The name of an executive officer is scarier than that of a cultist, isn't it?"
-
Don't talk to me.

"Okay, wait."

Roland rolled his eyes silently and shook the boots off.

It started squeaking again.

"...I'll tell you everything. Sir, I only ask you to spare my life, spare a life for a poor man who has not violated the law or morality and is just trying to survive... I have worked hard for ten years to get to where I am today - I can only begin to hope for a house, a wife and children. I want to have a family and a peaceful life..." "You won't be so vicious as to close the door at the last minute, right?"

"I swear on the most precious thing in my body: I am definitely not a cultist!"

This long paragraph is much more sincere than the previous ones.

Roland dropped his hands.

"Tell me about it."

Jim P. Walker.

His original name was indeed Lloyd.

He has been traveling around with his mother since he was very young.

a chance.

This gave him and his mother real hope of finding a place to stay: a textile factory in the suburbs of London was recruiting people, and it did not have the restrictions of other factories - although the weekly salary was a little lower, it provided food and accommodation, and occasionally some old clothes.

This is almost a gift from fate.

then.

Little Jim, who was still young and sensible, followed his mother to this textile factory.

A brand new hell.

at first.

Just like any other textile mill.

The women workers had to learn how to use the machines, the complicated machines that spun several times faster than human hands. They had to learn how to use and repair them. Some of the smarter ones could even use their ears to tell which part was broken.

Jim's mother was one of those clever people.

She was talkative, generous and willing to help those who were 'clumsy'. Within a few months, she became a famous 'quick hand' in the textile factory.

They ate and lived together, and in their spare time talked about men, clothes, jewelry, children, family and the future, just like countless ordinary people in the factory. Little Jim was soon favored by the weavers because of his mother.

until a certain day.

The day of the illness.

“…To this day, I can’t forget that day.”

Jim Walker's expression showed fear and hatred.

That day.

Many weavers felt 'hungry' earlier than usual.

This "hunger" did not come from the stomach and intestines, but rumbled in the brain: they were like a group of mice that were invisible to the naked eye, squeaking and drilling in and out of the flesh and blood of the female weavers, biting them and making them wail in pain, and scratching their skin and flesh until they bled.

“…There was blood everywhere.”

Jim Walker whispered.

"And crazy screaming."

Also that day.

This group of female weavers who had been "carefully selected" and had "no entry threshold" discovered that they were not allowed to leave the factory.

Yes.

They had no relatives in London, and there were no characters among them who would be in trouble if they were missing: these working girls were like rats in a gutter, and the death of one or two made no difference whether the whole group died.

No one will notice.

At least in the short term, that's true.

"We're locked up."

Jim Walker said.

"It was not until later that I understood. The work of those women workers was not weaving, but..."

"Testing the medicine."

The sumptuous lunch that made them happy was actually a plate of poison that drove them crazy.

Their flesh was drying up, and their fruits no longer made their sore waists complain. Every day, every lunch, Jim Walker could see a green eye.

"Maybe it's my luck."

Jim Walker smiled wryly.

"They tested the drugs in batches. And our batch happened to be women - that's how I escaped, sir."

He couldn't describe to Roland what life was like in the factory back then.