Bad woman, am I pretending to be bad?

"Anjou yeast releases trace amounts of acetaldehyde during fermentation, which gives bread a silky, layered texture."

With each response, the Conch Girl always brings a touch of life and a gentle smile to the tranquil arbitration court, no matter when or where.

"Phew, she passed, good girl." Zelena's lips curled up, her voice carrying obvious warmth and amusement. "From today onwards, Charlotte will receive special training as a Swordholder."

"Really?" The girl's azure eyes suddenly lit up, and she grabbed Charlotte's wrist tightly, her heart and eyes filled with joy at sharing Charlotte's feelings. "I knew it. Last time Charlotte helped me annotate the documents, I only half understood the information."

Without jealousy or scheming, feeling the warmth from her wrist, Charlotte's lips unconsciously curved into a genuine smile, no matter how much she tried to disguise it.

Pederina's joy was always so infectious, like a ray of sunshine piercing through the gloom.

"Thank you for your kindness." So she took the paper bag, letting the sweet aroma of honey linger in her nose. "But I think we can share this celebration together."

Melvis gave a soft hum, but a barely perceptible softening appeared in his blood-red eyes. "It seems I'll have to complete tonight's patrol report by myself."

“I can—” Pedeline was about to speak when she was stopped by the former’s eyes.

“The privileges of the promoted.” Melvis turned to the side, the hem of his coat tracing a clean arc. “However, starting tomorrow, Ms. Silva’s special training will make you miss paperwork.”

As the footsteps faded into the distance, the archives room suddenly fell silent. Zelena noticed Charlotte's focused expression as she stared at the bread, a knowing glint in her grey eyes: "You two talk, I'll go prepare the materials needed for the promotion."

As the door gently closed, Pedeline immediately leaned closer to the blonde girl: "Try it! I specially chose it..." She suddenly stopped and noticed that Charlotte was lightly touching the surface of the bread with her fingertips, her movements as careful as if she were handling some precious treasure.

"Thank you..."

It was a gesture of gratitude with lowered eyes.

The lively girl, as cheerful as a sea breeze, suddenly fell silent. After a moment's hesitation, she opened her arms and gave the other person a firm hug. Strands of her dark red hair brushed against the other person's cheek, carrying the scent of sea salt and sunshine.

"Hmph, don't worry, now that you have us, there will be plenty of snacks to come." Pederina's voice was muffled on Charlotte's shoulder, with only warm breaths mingling. "Everyone in the Arbitration Tribunal, and me, and... Ms. Z who cares about you so much."

Charlotte's body stiffened slightly, but she eventually relaxed. Even someone as calculating as herself had no intention of making things difficult for such a young girl.

The last rays of twilight disappeared below the horizon, and the gaslights automatically emitted a warm yellow glow. Pedeline suddenly jumped up: "I almost forgot! There's a festival celebration at the docks today!" She grabbed Charlotte's wrist. "Shall we go see it? Let's celebrate!"

Before she could even nod, she was dragged along the corridor, the light and shadows dancing on the stained glass. In the distance, the voices of Zelena and Melvis could be heard talking, with words like 'spiritual stability' and 'observation cycle' faintly audible, but these sounds faded into the background amidst Pederina's cheerful footsteps.

"They say wishes made while watching the first fireworks are especially effective!" The docks in the East Wing were bustling with activity. Fireworks burst in the night sky, and Charlotte looked up at the countless points of light falling, her ears filled with the excited voices of other girls. "Charlotte, what would you wish for?"

This was nothing to celebrate; the promotion had been part of her own calculations from the very beginning. Yet, faced with such a smiling face, Charlotte nodded slightly, either in compliance or out of indulgence, and spoke thus.

"hope......"

"I can become someone who deserves this blessing."

Chapter 192 Selling and Intimidation

[Secret Research Notes - by Victor Murman]

Charlotte turned the pages of the thin book with her fingertips. Since killing the plague messenger that day, she hadn't properly tallied up the items she had taken from him.

The extraordinary characteristics of Sequence Seven need no further explanation. From the moment it was extracted, it served as nourishment for her advancement to the nest. All that remained were this notebook, two hundred pounds in banknotes, and a bunch of miscellaneous one-time items, such as talismans and potions.

She gently stroked the rough pages of the notebook, the glow of the oil lamp casting flickering shadows on the paper. She sat at her desk; Florence outside the window was fast asleep, only the distant factory chimneys still puffing out gray smoke. Eliza was curled up on her bed in the bedroom, her breathing even and deep, her black hair cascading down her backside.

She should have been by her side, but there were some things she needed to confirm first.

The first half of the notes is written in Professor Victor's voice, while the second half is written in a completely different handwriting. Clearly, Merman had replaced his 'mentor' by this time, and the messy sentences are interspersed with a large number of obscure symbols and abbreviations.

With her eyes lowered, Charlotte carefully deciphered the lines of text smudged with ink.

[Plague is another form of life, and death is merely its echo.]

[Another failure. The plague that spread through the town of Booth easily killed all the townspeople. They hadn't developed antibodies, and were completely defenseless against this new strain. Human vitality is so fragile in the face of disaster.]

[Perhaps I should reduce the dosage of this part, downplaying the severity of the symptoms, so that the body has time to gradually adapt and resist.]

Wow.

Then, turning the page, one finds dense formulas and charts interwoven with intricate handwritten annotations. Most of the content deals with the cultivation and mutation of pathogens, including the human body's alienation reactions, and even self-reflection and regret.

[The seventh inoculation experiment ended in failure again; the subject developed systemic ulceration, requiring adjustment of the spiritual formula. Perhaps the world will view my actions as demonic, but I have never intended to kill innocent people. I sincerely hope that humanity can overcome its age-old enemy: disease.]

[Through past cases of major pandemics, I've observed that surviving humans develop some resistance to similar strains of bacteria. Therefore, I've wondered if I could artificially inject weaker strains of pathogens, allowing humans to gradually adapt to various diseases and develop antibodies.]

[There are no famous or well-documented studies on this topic in medical history, but I think that if it succeeds, it might be called a 'vaccine'.]

From here on, the neat and orderly handwriting gradually became sloppy, and even the strokes became a bit impatient.

[After several studies, I selected an assistant from the medical committee's list. His name was Murman, a diligent young man who would always quietly clean up the mess after my experiments.]

[But Murman seemed to misunderstand my research. He kept scribbling distorted human figures in his notebook, and those exaggerated festering wounds and swollen limbs made me uneasy. I subtly pointed this out to him, but the next day, his sketchbook was filled with even more details—the mycelium wriggling beneath the festering skin, the sporangia emerging from the eye sockets...]

[I've begun to doubt whether he truly understands the original purpose of this research. Recently, I've also noticed a change in the way he looks at me. When I'm mixing medicine with my back to him, I can always feel a sticky gaze clinging to the back of my neck—like a spider watching a moth caught in its web.]

[I should have realized this sooner...]

The next page of the notebook was covered in a large brown stain, the paper wrinkled and curled, as if it had been soaked in liquid and then dried. Charlotte gently scratched the edge of the stain with her fingernail, smelling a faint, rusty odor.

[He falsified the experimental data. Those cases of antibody production were fabricated. The real subjects all died in the third phase. When I questioned him, this madman actually laughed and said...]

“Teacher, you’re too gentle.” The hasty handwriting suddenly turned frantic. “Weakened pathogens can’t stimulate true evolution! Only by letting the plague spread like wildfire can the strongest immune system be selected—”

The next few pages were roughly torn out, leaving only jagged edges. When the notes reappeared with coherent content, the handwriting had transformed into Merman's characteristic, nervously trembling lines.

[The teacher is too conservative. He always says we should proceed gradually and control variables, but how can the pace of human evolution be bound by these rigid rules?]

[I improved the cultivation method of the strain, incorporating some formulas found in ancient texts. The subjects bound to the stone pillars began to grow beautiful mycelial patches, like blooming roses. When their screams gradually turned into the rustling sound of spores erupting, I knew I had succeeded.]

[The eleventh batch of subjects survived 47% longer than expected. Their lungs began to fibrose, but their immune systems showed astonishing activity. This proves my direction is correct—only on the brink of life and death can human potential be fully unleashed.]

The pen strokes were abrupt and the ink spread thickly at the bottom of the page, foreshadowing the brewing of emotions and the turning point in life.

[My teacher finally discovered my secret experiment. The way he stood trembling in front of the culture chamber was ridiculous, like a rabbit seeing a poisonous snake. I wanted to share this breakthrough with him, but he shouted that he wanted to report it to the medical association...]

[Now, he will always be my perfect experimental subject...]

The next page featured a yellowed photograph, hastily secured with glue at the edges. The photograph showed a middle-aged man wearing round-framed glasses; half his face had transformed into a honeycomb-like aggregate of fungi, white mycelium crawling through his hollow eye sockets. On the back of the photograph, written in red ink, were the words: 'Specimen No. 14, survived 63 days post-inoculation.'

Those idiots actually looked down on my research findings! Those incompetent cowards dared to despise me!

The insults didn't warrant Charlotte's attention; the latter half of the notebook gradually shifted towards the realm of the mystical, with Merman seemingly discovering a peculiar resonance between the plague and spirituality. Next to numerous complex runes were annotations such as 'Pain is a catalyst,' and 'Despair enhances contagiousness.'

The most intriguing part is the record of the 'Plaguebringer' ascension ceremony:

[A plague must be ignited in a bustling city, causing at least tens of thousands to die in extreme agony. When the spiritual resonance from the wailing reaches its peak, administer a potion derived from the pituitary glands of the victims...]

[Thus becoming the plague itself, the disaster itself.]

The words were interrupted, but the information above had already told the doctor everything: Murman was nothing but a greedy man who had embezzled his mentor's property, yet he was arrogant and looked down on his colleagues because of the slightest difference, and he did not restrain his desires at all.

Such a fool, even without me, was destined to die under the judgment blade of the Church of the True God.

Of course, flipping through this notebook brought Charlotte considerable gains, including potion recipes from Sequence Nine to Plaguebringer, and even the ascension rituals up to Sequence Six.

This already falls into the realm of mid-level promotions, where a systematic path to advancement is sufficient to secure a higher offer at extraordinary gatherings.

Yes, she had no intention of taking this path. The abilities of the Plaguebringer and even the followers of the Cataclysm are more effective in serving the community and cannot be easily separated from or kept in the dark.

She wore a dark gray cloak and tailored clothes, with a silver mask covering the upper half of her face, revealing only her thin lips painted with dark lipstick.

This is her disguise.

"Doctor, are you making house calls tonight?" Perhaps it was this rustling sound that woke the sleeping sprite, for Eliza's drowsy voice came from the bedroom, carrying the languor of someone just awakened.

Charlotte's fingers paused for a moment on the doorknob, then she turned back with the gentle smile characteristic of a doctor. "It's a special case; it might take quite a while. You should rest; don't wait for me."

She wasn't lying; it was indeed a special case of 'treatment'—except the patients were greedy individuals craving extraordinary power, and she was the supplier of the 'medicine'.

Slipping on her cotton shoes, Eliza leaned against the doorframe, the collar of her robe slightly open, revealing her delicate collarbone. Moonlight filtered through the gaps in the curtains, casting dappled shadows on her porcelain-white skin.

She naturally noticed the unusual attire, but in the end, the girl simply offered a gentle blessing, "Be careful, Bella. I'll be waiting for you to come back."

"Thank you for your understanding, Eliza."

That day spent together had bridged the gap between us, removed the barriers between us, and allowed our emotions to flow through our lips, our fingertips, and through the long nights we shared.

Returning to the bedroom, Charlotte didn't do much, but simply leaned down and placed a light kiss on the girl's forehead, the fragrance of tuberose lingering around her nose.

"This is a guarantee."

For a fleeting moment, she almost wanted to abandon her plans for the evening—to stay by Eliza's side and be the perfect healer in her eyes. But reason quickly prevailed, and she gently closed the door, shutting that warmth behind her.

As darkness descended, Florence's nights were always shrouded in a damp mist, as if some unspeakable secret was growing in the shadows. She pulled down the brim of her hat, revealing only her sharply defined jawline, and her steps were as light as a cat's, avoiding the gazes of the numerous drunkards and patrol officers.

The "Black Goat" sign loomed faintly at the end of the alley, its rusted iron gate tightly shut, adorned with a goat's head painted in dark red. The meeting place for the Underground Extraordinary changed monthly, and this time it was chosen to be the basement of this abandoned clock shop in the old town.

Charlotte descended the damp stone steps, the ticking of her pocket watch in her ears, carrying a dimly lit gas lamp in her hand.

The signal was three long knocks followed by two short knocks, after which the iron door silently slid open a crack.

"Password." A hoarse male voice came from inside the door.

"When the clock strikes twelve at midnight, even the goddess no longer opens her eyes."

The iron gate was fully open. A warm breeze, mingled with the scents of incense, alcohol, and some kind of putrid odor, rushed out. The basement ceiling was low, with a few gas lamps hanging from it, their light deliberately dimmed to illuminate faces hidden in the shadows. Seven or eight people were already seated around the long table, some wearing masks, others making no attempt to conceal their faces—in this circle, sometimes revealing one's identity is both a form of protection and a deterrent.

"A new face?" The man in the dark vest pushed a glass of amber liquid towards him, a meaningful smile appearing beneath his peacock mask. "I'm the 'notary' here."

"Thank you for your kind offer, but it's not necessary."

With a flick of her finger, she pushed the wine glass back into the shadows, and the gold coin that slipped from the beauty's sleeve spun and hummed on the wooden table.

The moment the gold coin stopped spinning, the entire basement fell silent. The bronze birdcage hanging in the center swayed without wind, and the mechanical nightingale within its bars began to chime the time in a hoarse voice: "Midnight—"

"Ladies and gentlemen, it's time." The notary who had led the gathering stepped into the center and tapped the table lightly with his knuckles, signaling the start of the meeting. "Let's begin the first transaction of the evening."

Without hesitation, the tall, thin man wearing a raven-beak mask stood up and took out a glass bottle from his robes. A dark green substance floated inside, slowly wriggling as if it were alive. "The extraordinary properties of a Sequence 8 'Apothecary,' origins not questioned, starting price three hundred pounds."

The bidding began quickly. Charlotte observed quietly out of the corner of her eye; she recognized several of the buyers—or rather, 'Lady Valentie' recognized them. The gentleman who was always coughing was a town hall official; the woman in the corner with a headscarf ran a brothel in the dock area; and the young man bidding four hundred and fifty pounds was the son of an earl.

Ultimately, the extraordinary ability sold for five hundred and twenty pounds. Charlotte noted the figure in her mind—lower than she had expected. It seemed the extraordinary individuals of Florence were all short of money lately.

"Next item." The man in black robes looked around. "Does anyone want to sell or buy anything? Weapons, knowledge, or relevant materials are all acceptable."

Without further hesitation, Charlotte straightened her back and lightly tapped the table. As a newcomer to this gathering, she should naturally offer an item that would amaze everyone and attract attention. If she waited for the enthusiasm of the attendees to dissipate, she would lose the bid.

As the sound faded, needle-like gazes pierced her skin, but she calmly took out a lead box from her pocket and placed it in front of everyone.

"Sequence Seven, Plaguebringer." The clear, gentle voice silenced the entire hall.

"The complete recipe, including the promotion rituals from Sequence Nine to Sequence Six."

The air froze instantly. Several people inspecting goods in the distance turned their heads at the same time, and the sound of a glass shattering came from a corner.

Such extraordinary methods involving mass destruction rarely occur in regular gatherings, let alone when they involve ritual content strictly controlled by the church.

“This, madam, you…” the notary’s tone suddenly became respectful, “Have you verified it?”

"Its characteristics were just recovered a few days ago." Her dark lips curved slightly upward; she spoke softly—

"From a certain tactless colleague."

P.S.: Happy Dragon Boat Festival everyone! Love you all!

Chapter 193 Peace and Safety

The notary's Adam's apple bobbed beneath his peacock mask. He made a gesture, and immediately waiters brought over brass scales.

Its left tray holds seven pure silver candles, while the right side is empty, clearly used to assess the authenticity of the items placed there.

“As per the rules, we need to verify the authenticity of the knowledge.” The candles were lit, their pale flames illuminating the tense faces of the group. “Please place your manuscripts on the tray to the right.”

He took a piece of parchment covered in fungal spots from the lead box. The moment the scales touched the paper, the seven candles twisted into a sickly dark green, and countless tiny struggling figures emerged in the flames—this was a unique spiritual manifestation of the plague.

"Absolutely true!" A gasp came from the corner. In this extraordinary gathering, which wasn't particularly high-level, a Sequence Six was already a powerful existence that most people could only look up to.

Observing the doctor's gentle and calm demeanor, which was clearly different from the madness and madness of the plague messenger, it was clear that the former was not an extraordinary person who had obtained this knowledge through this method, but rather had acquired it through some means, such as killing or imprisonment.

The notary cleared his throat, his voice trembling with excitement: "The starting price is eight hundred pounds, and each bid must be at least fifty pounds."

Such a price was almost equivalent to several years' income for a middle-class person in Florence, but everyone present knew that a complete path to advancement was simply priceless at a gathering of wild extraordinary individuals.

"Eight hundred and fifty." The woman from the Red Pavilion, wearing a headscarf, spoke first, her tattooed fingers tapping out a restless rhythm on the table.

“Nine hundred pounds.” The coughing city official took out a handkerchief and wiped the fine sweat from his forehead.

"One thousand pounds." The tall, thin man who had previously worn the raven-beak mask once again raised the price, making his earlier purchase of the 'Apothecary' trait seem like some kind of prelude.

Bidding was in full swing, but Charlotte remained silent, calmly putting away the parchment and looking down as she played with the glazed buttons on her cuffs.

This was the most suitable solution after she had thought it through. The advancement of the 'Plague Messenger' path of disaster was destined to cause slaughter and would inevitably attract the attention of the Church of the Righteous God. Being surrounded by eyes and openly exposed to the public eye, she would be unaware of the danger she was in. Therefore, the corresponding extraordinary beings rarely appeared in a metropolis like Florence. However, as a commodity, a complete one up to the middle sequence was an extremely rare case.

As for the potions from the 'Nest' pathway, Isabella, the healer herself, was naturally unwilling to leak information and expose her weaknesses.