Bad woman, am I pretending to be bad?

This is understandable. People's anxiety needs a belief to rely on, and the emergence of enlightenment is just right. It is precisely for this reason that old-fashioned nobles like them, who did not set an example in the rebellion, held onto the wealth and rights inherited from feudal times, and were opportunistic and fickle, were not welcomed and respected. Their continued existence was only due to the hasty establishment of the new government, which was short of funds and unable to redistribute resources. Then, the country faced another national crisis and the flames of war were reignited.

Given the above premise, it is understandable that these virtuous people would rather not fire a single shot than surrender to a country across the sea with whom they have a long-standing feud.

After all, surrendering at least saves one's life. Even if the treatment is unjust, one can at least eke out a living in one's own fiefdom, relying on the old feudal rule to exploit these still ignorant people.

Yes, defeat was nothing more than the loss of sovereignty and national humiliation. The vast ocean separated the two countries, and even as a colony of Hastings, Emperor Rothali still needed some local officials and merchants to provide relief to the people. What good were the exploitative clauses imposed upon him? Separated by an ocean, the implementation of policies at each level had considerable room for maneuver; at worst, they could further extract wealth from the people. However, when the new government came to power, changing the system of authority, what was taken away was what they had worked for their entire lives—the privileges accumulated over generations.

Human nature is always like this: people will only act when it truly benefits them.

“Miss Watson.” The old man’s face was grim as he tried to maintain the dignity of an elder and superior. “This is a military meeting, you…”

"A military affairs meeting?" He interrupted again, the deliberately drawn-out questioning tone revealing no hint of mockery. "All I heard was a bunch of terrified old men discussing how to beg for survival on their knees, and then packaging it up with all sorts of nice names."

"Enough! What do you know, you naive young girl! The ruins of White Stork Harbor are still burning, and the bodies of tens of thousands of soldiers and civilians are still warm! That's not fantasy, that's the bloody reality!"

Fax's old face turned from red to green, and his withered hands gripped the back of the chair tightly, trying to prop up his swaying body.

however--

"Of course I don't understand. I only know that Hastings' greed is endless." The girl's gray eyes remained calm, as if stating a theorem unrelated to herself. "General, you seem to have forgotten that the feud between Plantagenet and Hastings spans generations and cannot be resolved by a humiliating treaty. What they want has never been so-called sea power and trading ports, but to completely crush Plantagenet, swallow every inch of land, and enslave every citizen. The 'foundation for survival' you speak of is nothing more than a synonym for a slow death."

"At that time, what will you, and the family and businesses you are trying so hard to preserve, rely on? Will you become canaries kept in the cages of the Hastings nobility?"

She leaned slightly forward, her voice low yet all the more penetrating, each word hitting the nail on the head, "Or perhaps, you and your colleagues have already prepared an escape route for yourselves, or even... negotiated a price? Trading the future of the entire duchy for a few pledges of allegiance to the new masters on the other side?"

"You! You're slandering me!" General Fax trembled with rage, his finger shaking as he pointed at Watson. "We've dedicated our lives to our country; how dare you, a mere young girl, spout such nonsense!"

"For the country?" Watson chuckled softly, his contempt undisguised. "When the rebels' iron hooves trampled the capital, where was your 'for the country' reflected? Did you close your doors to preserve your strength, or did you waver and wait for the best offer? Now, with foreign enemies at hand, all you are thinking about is how to 'preserve your strength'—preserve your own strength."

"Indeed, when your private property is tied to Hastings' gold pound, when your power is tied to the mercy of your enemies, what are you defending—the land of Plantagenets, or your own crumbling haven?"

Her words were like a scalpel, precisely peeling away the cowardice and scheming beneath the uniforms of these nobles. Many people present turned extremely pale; some lowered their heads in shame, while others looked resentful, yet they dared not lash out at her, intimidated by the power implied in her words—power from the Enlightenment Society and the new regime.

The atmosphere in the banquet hall reached a breaking point; the fine wine tasted bitter, and the melodious music sounded particularly jarring.

Just then, the heavy doors of the banquet hall were pushed open again.

The newcomer was also dressed in a general's uniform, but without any extra sashes or decorations. Only the collar of his shawl-like hair revealed some wear and tear, as well as the gunpowder burn marks that were difficult to wash off.

Her face was cold and stern, with strong features and no hint of femininity. However, she was tall and had sharp eyes, exuding a resoluteness honed by years of sea breeze. Her gait was as if she were walking on the deck of a warship, silent yet heavy as a thousand pounds.

She ignored the various gazes directed at her—surprise, scrutiny, disdain, and even implicit hostility—and went straight to the center of the argument.

“Lieutenant Colonel Rodney,” someone whispered her name, their tone complex.

The unspoken words attest to the difference in their camps. The former was not of illustrious birth, but rather the descendant of a nobleman from a border state. Yet, he rose through the ranks in the navy with astonishing perseverance and ruthless tactics, becoming famous for his courageous performance in recent small-scale conflicts.

"It seems my introduction came at just the right time." The young woman slightly raised her hand, gesturing to the group towards the officer who had just entered. "Weren't you all questioning our ability to resist? Weren't you calculating how many 'old cruisers' and 'farmers who can't hold their guns properly' we still had?"

"Then, please allow me to introduce her to you—perhaps you should listen to her opinion."

Her voice was halting and punctuated. She could naturally satirize these useless mediocre people in the council hall, mock their ignorance and shortsightedness, and expose their selfishness. But in essence, it was simply because the faces in her eyes had no value to her anymore.

However, Charlotte always understood one thing: war is not child's play. Even if you are absolutely certain of victory, professional matters should be left to professionals.

Therefore, she also needs to nominate some skilled warriors to facilitate the implementation of her strategy.

"Lieutenant Commander Rodney. Former gunnery officer of the 'Sea Fury'. Three days ago, during a patrol battle in the Strait, the flagship was ambushed by a squadron of Hastings. The flagship was severely damaged and lost power, and the squadron commander, Rear Admiral Morris, was killed on the spot."

He spoke in a calm and measured tone, occasionally eliciting suppressed gasps from the audience.

They had heard about that encounter, which was said to be extremely fierce, and they thought the participating ships were likely to perish. Everyone had heard about that encounter, which was said to be extremely fierce, and they thought the participating ships were likely to perish, but unexpectedly, all the remaining ships returned to port.

As the atmosphere grew increasingly somber, Watson continued, "In the face of a paralyzed flagship, the loss of the commander, and near-complete communication disruption, Lieutenant Commander Rodney took command of the remaining three ships."

"With her agile tactical maneuvers, she evaded the enemy's main fleet's frontal fire, successfully covering the evacuation of four important supply ships that were also in the patrol area. And—" the girl paused, deliberately emphasizing her words, "during the retreat, she directed the ship's guns to launch a counterattack, accurately hitting the engine room of the new Hastings ironclad, forcing it out of the battle and severely thwarting the enemy's plan to annihilate our forces."

"In view of his outstanding judgment and excellent command in this battle, and the actual results achieved, the military has made an emergency decision to promote Lieutenant Colonel Rodney to the rank of Major General and transfer him to the Old Capital Fleet as the temporary naval commander."

As the words were spoken, scrutinizing gazes swept over the crowd, taking in the ashamed faces and the angry expressions that were a mixture of paleness and rage.

“General Fax, you just asked what we have?” Watson softened his voice, but the power in his words was even greater than before. “We now have Brigadier General Rodney, and countless others like her, who, even in dire straits, never thought of ‘making peace,’ but instead thought of how to take a piece of the enemy’s flesh, how to protect their homeland, and how to protect the innocent people.”

Rodney stepped forward and gave a crisp military salute to the assembled crowd, her movements swift and decisive. She remained silent, but the lingering scent of gunpowder and the prestige forged through hard-won achievements spoke volumes more powerfully than any flowery language in refuting any talk of surrender.

Watson looked at the crowd who had completely lost their voice, raised his thin lips, and spoke.

"The blooming of the broom flower may be swept away by the sea breeze, and it will wither and decay."

"But beneath its roots, there has never been a lack of souls willing to water it with their blood and make it bloom again."

"As for you gentlemen," her gaze swept over the ashen-faced nobles, "do you wish to be the soil that nourishes the roots, or... the stones pierced and crushed by the roots?"

"The choice is in your own hands."

Having said that, she didn't linger. She and the beautiful woman walked slowly away from this corner filled with defeatism and stale atmosphere.

The respectable lie shattered completely with this unveiling, and the choice was never in their hands from the beginning. The blood of the scaled dragon had already seeped into the wine, and when necessary, it would enslave their bodies and minds, so that these righteous faces would truly sacrifice themselves for the country and be loyal to the land.

Chapter 225 If There Is a Return...

Horse hooves approached from afar, and the wheels of a horse rolled over the stone road before stopping in front of a house.

A slender, delicate hand lifted the carriage curtain, the silk fabric crumpling into a ball in the visitor's palm.

As the carriage came to a complete stop, the black-haired woman lightly lifted her skirt and leaped down, the dark blue hem tracing a sharp arc in the damp morning mist. She didn't even wait for the driver to put down the pedals; her high heels landed on the stone pavement with a crisp, lonely sound.

The key was inserted into the lock, but it turned surprisingly smoothly—the door wasn't locked, and the expected gentle smile and embrace did not arrive as expected.

The room was silent, save for the afternoon dust motes floating in the slanting sunlight, as if everything had been sealed away in the twilight. Her gaze swept eagerly over every corner of the small house—the simple table and chairs, the spotless medicine cabinet, the orchid she had given him on the windowsill, carefully tended by the doctor, and even the air still held a lingering fragrance she cherished, a blend of herbs and flowers.

But the one person she longed for was nowhere to be found.

Where is her Bella?

Where are those amber eyes that are always filled with calmness and gentleness now?

The Milan tour was not yet over, and the applause of the audience still seemed to be ringing in her ears, but when the morning paper was handed to her, the raging war was vivid in her eyes, and the fear and worry in her heart overwhelmed her thoughts, making it difficult for her to rest.

Hastings's artillery fire fell on another piece of land. War and invasion—words she had only heard in opera verses—now carried the stench of blood, shattering her brief peace. The fairy of the stage was not a saintly healer, incapable of shedding tears or showing pity for innocent bystanders, but she knew her lover was a selfless healer who would surely go to that battlefield to save the lives of the innocent.

Once on the battlefield, how can we talk about safety and survival? And once we've parted ways, how can we talk about meeting again?

So Eliza turned down all the salon invitations in Milan and rushed to the capital, just to return to Florence as soon as possible, to this little home filled with the fragrance of herbs, and to see her one last time.

She didn't even have time to remove her stage makeup, brush off the dust from her journey, or tie up her disheveled hair. She had only one thought in her mind: to find her, to beg her, or... to go with her.

However, it was all too late.

The quiet little room was filled with books and equipment, all neatly arranged. Only the stethoscope hanging on the back of the chair served as a reminder that the owner had temporarily left.

A lingering breeze blew through the half-open door, causing the orchids to droop and sway. Beside the vase lay a letter without a sealing wax seal.

Eliza's heart skipped a beat. Her fingertips were icy as she picked up the letter. On the cover was her lover's familiar handwriting, neat and beautiful, with only a few simple words written on it.

[To my beloved]

The letter was pulled out and unfolded. The words were calm and unchanging, as if the writer was not heading to an unknown danger, but simply making a routine house call.

Eliza,

See the word as the face.

By the time you read this letter, I will already be on a ship sailing eastward.

Please forgive my abrupt departure; time was of the essence. If you have witnessed this, you must have already read the newspapers of the time. Baiguan Port has been reduced to ashes; innocent people caught in the war are in dire need of rescue.

Too much hesitation and farewell would be unnecessary torment for me, and for you, it would likely cause even deeper longing and worry.

I know your temperament well. If you knew, you would definitely follow me no matter what, or at least look at me with those worried, pleading eyes, making every step I take away extremely heavy.

I cannot allow myself to be deterred by selfishness. The cries there were so real, piercing through the ink of the newspaper and the vast distance, ringing directly in my ears. I am not concerned with so-called honor, nor with national shame or loyalty; I only know that good and evil are rewarded accordingly, and that my life is dedicated to being a doctor, shouldering the responsibility of relieving the suffering of living beings, and fulfilling my duty.

At this moment, that battlefield is where I am most needed. I cannot turn my back and pretend I cannot see the bloodshed and wailing outside Florence. This has nothing to do with faith; it is simply a vow I made when I chose this path.

The time I spent with you was a wonderful gift I never expected. Your smile, your singing, and the sincerity you so carefully offered all truly warmed my heart. I once said that your hysteria had long since healed, and you were no longer a patient who needed my treatment.

Yes, you are someone I cherish with all my heart, someone I love and need.

Therefore, there is no need to worry about me.

I will act prudently, remembering that there is a bright moon in this world that shines only for me, and a promise that can only be fulfilled if I return safely.

The starlight on the mountaintop that day, the scent of the croissant you brought that morning, and your trembling eyelashes in my arms are all treasures I cherish now, and anchors to my inevitable return.

Take good care of yourself, eat on time, and don't forget to rest because of rehearsals. If the Milanese starry sky is truly as clear as you say, I hope you can take one last look at it for me when you take your final bow.

Wars may end, but love endures. When the dust settles and the land returns to peace, I will return safely behind this door, waiting for you to come back with morning dew and roses, to sing a solo for me alone.

your,

Bella]

The letter slipped from my fingers and landed silently on the dusty floor.

Eliza stood there, stunned, her gaze fixed on the withered orchid. Outside the window came the cries of street vendors and the clamor of pedestrians; Florence's daily life was still bustling, yet it seemed as if separated by a thick layer of glass, blurry and unreal.

The person who would gently kiss away the tears from the corners of her eyes, the doctor who would smile helplessly at her willful teasing, the happiness she thought she could finally hold tightly in her palm, once again chose the common people, leaving her alone.

"My duty..." she murmured to herself, her voice as dry as withered autumn leaves, "Your duty is to save all living beings, but what about me?"

Is it not worth mentioning?

Her gaze slowly shifted, landing on the corner of the wall—where the violin case she hadn't brought with her on tour lay.

Pull the chain, open the instrument case, and brush against the cool instrument.

Then she saw it.

Inside the violin case, lining the velvet, is a small flower folded from white gauze commonly found in hospitals. At the center of the petals is a bright red, vibrant dried fruit, likely from some kind of jujube.

Simple, rough, even somewhat clumsy, a stark contrast to the meticulous style of a doctor on a daily basis.

Eliza gently touched the little white flower with her fingertips.

She suddenly remembered the first letter she received upon arriving in Milan. At the end, Bella unusually wrote a sentence that seemed unrelated to the main text: "[The berries outside Florence seem ripe, but alas, out of season.]"

At this moment, a few drops of water moistened her eye sockets.

There was no calmness, self-control, or rational decision-making. That seemingly perfect doctor was saying "I can't bear to part" in her own way, using clumsy wild berries to express her most secret longing.

Eliza slowly bent down, cupped it in her palms, and pressed it against her chest. At that moment, the sorrow of parting could not overwhelm her heart; there, what beat was no longer just grief, but also a gradually clearing, fervent emotion.

Her Bella was going to put her beliefs into practice and to save lives.

How could I, then, simply be the vulnerable lover who weeps at home and waits in vain?

On stage, Eliza can portray countless joys and sorrows, winning thunderous applause. But at this moment, she only wants to play one role well—Isabella's lover.

She walked to the window, her gaze gradually hardening. The Florence sunset cast a long, slanting shadow behind her, seemingly isolating her from the sounds and sounds of the city.

She wouldn't impulsively chase after Bella to the battlefield and cause her trouble, but she also wouldn't just wait.

She will uphold their promise in her own way.

Perhaps, she will donate all the box office revenue to field medicine during her next tour; perhaps, she will use all her influence to raise more medicines and supplies for Bella and her colleagues, and to preach about good and evil and injustice; or perhaps, she will simply live a more fulfilling life and stand more brilliantly on stage, so that Bella, wherever she may be, can hear her safe and shining news.

She waited.

Instead of passively awaiting her fate, she waited with fervent hope for her healer to return from the flames of war as scheduled.

If there is a date for return, if there is, the date of return...

Chapter 226 Uniqueness

"priest."

My fingertips brushed across the bottom of the page, pausing at the beginning of a sentence, summarizing the suffixes that would follow.

"Knowing that its power stems from giving and plundering."

"The core quality is to perceive the sacrifices that are about to occur on the battlefield, guide them to their rightful place, and take the scattered spirituality, pain, and despair into oneself, to plead with the source of war, and to exchange for blessings for oneself and for the army. As long as the flag does not fall, this body will not perish."

"The Compensation Ritual, which involves mastering several ritual magics related to blood and fire, can be large or small in scale, and can extend from a single battle to an entire campaign. The 'offerings' in the compensation sacrifice are no longer physical objects, but can also be spiritual concepts, such as 'the courage of the enemy,' 'the sacrifice of our side,' 'the moment of victory,' or 'the pain of defeat.'"

"Precise sensing greatly enhances the observation of the battlefield situation, enabling accurate detection of points of hostility concentration, areas of high and low morale, and key factors that determine the course of the battle. This is not direct combat power, but it helps the former select the optimal target to complete the ritual, thus dividing victory from defeat."

"Painful resonance, prolonged exposure to war and sacrifice can diminish emotional fluctuations and soothe mental disturbances, allowing you to maintain a better state on the brutal battlefield than those who do not."

Pressing down on the spine, Charlotte gently closed the book, which recorded information from different sources, and then pressed it back into a corner of the shelf.

"You seem quite interested in this sequence?"

The silver-haired beauty leaned against the wall, quietly watching the girl's actions with indifference, just like her own face.

“Ms. Silva, knowledge is invaluable to everyone. It should be an open door, not a locked cage.” Emerald eyes met Silva’s gaze, seemingly smiling. “Understanding different paths allows us to better cope with uncertain situations, anticipate potential threats, and survive.”

"Emperor Rothari seems to be walking down this path, doesn't he?"