Chapter 1359

It rained in New York tonight, and the windows of the old houses on the banks of the Hudson River flickered with hazy light, reflecting on the river bank like candlelight about to burn out.

A light "ka-ka-ka" sound came from one of the older houses. Rocket Raccoon walked up the narrow wooden stairs cautiously, following Schiller to the second floor of his Hell's Kitchen clinic.

Compared to his office at Arkham Asylum, this place can simply be called narrow and cramped, crowded like a can, Rocket Raccoon thought.

The first floor of this little clinic is often very lively. The scenes of Schiller making breakfast in the kitchen, Peter and Pikachu sitting on the sofa playing games, Natasha leaning against the door, and Steve passing by on a morning run asking for greetings are still vivid. Peaceful days are always particularly nostalgic.

And that golden-red figure that didn't sleep at three in the morning and landed on the roof of the clinic. Every tile on the roof of the clinic carved Tony Stark's confusion about life and love.

As Schiller, who was walking in front, moved aside, Rocket Raccoon finally got a full view of the whole picture here. 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 completely changed until now, but walking into Schiller's bedroom still surprised Rocket Raccoon.

The space here is not large. After putting a bed, the table and chairs in front of the window are inevitably like canned waste thrown in. This is definitely not an unprovoked association. Rocket Raccoon shook his head. Here, from top to bottom, almost every space is filled with all kinds of strange collectibles.

If putting four table lamps on a bedside table is not crowded enough—it seems that this doctor thinks so, so he also stuffed two small candlesticks in the middle of the four table lamps.

Rocket Raccoon suddenly felt that it was not unreasonable for humans to evolve like this. At least he now feels that his tail is really redundant. As soon as he turned around, the tip of his tail knocked over something.

Rocket Raccoon turned his head and saw that it was a gorgeously decorated egg. He wanted to reach out and touch the glittering decoration, but a hand picked up the egg directly and put it in the only remaining corner of the top grid of the bookshelf. Schiller also said very satisfied: "Fabergé egg, very good, right?"

"If the obsessive-compulsive disorder you mentioned before is a disease that can keep your room tidy, then I really hope you have this disease. This is like a big maze to me." Rocket Raccoon looked around, having to step carefully, for fear that he would touch something extraordinary again.

This is very possible. Among the strange collectibles of this doctor, there must be some dangerous goods, and what is more dangerous than that is that they are all very expensive. If they are broken, he can't afford to pay even if he is sold.

At this moment, a pair of hands reached into Rocket Raccoon's armpits and picked him up. Rocket Raccoon exclaimed, but did not struggle. But when looking down at these collections from a high position, he found a trace of orderly beauty from the mess.

Yes, there are many things here, from Fabergé eggs to ink bottles of a certain Swiss brand, from berets embroidered with bird patterns to ropes hanging on the ground, and even a row of crystal wine glasses with the same pattern but different colors. These things are piled together, which inevitably makes people feel a bit blocked.

But in fact, these things are arranged in categories. There is no one that is not in shape leaning on other collections. There is no one that stands in the wrong team and appears where it shouldn't appear.

This is really strange, Rocket Raccoon thought so when he was put on the table, but soon more strange things appeared. Schiller took out a notebook from his handbag.

Rocket Raccoon couldn't confirm whether it was the thing he thought of when he first saw this notebook. They are all a collection of text used for recording, because its appearance looks like it can do more things.

The huge notebook has a leather cover, and the four corners are wrapped with metal. The part of the metal pressing the cover is twisted into gorgeous patterns. The pure black leather cover has no content. The edge of the cover is just right hammered into a lock, connected to a leather belt of the same material and a lock hanging on the two leather belts.

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If Rocket Raccoon had to describe it, this notebook carries a kind of simple terror.

Schiller put the notebook on the desktop, sat on the soft leather chair himself, and let out a sigh. He took out a pile of pens from his briefcase. Rocket Raccoon recognized that they were the pens that were spread out on the Arkham office table during the day.

It looks like it has been carefully selected, it must be very careful, because Rocket Raccoon can see that they should come from different production lines, use different processes, and even the year of manufacture is different.

But Schiller didn't open the pen to write immediately, but reached out to open the drawer, took out a bottle of ink and a quill from the drawer.

"My god, you don't want to use the remains of some poor bird to write, do you?" Rocket Raccoon obviously hadn't seen such a simple pen, and made a fuss about describing it as part of a bird's corpse.

"You are really right, I also like this explanation very much." Schiller opened the notebook on his own, and then said: "I really hope that readers who see this book can also associate with such scenes."

Rocket Raccoon tilted his head a bit puzzled. He walked to the windowsill along the edge of the table and sat down face-to-face with Schiller, watching Schiller dip the ink and asked: "Reader? Are you trying to write a letter to someone? You don't intend to fill it up, do you?"

"Can't I?" Schiller flicked the nib gently, shook off the excess ink, opened the first page of the black notebook and began to write.

"This is written with a quill."

In the meditation room of Kamar-Taj, Strange and Stark sat opposite each other in front of the circular Zen window, one on the left and one on the right. The light coming through the window made them two silhouettes with somewhat hazy outlines.

"But its material analysis data shows that its history did not reach the era when only quills could be used." Stark denied, and then like falling into deep thought, whispered to himself: "Or he has a unique pursuit, believing that words outlined with part of a bird's corpse will be more vital."

"Perhaps that is the case." Strange confirmed his idea. He changed his posture, leaned his other arm on the armrest and said: "In that dark era, the exploration of life and death by black magic was even deeper than it is now."

"Do you think this is a notebook left by a black magician?" This didn't sound like a question, but rather a naked denial. Stark looked at Strange opposite and said: "We have all read the content inside. It doesn't record any magic circles or spells, but more like a strange and terrifying travelogue."

"But we cannot deny that the content is too dark, like the babble of a madman with a brain full of grotesque fantasies waking up from a nightmare in the middle of the night, ancient and terrifying."

"We shouldn't focus on the darkness, but should explore the truth behind it. There is no doubt that this crazy story will not stop at Colorado, and the darkness you care about may also be spreading out."

Strange's gaze stayed on a notebook placed in the center of the table. The pure black cover had no text, 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 returned to my home in Englewood. I haven't been back here for many years, but the thing more necessary to do than missing it is to see my mother's grave.

I am not conspicuous here, which is a good thing. A long time has passed since that shocking accident, and the people in the town have forgotten a lot of things, and I am also very different.

For me, this is the best news, because I understand that what I am going to do this time should not attract too much attention. Those horrors should not be too close to ordinary people, but I have reasons to pursue it.

When the sky was slightly dark and the afterglow of the sun was pressed under the last branch of the spruce tree, I stepped on the road to the cemetery. The cars on the road were driving in the opposite direction to me. I know they think I am a freak. Evening is not a good time to cherish the memory of relatives.

I came to the cemetery on the outskirts of Englewood, where my mother is buried. Her death was not enough to be told to outsiders, so she was buried in the edge of the grave when she was buried. I think this is also good, better than the two farm helpers and a cow who died.

Walking toward the inside of the cemetery, I saw two larks landing on my mother's tombstone. Small birds are all over Englewood and even the entire Colorado. They are the elves of the Rocky Mountains, but I am not.

Standing in front of my mother's grave, I began to uncontrollably recall the past days, and the most confusing and terrifying thing is that this hardworking woman emphasized to me many times that when I was born, the stars in the sky were connected into a straight line, as if calling to me, letting me return to them. Perhaps I should have done this long ago.

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

Please forgive me, this furry, sharp-toothed small animal insisted that he had image rights, so he did not allow me to involve any details of his appearance in my work.

Yes, I must get his permission, because when he finally ran out of the bushes and came to me, he opened his mouth, said a standard English with some southern flavor, and greeted me.

This sounds like the beginning of a fairy tale, but anyone who thinks so will definitely feel deeply surprised by the chaotic darkness I am trapped in next. Is this a fascinating story? Perhaps not..."

In the cemetery on the outskirts of Englewood, Colorado, a young man stood beside the grave. Two larks had just flapped their wings and flew to the sky. An inconspicuous black shadow darted past the bushes behind the grave, moving fast, but still attracted the young man's attention.

He pressed his hand on the gun at his waist, but soon realized that it was just a small animal passing by. He sighed gently, reached out and stroked his golden hair, complaining that he was too sensitive because of nervousness.

The complaint lasted until this raccoon jumped and jumped to the top of the tombstone, stretched out a claw, and said to him in English with a southern flavor:

"Hello, Peter Quill."