Alice in the Land of Steam

Is Chapter 1336 the exact same method?
Death always evokes such sadness, but before the sadness comes an overwhelming and unexpected shock, as if it were a plot without warning, a whim of the playwright that leaves the clumsy actors on stage bewildered and unsure how to proceed.

When the serpent of fate gently bit into the witch's second heart, Saint Sharia felt nothing. She considered it just another ordinary exchange in this endless battle. Soon, the dark witch would pull the serpent's head out, let the wound heal, and, as if she had never been hurt, continue wielding her scythe, unleashing sharp and precise counterattacks. Similar scenes repeated themselves throughout the battle, so frequently that the girl almost felt trapped in a recurring timeline, each moment merely a reenactment of the past.

It wasn't until she adopted a defensive stance, preparing to deal with any possible counterattack from the enemy, that the girl realized, in a daze, that this time, things seemed different. One second, two seconds, three seconds... but nothing happened.

It was an extreme, breathtaking stillness.

Snow fell from the witch's body. She bowed her head slightly, motionless, as still as if asleep. If it weren't for the slight trembling of snowflakes landing on her delicate eyelashes, Saint Charlotte would hardly be able to tell whether she was a living person or a statue frozen in ice and snow. But in reality, there was little difference, for the living were dying, just as snowflakes were gradually solidifying into a statue before her eyes—a slow, resolute, and unstoppable process.

what.

Staring blankly at this scene, Saint Charlotte's feelings came slowly and dulled: they had won.

Not only did she win, she also killed her enemy. This was probably the first time in countless years, countless reincarnations, and even countless dreams since the blue-haired girl had memories that she had taken someone's life through battle. Battle was a means that made her sad, and taking someone's life was something that made her sad even more. But when the two were combined, the sadness seemed to break through the threshold and become immeasurable. As a result, the girl's emotions were so transparent, without joy or sorrow, only pure... doubt.

Did I really win?

Did I really kill her?

Is this really... what I want?

These questions arose naturally, not because the girl wanted to know the answers, but because she already knew them, which is why she felt doubt. Why doubt when she already knew the answers? Perhaps this is the contradictory nature of human existence: the answer isn't the goal, only the thinking has meaning; doubt isn't a means, but simply an excuse to awkwardly continue this poorly written plot by a third-rate playwright.

The snow fell heavier and heavier, silently covering everything. The desolate city ruins were blanketed in thick snow, as if draped in a huge, cold shroud. Twisted buildings among the ruins, like frozen black thorns, pierced the pale snow, pointing towards the equally pale and empty sky. The air was cold and stagnant; even the wind seemed to hold its breath. Only the snowflakes continued to fall in large, constant flakes, at an almost eternal rhythm, piling up on every exposed rock, every collapsed wall, and every forgotten corpse, gently burying the traces of war.

"Ah……"

A short, breathy laugh interrupted the girl's thoughts. She snapped back to reality and, unsurprisingly, found the laughter coming from the seemingly asleep witch. A faint smile played on her lips, so subtle it was almost imperceptible, but Saint Charlotte sensed it not with her own eyes, but from the depths of her heart, a sense of relief and ease. If one teeters on the edge of a dream, about to plunge into the abyss of illusion, inevitably losing all the ideals and beliefs once cherished, and can still manage a smile under such circumstances, does it mean… death isn't as terrifying as we imagine?

not like this.

Because she was on the battlefield, because she had witnessed death, because she knew how difficult it was for ordinary people to live in this world, to drift like reeds on the waves, to have their lives as fleeting as a wisp of fire, to live alone in an ancient castle where the sun never shines, to lock themselves in a cage at the bottom of a valley and listen to the wind all day long, to feel their heartbeat gradually calming under the silver moonlight, or to lie silently on their sickbed, healing alone from a hundred diseases... Because she knew these things, she could conclude that it was absolutely not like that.

Death is painful, more painful than losing love and friendship, forgetting one's heart and dreams.

That was... the feeling of having nothing, more painful than having ever had anything.

and so.

"Why?" Saint Charlotte didn't realize the slight tremor in her voice. She wasn't questioning; she just really wanted an answer, even though she had a vague feeling that the answer might not be satisfactory. But what else could she do besides this?
“Why are you laughing, Carabosse?” she asked sadly.

The statue in the snow stirred, and the witch slowly raised her head. Her body and limbs were still burning, the black flames seeming to incinerate all the magic within her body into dark snowflakes, engulfing the world. The swirling snow obscured the witch's face, only her eyes, as deep as the night, remained clearly visible, even evoking a sense of tranquility.

"And what about you?" The witch didn't answer, but instead asked, "Why do you look like you're about to cry, Saint Charlotte?"

The victors should be smiling, and the losers should be crying, but now, the victors don't look like victors, and the losers don't look like losers. It's a truly absurd ending.

“However,” the Dark Witch suddenly felt a sense of relief and said softly, “crying is better than laughing.”

Faced with death, some smile, while others weep. The former are the minority, an abnormal phenomenon, while the latter is the emotion a normal person should have. Carabosse had once desperately hoped that Saint Charlotte—or rather, her sisters, whether the Chaos Witch who supported her or the Order Girl who opposed her—would abandon those weak and superfluous emotions, stand firm in their beliefs, and fight to the end for their respective ideals, even if it meant killing each other. Even now, she doesn't think this is wrong, but there are exceptions. Mortal emotions aren't always worthless. If an emotion allows you to cry calmly in the face of death, then accept it.

Facing death with a smile sounds carefree, but only the person experiencing it knows that it is precisely the heaviest emotion. If one doesn't see the world as a prison and death as liberation, who could smile when abandoning everything and departing alone?
Saint Charlotte understood this principle. She remained silent for a moment, then suddenly beckoned back the giant serpent. The scales of the serpent of fate, like cold snowflakes, rubbed against her skin and slid into her sleeves, quietly transforming into translucent threads of fate, like illusory images, appearing and disappearing. She looked earnestly at the witch and said, word by word, "If you want to cry, I can listen to you, Caraboss." This was her duty as the eldest sister, just as her determination to fight Caraboss stemmed from her duty as the eldest sister—when her younger sister made a mistake, the older sister naturally had the right and the necessity to correct her.

The Dark Witch stared at her blankly for a long time, perhaps thinking of the gentle and considerate elder sister in her memory, but she quickly shook her head to dismiss the thought, because reminiscing about the past was meaningless. From a long time ago, she had learned to separate the past from the present, dreams from reality, and even past lives from this life; otherwise, she would not have survived until now.

"Someone will cry for me."

But it's not you.

It shouldn't be you.

The witch succinctly rejected the other party's suggestion, inevitably causing a look of disappointment to appear on Saint Charlotte's face. Caraboss, watching this scene, suddenly felt an indescribable impulse welling up inside her. It wasn't any kind of emotion such as pity, sympathy, guilt, or mutual appreciation, but rather the natural truth that after a snowflake burns out, something will always be left behind. She couldn't help but add, "Be careful, Saint Charlotte."

"Watch out... what?" Saint Charlotte didn't react for a moment.

Caraboss smiled slightly, not answering directly, but instead glancing up at the gradually brightening sky, which seemed to foreshadow the future of the Ansers region. If she were defeated, the Seventeenth Legion would almost certainly not be able to hold out. The people of this land had finally ushered in a long-awaited peace. But the witch knew it was only temporary. Soon, the shadow of war would return, this time sweeping across the continents, seas, and stars, from the sky to the earth's poles, from the deepest ocean to the ends of the universe. Death would be everywhere, more violent, and more solitary.

Many people will die, and those people will certainly not be able to face death with a smile like I am...

Whether it was due to deep emotion or the worsening physical breakdown, Caraboss's voice was weak and almost a dying ember when he spoke again: "...Not all witches support Tentis's plan. In fact, only I, Fir, and Fafrona are truly prepared to sacrifice their lives for him on the battlefield. Perec and Eve are neutral, wavering between battle and emotion, unable to make a decision, so they simply abandon thought and focus only on their own tasks, as if doing so can numb themselves and escape responsibility. Times and Lilith are staunch opponents, not against the witch society's cause, but purely avoiding battle, always like children, hesitant and clinging to any cruelty. However, that's probably in the past. From today onwards, everything will change..."

"Why?" Saint Charlotte, who had been listening silently, finally couldn't help but ask.

She wasn't surprised that Carapos suddenly revealed the inside story of the Witch Society to her, nor did she care whether Carapos deliberately concealed the "plan" she mentioned as the Eden Plan or a real-world plan. She also never doubted the authenticity of this information. It seemed that trust was an innate thing, even if the two sides were enemies just a moment ago, the kind that would fight to the death.

These two sisters—sisters from long ago—had deliberately avoided communicating with each other during the battle. Even when they did speak, it was a clash of ideals and beliefs, an attempt to persuade the other or prove themselves. Only now could they chat calmly as if nothing had happened. But this was neither forgiveness nor reconciliation; it was simply a sudden feeling of... weariness.

There's no use in being brave in the face of death.

“It means I’m going to die here today.” Caraboss chuckled self-deprecatingly. She didn’t think it was a good thing, but at least it was one of the meanings of facing death with equanimity: “…My death will surely be a huge shock to them. The already radical and impulsive Felix and Fafrona will be even more determined to carry out Tentis’s plan; and whether it’s Perec and Eve, or Times and Lilithie, they will all gain a new understanding from my death. They will realize again that this is a war of life and death, and there is no third way. At that time, you will no longer be facing a few weak girls wavering between personal feelings and grand ideals, but real warriors. Do you and that knight from the Gostaff family really have the confidence to deal with them?”

Saint Charlotte paused for a moment, then replied, "I also have my own companions."

“They…are not enough.” Caraboss blinked, a snowflake falling from her eye, so beautiful it was breathtaking, stunning yet regrettable. “Alice is falling into self-doubt because of the death of the Celestials, Ovira has determination but no direction, Ieta often harbors wishful thinking, placing her hopes on the enemy more than on herself; Rorona’s alchemy is indeed amazing, but her lack of security is her biggest problem; Leticia is brave, but war is not a place for momentary bravery; as for Gloria and White Night, before stepping onto the battlefield, they should first distinguish between priorities and establish themselves…You know better than I do that they are not suited for the battlefield.”

It was strange. She had never been in contact with any of the established powers outside of Saint Charlotte, yet she seemed to know them inside and out, her assessments as precise as a scalpel, dissecting each person's weaknesses and flaws. The blue-haired girl, however, remained unfazed, simply replying calmly, "People grow."

Carapos smiled. "But that will take time, won't it?"

Humans are capable of change, but only in a passive state. Actively seeking change is an incredibly long process. Realizing the need for change, identifying where that need to be changed, resolving to change, and finally finding a suitable method to achieve it… each step is so difficult. Otherwise, how could Caraboss have conceived of using his own death to provoke his sisters into making changes…?

The dying man's pupils contracted slightly as he finally realized a place he had overlooked.

The battle was clearly over, and Saint Xialia had secured her victory, so why hasn't she yet... dispelled the full state of the Destiny's Authority?
“It won’t take much time, Karapos.”

The blue-haired girl smiled, her smile carrying more cunning and smugness than the dark witch's. She was usually serious and rarely made such playful and cute gestures, yet for some reason, it made people feel heavy-hearted and unable to be happy: "Whatever method you use, I think I can use it too."

Give me some cats