In The DC World With Marvel Chat Group Chapter 1376: The Call of the Stars (2)

It’s raining in New York tonight, dim light flickers in the windows of old houses on the banks of the Hudson River, and when reflected on the banks of the river, it looks like candles that are about to burn out.

The soft sound of "Ka Ka Ka" came from one of the old houses, and Rocket Raccoon walked up the not-so-wide wooden stairs, following Schiller to the second floor of his small clinic in Hell's Kitchen .

Compared to his office in Arkham Sanitarium, it's almost cramped, packed like a can, Rocket thought.

The first floor of this small clinic is often very lively, those Schillers are making breakfast in the kitchen, Peter and Pikachu are sitting on the sofa playing games, Natasha is leaning against the door, and Steve, who is passing by in the morning, stops by to say hello The scene of the day is still vivid, and the peaceful days are always particularly memorable.

As well as the golden and red figure who didn't sleep at three o'clock in the middle of the night and landed on the roof of the small clinic. Every tile on the roof of the clinic has engraved Tony Stark's confusion about life and love.

As the figure of Schiller who was walking in front stepped aside, Rocket Raccoon finally got a full view of the place. There are two rooms on the second floor, one is Schiller's bedroom and the other is a guest room.

Don't expect to find any decent decoration here. The fact that Hell's Kitchen is a slum has not been completely changed until now, but when he walked into Schiller's bedroom, Rocket Raccoon was still taken aback.

There is not much space here. After putting a bed, the table and chairs in front of the window will inevitably look like canned waste stuffed in. This is by no means a random association. Rocket Raccoon shook his head. Next, almost every space is filled with all kinds of strange collections.

If four lamps on one bedside table weren't enough—the doctor seemed to think so, so he tucked two small candlesticks between the four lamps.

Rocket Raccoon suddenly felt that it was not unreasonable for humans to evolve like this. At least he now felt that his tail was too redundant.

Rocket Raccoon turned his head and saw that it was a gorgeously decorated easter egg. He wanted to step forward to touch the glittering golden decoration, so he picked up the egg with one hand and put it on the last shelf on the top shelf next to it. In a corner, Schiller said with satisfaction: "Faberge egg, very good, isn't it?"

"If the obsessive-compulsive disorder you mentioned before is a disease that can keep your house tidy, then I really hope you have this disease. This place is like a big maze to me." Rocket The raccoon looked around, and had to move his legs carefully, for fear that he would run into something terrible again.

It is very possible that there must be some dangerous items in the doctor's strange collection, and what is more dangerous than that is that they are very expensive. If they are broken, they will sell him. I can't afford it.

At this moment, a pair of hands reached Rocket Raccoon's armpit and hugged him. Rocket Raccoon exclaimed, but he didn't struggle. However, when he looked down at the collection from a height, he found a trace of it from the mess. The beauty of order.

Yes, there are many things here, from Faberge eggs to ink bottles of a certain brand in Switzerland, from berets embroidered with bird patterns to knots hanging on the ground, and even a row of patterns that are exactly the same Crystal wine glasses of different colors, when these things are stacked together, it will inevitably make people feel a little blocked.

But in fact, these things are arranged in different categories, and there is absolutely no one leaning on other collections in a disfigured manner, and nothing is in the wrong line and appears where it should not be.

This is really weird, Rocket Raccoon thought so when he was put on the table, but soon something even weirder appeared, Schiller took out a notebook from his handbag.

When Rocket Raccoon saw this notebook for the first time, he couldn't even confirm whether it was the thing he thought of. Eventful look.

The huge notebook has a leather cover, and the four corners are edged with metal. The part of the metal that presses the cover is twisted into a gorgeous pattern. The pure black leather cover has no content, and the edges of the cover are just right. A buckle was smashed in, connected to a belt of the same material, and a lock that hooked the two belts.

[The problem of slow update of new chapters has finally been solved on the app that can change the source. Download the source-changing app here, and view the latest chapters of this book on multiple sites at the same time. 】

If you have to describe it as Rocket Raccoon, this notebook has a kind of simple horror.

Schiller put the notebook on the table, sat on the soft leather chair himself, let out a sigh, and took out a large pile of pens from the briefcase, and Rocket Raccoon recognized it. It was the pen he spread out on the desk in Arkham's office during the day.

It looks well-chosen, and it must have been, because Rocket can tell that they come from different production lines, with different processes, and even different years of manufacture.

But Schiller didn't open the pen to start writing immediately, but stretched out his hand to open the drawer, and took out a bottle of ink and a quill pen from the drawer.

"My God, you don't want to write with the remains of some poor bird, do you?" Rocket Raccoon obviously has never seen such a simple pen, and made a fuss describing it as a part of a bird carcass .

"You are right, I also like this explanation." Schiller opened the notebook on his own, and continued: "I really hope that readers who read this book can also think of this kind of scene. "

Rocket Raccoon tilted his head in some confusion. He walked along the edge of the table to the window sill in front of the table, sat down and faced Schiller, watched Schiller dipping in ink and asked, "Reader? You Who do you want to write to? You don’t plan to fill it up, do you?”

"Can't you?" Schiller flicked the nib of the pen lightly to shake off the excess ink, opened the first page of the black notebook and began to write.

"This is written with a quill."

In Karma Taj's meditation room, Strange and Stark are sitting opposite each other in front of the circular Zen window. The light coming in from the window makes them become two hazy silhouettes .

"But its material science analysis data shows that its history has not reached the age when only quill pens can be used." Stark denied, and then whispered to himself as if in deep thought: "Or he has a unique pursuit, thinking that the words outlined by a part of the bird's carcass will have more vitality."

"Perhaps that's exactly the case." Strange confirmed his thoughts, he changed his posture, put the other arm on the armrest and said: "In that dark age, black magic was crucial to life and death." Discussion, even more in-depth than now."

"Do you think this is a note left by a black mage?" This didn't sound like a question, but rather a blatant denial. Stark looked at Strange opposite and said: "We've all read the contents, and it doesn't record any magic circles or spells, but more like a weird and terrifying travelogue."

"But we can't deny that the content is too dark, like the ravings of a lunatic full of grotesque fantasies after being awakened by a nightmare in the middle of the night, ancient and terrifying."

"We should not pay attention to the darkness, but should explore the truth behind it. There is no doubt that this crazy story will not stop in Colorado, and the darkness you care about may also be spreading."

Strange's gaze stayed on a notebook placed in the center of the table. The pure black cover contained no words, but when he recalled the story described in the first chapter, he still felt his heart tremble.

"On an ordinary summer evening in the Southwest, I came home to Englewood, a place I hadn't been in in years, but more than nostalgic was to visit my mother's Grave.

It's a good thing that I'm inconspicuous here. It's been a long time since that horrific accident. People in the town have forgotten a lot of things, and I'm very different.

This is the best news for me, because I understand that what I am going to do this time should not attract too many people's attention, those horrors should not be too close to ordinary people, but I have the desire to pursue it reason.

It was dark and the afterglow of the sun was pressed under the last branch of the spruce tree. I embarked on the road to the cemetery. The cars on the road were driving in the opposite direction to me. I knew they were Think I'm a freak, the evening is not a good time to remember loved ones.

…

I came to the cemetery on the outskirts of Englewood, where my mother was buried. Pretty good, better than the two dead farmhands and the cow.

Going all the way to the inside of the cemetery, I saw two skylarks resting on my mother's tombstone. The little birds are all over Englewood and even the whole of Colorado. They are elves of the Rocky Mountains, but I am not.

Standing in front of my mother's grave, I began to uncontrollably think about the past days, and the most confusing and frightening thing for me is ~IndoMTL.com~This hardworking woman has repeatedly emphasized to me that I was born At that moment, the stars in the sky formed a straight line, as if they were calling to me, let me go back to them, maybe I should have done so earlier.

I don't know how long it took, the rain also fell, I saw a black figure running through the dense bushes, I put my hand on the gun at my waist, but I found that I was making a fuss, that's just It's a small animal.

Forgive me, but this furry, fang-toothed critter insists on image rights and won't allow me to include any details of his appearance in my book.

Yes, I had to ask his permission, because when he finally came running out of the bushes and in front of me, he opened his mouth and uttered a standard Southern flavored English, say hello to me.

This sounds like the beginning of a fairy tale, but anyone who thinks this way must be deeply surprised by the chaos and darkness that I will plunge into next. Is this a fascinating story? Maybe not..."

Colorado, in a cemetery on the outskirts of Englewood, a young man was standing by the grave. Two skylarks had just flapped their wings and flew into the sky. An inconspicuous black shadow rushed past the bushes behind the grave, at a fast speed, but It still caught the attention of young people.

He put his hand on the gun at his waist, but soon realized that it was just a small animal passing by, he sighed softly, stretched out his hand to stroke his blond hair, and complained that he was nervous And too sensitive.

When the complaints continued, the raccoon jumped to the top of the tombstone, stretched out a paw, and said to him in southern English:

"Hello, Peter Quill."