Kadian is raising cubs again today

Yokohama is a mess, but it's a good place to fake your identity.

Nakahara also has a natural concern for Yokohama. Neither Shikaji nor Dazai Osamu wanted to go to the city, and Yokohama became their first choice.As for potential trouble, they are not interested in making trouble, but they are not afraid of trouble that may come.

After Lu Jing said this, and he absolutely didn't want to relive the feeling when someone disgusted called him "Nissan", Zhongyuan Zhong also nodded decisively: "Okay, then July 7th."

Anyway, July 7 is really commemorative, and it is also very suitable for birthdays.

"Ah, it looks like we can celebrate our birthday together in the future." Dazai said with a smile while cupping his face.

Nakahara Chuya... Nakahara Chuya's smile gradually disappeared.

"Mr. Lu Jing, in fact, I don't think you need to care about so many formal things." Zhongyuan Zhong was also silent for three seconds, decisively opened his mouth, and said very seriously: "Really, just grab a date, I don't pick it."

"中～also～"

"Shut up, don't call me by my name so disgustingly!"

"I want to call~"

"Hahaha, Xiaozhong is also blushing."

"I'm so angry! Mokona, who are you helping?"

"Mokona doesn't know anything~"

Lu Jing: "..."

Ah, he used to only raise one child and one Mocona at a time, but this time it was two children and one Mocona, and the extra one was a kid with a heart like briquettes. He always felt that the future might be very difficult Exquisite and colorful.

The deer turned his pen in surprise, listening to the chirping of the children and the lop-eared rabbit, tilted his head slightly, and looked out the window at the brilliant sunset that seemed to be burning in the sky.

Tomorrow will be fine weather.

***

Zurich.

Black and gray clouds were densely shrouded in the sky over the city, and the heavy rain poured down, and large raindrops hit the ground with cold fog.From time to time, electric snakes wandered among the clouds, bursting out with dazzling light, followed by muffled thunder, hitting people's hearts.

For most people, this is undoubtedly bad weather.

Under the rain, someone was walking in the old city with a black umbrella.The rain splashed in front of the shiny black leather shoes, but it didn't touch the bottom of the trousers.The strong wind with a lot of water vapor was raging, but it couldn't shake the thin umbrella.

He walked steadily on the gravel road, passed through the old town, and came all the way to the five-story red-roofed brick building by the Limmat River.

He goes into the building.

The concierge took the black umbrella graciously, and said respectfully, "Good day, Mr. Lore."

"Good day." Mr. Lore responded lightly.

Mr. Lore mentioned by the concierge is a man with brown hair and black eyes. He looks to be in his early thirties. He has three-dimensional features and deep eye sockets. He is not handsome, but he has the bearing of a superior.

Mr. Lore came to the fifth floor, a private gallery that was never open.

This gallery is one of his private properties, a secret place that has never been known by any organization, once used to rest his soul, and now it will become an ideal place to lay a foundation.

There are people in the gallery.

Mr. Lore was not surprised. In fact, he came here precisely because he received news from his companions that they would most likely have a new member.

What this secret society of theirs wants to do is tantamount to making an enemy of the whole world. It must not be exposed until it gathers enough power, and it cannot withstand the infiltration of even a single spy.

Fortunately, Mr. Lore has quite useful supernatural powers, which ensure the purity of this secret association to the greatest extent.

Of course, Mr. Lore and others are actually pseudonyms.

He is Federico García Lorca, the Spanish transcendent, love song of supernatural powers.

Now that the supernatural war is going on in Europe, Federico Lorca should not have appeared here as a transcendent who commanded a supernatural army of his own country—he should have rushed to the Balearic Islands, according to intelligence , the supernatural army from Italy is gathering there.

This is a precursor to attack.

If he delays the army to meet the enemy, even if he is one of the few surpassers in Spain, he will not be able to escape the responsibility of his superiors.

But he still came.

At the risk of missing the fighter plane.

For his ideal, for their common goal.

Federico Lorca pushed open the studio door.

The man was sitting in the studio.

Federico Lorca didn't hide his arrival, but the newcomer immersed in the painting didn't look back.He was sitting in front of the raised drawing board, holding a charcoal pencil in his hand, and was concentrating on tracing the portrait on the drawing paper.

It's a charcoal sketch.

A gallery is full of works in his spare time. The Spanish transcendent who is keen on painting and good at oil painting but also loves beautiful paintings of different genres stands at the door and looks at it with great interest.

From his angle, he was able to see most of the drawing paper under the charcoal pen.

It was a bust of a man.

The man depicted in charcoal has stubborn half-length hair and overly gorgeous eyebrows. Even if there is a scar on the left eye from the brow bone to the cheek, it does not detract from the value of the image, but gives this picture too much The pretty face added a touch of sharpness like a blade.

Starting from the straight bridge of the nose, the lower half of the face is covered under the mask.But the mask is obviously skin-friendly, and the outline of the face under the mask is clearly visible. Even with the mask on, you can roughly guess the general appearance of the entire face.

This is undeniably a beauty.

Federico Lorga silently watched the newcomer gradually stop the charcoal, sat on a chair, and looked at the finished product, seemingly unable to recover for a long time.

"Is this the person you like?" the Spanish Transcendent said softly. From his eyes, this charcoal sketch is undoubtedly a masterpiece.Perhaps in terms of skills, the newcomer is incomparable with other masters, but when Federico Lorca appreciates the transformation, he prefers the emotions put into the brush and condensed in the paintings compared to those skills.

Persistence, deep love, guilt, pain, and even a little resentment, the soul sitting in front of the easel only reveals a little truth, and the strong emotions are like monstrous waves, surging and drowning the soul.

What a strong emotion.

What a deep love and hate.

He seemed to understand why this man wanted to join them.

Everyone is like this, the joy when you get it is far less than the pain when you lose it. The stronger the love, the more extreme it will be when it turns into hate.

"...No." The newcomer with his back to Federico Lorca responded softly, with a low voice, "I don't like him."

The man sitting in front of the easel turned his head, revealing a pair of ominous scarlet eyes.The bottom of the eyes seemed to be stained with blood, and the pattern of three windmills was slowly turning.

Federico Lorca's body froze, and the calm and calm side of the past was replaced by shock: "You—?!"

"Not a newcomer."

The man with black hair and red eyes said indifferently, "The person who sent you a message to come over was not Victor Hugo, but me."