The Secret Code of Monsters

Chapter 737 Ch.736 Acting School

When a confrontation occurs, the "field" between ritualists will become a huge vortex that constantly devours the "secrets" - this is an arms race that both sides must continue to invest in, and no one is willing to fall behind.

If you don't want to be at the mercy of your enemies: fight sharks in the sea and engage eagles in the sky.

Then you need to release the same power to bring yourself favorable terrain and environment.

Although most ritualists do not attach importance to the "scene".

Because apart from blocking the enemy (or countering the blockade), it does not actually bring much advantage to one's side or cause much trouble to the enemy - this huge consumption is not as direct and effective as a bullet or a few secret techniques.

In esotericism, there are "walls" that allow ritualists to resist material damage, and "thorns" that deal invisible blows to the enemy, but the "field" is not given much attention.

In other words, these techniques that consume a lot of "secrets" are not very popular.

They can be a surprise at a critical moment, but they will never become a regular on the table.

"I think I told you not to mess with us."

Fernandez clenched his fists and grinned.

As the "field" unfolded, the space around him and behind him began to distort slightly and disorderly, like the air on fire.

This effectively prevented the spread of the moss, which was becoming increasingly colorful.

"In theory, there's a reason why we don't want to believe every word the executive says." Westwick smiled, and some green blood bulged and connected like spider webs on the surface of his skin.

He was about to take a step forward when he seemed to have discovered something. He frowned, bent over, and quickly rolled to the side.

In an instant.

The mud under my feet exploded into an ice flower half a person's height.

The frost froze the potholes along the uneven stones, forming a small layer of ice in their place.

Ice trap.

The "Hunter" of the second ring of Holy Flame has the ability to create traps.

Many ritualists who trust their eyes too much are more likely to lose their legs.

Bang!

As the gunshots rang out, the battle truly began.

"After this time, you will understand how foolish it is to choose to confront the Holy Flame head-on."

The bullets drove the gray-haired man into a brick house beside the road, and were "guided" to hit the same place again and again - after only three or four bullets, the wall collapsed, revealing the man holding up the leaves inside.

call…

A breeze blew out of Westwick's mouth, with blades as sharp as blades, just like the strong wind that broke through the window tonight and hit Fernandez straight!

Veins bulged on his neck, and his entire body was like a nail firmly planted in the ground. He roared into the wind: "Storm!"

The air flow from the mouth and nose can even make people faintly hear the crisp sound of thunder and lightning.

A flowing man-made storm spewed out from the lungs of the owl beast, spreading in the waking world with its breathing, and collided head-on with the cone-shaped gust of wind carrying the green blade!

The whistling sound turned into the sharp and piercing wail of a young beast. As both sides activated their respective "fields" and allowed them to continuously devour the "secrets", the fighting strong winds also turned the entire battlefield into a desert filled with yellow sand.

This curtain of yellow sand lasted for a long time, so long that it blew out the gray bones in the dry mud, and people could almost hear the distant sound of camel bells. The broken stones peeling off the weathered rock wall accelerated in the tornado, turning into bullets the size of rice grains, scratching the two arrogant faces that welcomed the storm.

The storm lasted five minutes, maybe ten.

As the stopped pocket watch continued to tick, a rustling sound of crawling came from the desertified land.

Fernandez pulled out the dagger and swung it violently!

clang!

The sandy 'metal' vines lashed in front of his feet like a whip, making a harsh metallic sound when they collided with the blade.

"An enemy that seems familiar."

Fernandez narrowed his eyes.

As visibility gets lower and lower, he has to rely more on his "secrets" and his ears.

call…

The vines cracked several times, and the whip tip exploded in the dark night. The long whip, as flexible as a snake, did not need to be retracted after each attack - they were continuous, and after one whip was finished, it would stretch horizontally in front of Fernandez, and then the next one would follow.

These special modified plants possess strange powers - every "Immortal" who reaches the Fourth Ring can cultivate and pay a high price to cultivate one or more plants that belong to him/her by fusing highly mysterious materials.

clang!

The second 'vine spear' that came at an angle scraped sparks on the blade.

then.

He was happy to do it.

The constant confrontation in the "field" is consuming the strength of both sides, and the attacking side has to bear greater pressure.

But as the vines grow more and more...

Fernandez began to sense that something was wrong.

These vines seem...

No.

He didn't mean to really 'hurt' me.

Fernandez looked around.

Vines as straight and sharp as lances crisscrossed around him, gradually "weaving" into a cage made of plants - he avoided it, but was also restricted in his movement.

Fernandez saw holes forming in the vines: tiny holes like babies' mouths, from which more, thinner, sandy-colored vines emerged.

These constantly squirming, slowly approaching ropes wrapped around his shoes and ankles, tied his waist and wrists, tightened his flesh, and grew sharper little by little with the friction.

As sharp as a blown blade.

Suddenly.

Drops of blood flowed out along Fernandez's skin and were swallowed by the slender tentacles in the blink of an eye.

They bulged and swelled visibly to the naked eye, and swelled endlessly.

"…storm."

The Executor whispered.

The thunder that had been extinguished for a while became active again, and the blade-like gale chopped the blood-sucking and trapping slender tentacles into a handful of dark brown fragments.

He directed the storm to cut off a few lances, but was busy dealing with more vines coming from all directions. For a while, the number did not increase or decrease, but the number of minor wounds increased.

Fernandez gasped and remained in a stalemate with the distant attack behind the dim curtain for dozens of seconds. The "secrets" of both sides seemed to pour down or burn like a waterfall. In the repeated collisions between the fields, the weathered desert was crumbling.

Bang.

After successfully avoiding a vine shot from overhead again, Fernandez finally staggered a few steps and fell into the thorn bush.

The constant bleeding, consumption and constant activation of the mystical organs turned him into a dried-up pond.

"…It seems that I can't stop you, Westwick boy."

He leaned against two straight vines, ignoring the bloody scratches on his back, and took out a crumpled box of cigarettes from his pocket.

Pull out a cigarette and light it.

"But I hope you can give him a quick death and not torture him. That does not mean honor."

clatter…

Da…da…

The sound of footsteps passed through the sand curtain that fell after the wind stopped.

The green weave between the gray-haired man's strands had long since disappeared. His face became even paler, with no trace of the emerald green blood in his veins, and every step he took was difficult.

Their "field" is crumbling.

People too.

Fernandez grinned: "You win this time, kid, you can do what you want."

Westwick turned his head and looked at the three floors of broken glass where Darwin was hiding.

Suddenly shook.

Fell headfirst to the ground.

Bang.

The gravels jumped for joy.

"It looks like you've won, Black Crow." Westwick struggled to get up, supporting his upper body with his hands, looking extremely weak. "...Take your men and the blasphemer who deserves to be hanged...Get out of my sight!"

Fernandez coughed continuously: "…I can no longer fight, Westwick. Honestly, you have done your family name no disgrace."

Westwick also started to vomit, or almost - anyway, he didn't look much better than Fernandez.

"…You too, Officer. Take your men and get out."

Fernandez: "No no, you won, you can do what you want."

Westwick: "Actually, I can't stand up anymore."

Fernandez: “Me too—”

The two of them suddenly fell silent.

Look at each other quietly.

They both saw some not-so-great acting skills in each other's eyes.

"You fucking bastard..." Fernandez couldn't help but curse, "You scheming plant placenta..."

Westwick also frowned: "Go lick your chief judge's ****..."