This cry of exhaustion tore through the film of reality and dreams. Pen, fun, pavilion www. biquge。 info Oppenheimer suddenly regained consciousness, he was already sitting up in a dying dream, and found himself sitting under the covers sweating profusely, panting violently with his head down. His head hurt even more, his bones crisper, and he not only regained his mobility as cold medicine and anesthetics were metabolized by sweat, but also woke up from his nightmare.

The servant outside had already pushed the door in horror, carefully holding the light of the candlestick, and greeted his master tremblingly: "You...... Are you having nightmares again? Lord Oppenheimer?"

Oppenheimer ignored it, rubbing his forehead as he tried to relieve his headache, and thought to himself through gritted teeth in the flickering candlelight: "That rickety body, that long hair as white as the moon, is all too familiar...... That's probably what Mendelssohn looked like when he died? This kind of dream is getting more and more concrete...... It's just a nightmare...... The name Mendelssohn is dead. ”

"Master, I'll close the window for you, the cool heat of the rain will exacerbate your gout." The servant put the candlestick on the table and flatteringly went to close the window.

"Bring me some more corncorn milk. Oppenheimer rubbed his head and commanded in pain.

"The host...... If you take more than the prescribed dose...... It's going to be more and more dependent......" The servant hesitated cautiously.

Oppenheimer suddenly became furious, picked up the exquisite dagger next to the pillow, and smashed it at the humble servant: "Tell you to go and get the milk of the warbler!"

The servant fled.

The cold wind gently pounded against the window, making a squeaky sound, as if a vengeful spirit was trying to break through the window. In the dark bedroom, only the candlestick on the table glowed, and the dim candle flame diluted the darkness in vain, but made Oppenheimer's body chill in the gorgeous bed.

Because when Oppenheimer caught a glimpse of the candlelight, his eyes were suddenly drawn to the table, and he stared at the table with wide eyes, and could not move half an inch.

He saw a fresh bloody handprint on the sterling silver goblet, and the viscous beads of blood were still slowly sliding in the flickering candlelight, reflecting the brilliance of death on the mirror surface of the sterling silver.

"It's not a nightmare! That cup was really picked up by a dead man!" This thought was like a noose, and Oppenheimer couldn't breathe for a moment, and he immediately shrank into the corner, scanned the dark bedroom vigilantly, and let out a hoarse scream: "Everyone!

The scream alarmed the whole house, and the butlers, deacons, maids, and guards gathered in the corridor like a tidal wave, and the butler trembled in with the candlestick, lest his master be angry with him: "Command, master." ”

Oppenheimer curled up at the head of the bed, biting his fingers and thinking in horror, "No way! The old man Mendelssohn did pick up the cup, but it was only in a dream! That bloody handprint was definitely painted by villains with ulterior motives, and they wanted to murder me! That's right. So who has touched that cup......"

He suddenly remembered the servant who had closed the window. When the servant placed the candlestick on the table, he definitely had the opportunity to touch the cup and take the opportunity to paint the bloody handprints.

He firmly believed in this explanation, and roared in a thunderous rage: "What about the guy who just entered the door?

The butler breathed a sigh of relief, and immediately rushed out and roared loudly, and then two vicious guards carried the terrified servant into the bedroom.

The servant knelt tremblingly in front of the bed with Oppenheimer's milk, and muttered to please his master: "Master, my loyalty to you is unshakable, you ...... The milk you want me to fetch ......"

Oppenheimer glanced coldly at the servant: "Show me your hand." ”

The servant put down the milk jar, bowed his head and raised his hands, and presented it to his master. Oppenheimer glanced at the servant's hands and cried out in horror: "It's you! Did you put the bloody handprints on the silver cup? What sinister motive do you have to plot against your master?"

The servant looked confused, and climbed two steps on his knees, and shouted to Oppenheimer: "I don't know, master! I scratched my hand while helping the kitchen to slaughter fish, and I don't have time to ......bandage it because I'm busy with work."

"Take me down and beat me!" Oppenheimer was relieved, enjoying the detachment of the truth, and screamed happily: "Beat this despicable and sinister creature to death!"

The servant was forcibly dragged out by the menacing butler, and the wailing was cut off in the corridor. The bloodstained silver cup was also taken and cleaned.

The captain of the private army, a well-informed mercenary, bowed respectfully: "I will stand guard outside your door all night." Please rest in peace. After saying that, he carefully exited and closed the door gently.

There was a "click" on the door, and the bedroom was dark again.

Oppenheimer breathed a sigh of relief, asked for another clean jar of warbler milk, drank a little, and then went to sleep exhausted.

The light rain continued in the dim night, and the trees outside the villa swayed with a rhythmic rustle. The dim moonlight shone through the glass on the carpet, illuminating the dark shadow of one foot, and even the five toes were clearly distinguished.

Someone is quietly approaching the head of the bed.

Oppenheimer snapped open his eyes and found no one in front of his bed. He sat up and stared at the moonlight in front of the bed, only to see that the carpet was clean. But because of the dim light, it is not clear whether there are footprints or not.

Oppenheimer let out a shuddering scream, called the captain of the private guard, and checked it around. The captain climbed the floor with the candlestick, and replied with a strange face: "There are footprints everywhere on the carpet...... Because there were a lot of people coming in just now. ”

"Is there blood on the footprints?!" Oppenheimer cried hysterically, "I dreamed of an old man covered in blood!"

"Nope. The captain of the private guard cautiously replied: "You have a slight fever, and it is a reasonable symptom that your mind is rushing." I'll be standing guard outside the door all night and won't let anyone into your room, so don't worry. ”

"Go and see the servant who confessed. When he was almost tortured, he threw him out. Oppenheimer instructed the captain.

After the captain left, Oppenheimer tossed and turned, thinking about the hallucinations of being quietly approached by the deceased, and did not dare to lie down alone anyway. He fidgeted and walked up and down in slippers, looking back at the darkness frequently, always feeling that there might be a man who had died once standing quietly in the corner of his vision. He made up his mind that he would order the captain to keep vigil all night tonight, otherwise he would not be able to sleep.

After a while, the captain came back wiping his hands, bowed his head and said tiredly: "I really can't find any information about the torture, either he has been wronged, or his tone is extremely strict." Considering that most of Oppenheimer's enemies were untouchables, I broke his sternum through the plank to deter his comrades. ”

The captain wiped his hands clean and took the initiative to say, "There may be other people with evil intentions among the servants. I'll keep an all-night vigil tonight, and I'll set a vigil schedule in the future. Rest in peace, Lord Oppenheimer. ”

Oppenheimer was already a frightened bird, but he became timid: "I didn't let you deal with him like ...... before" (to be continued. )