Bad woman, am I pretending to be bad?

“I just feel regret,” she said, but her tone didn’t reveal much regret. Instead, it sounded more like a cold statement. “Someone like her shouldn’t just disappear like that. Her story, the people and things she cared about, the ending she didn’t get to see... someone should remember it, someone should carry on the legacy.”

“Continue?” Ms. Mosang repeated subconsciously, her pupils slightly contracting beneath the black veil.

“Yes, it continues.” The girl’s lips curled up slightly, the curve so fleeting it was almost an illusion. “After all, my life was saved by her, one of the possibilities she sought to prove through sacrifice. And I happen to be someone who doesn’t really like being in debt.”

She took a tiny step forward, closing the distance between them. The scent of morning dew mingled with a faint fragrance emanating from the other person, invading Ms. Mosang's senses.

"A chance encounter allowed me to recall her thoughts, feelings, and emotional ups and downs through pen and paper. She left a final message for the girls who accompanied her like birds, knowing that she had no future. That gunshot was not a coincidence, but a willing sacrifice."

Almost whispering in her ear, Charlotte's voice grew softer and softer, blending into the pattering rain.

"When she mentioned you in her letters, she always did so with a sense of luck and respect. She said that you pointed her to the extraordinary, illuminated the truth of the world, and gave her the ability to make her own choices. She said that you always took the grief of the deceased upon yourself, but never shared it with others, and only silently let that heaviness fade away."

"She said that she was never a cheerful and lively colt, nor was she the warm sun in the morning. She only acted that cunning and energetic way so that you, a lady who is gentler than anyone else, would no longer feel repressed or alone."

"She said she lied to you, not just in the time you spent together, but from the moment you parted, she was prepared to go alone and never return. That promise was not real, and only by sweeping the bed and removing snow in her spare time could she hide her guilt towards you."

The words were cut off, not because the girl deliberately stopped speaking, but because tears slowly streamed down the face of the deceased, splashing onto the tombstone.

"Enough, enough. It was me, it was me... who killed her."

If they hadn't met then, if she hadn't softened her heart and spoken of the extraordinary connection, that girl wouldn't have been involved in the secret, wouldn't have left her completely. Even if that meant there would be no more warm interactions afterward, it would still be more acceptable than a final farewell.

A wave of intense sorrow surged through my nose, blurring my vision instantly. Beneath the black veil, tears, no longer cold and detached, finally broke free and mingled with the icy rain.

She was about to forget everything, so why did she run into someone she knew and was close to again?

“She…” Her voice choked with emotion, a thousand words stuck in her throat, unable to be uttered.

Charlotte watched her break down silently, watching her shoulders tremble slightly from suppressed sobs. She offered no words of comfort, nor made any physical contact; she simply stood there, like a silent, message-bearing monument.

After a long while, until Ms. Mossant's sobs gradually subsided, leaving only faint gasps, she spoke again, her voice returning to its initial coolness.

"The passing of the deceased is not a consolation, but a reminder to me that Miss Watson sacrificed herself for equality and the people. While I have no grand ambitions, I am willing to contribute my meager strength to bring peace of mind to the world, as an arbitrator and as one of those countless faces."

“Ms. Mossant, I am not trying to urge you, but you have the power to change the course of events, and you should not let your mind and body be controlled by emotions, fading into the ranks of the masses. She has left, yet you still mourn the existence of the deceased. You have become accustomed to death, so you have grown increasingly indifferent to it, but she never wanted to die innocently.”

The girl bowed slightly, quietly placing the white flowers and the string of bells she held in her hands before the tombstone, and closed her eyes in mourning.

"Those who are alive must continue to move forward. I have no ability to guide a demigod, nor do I wish to condemn a gentle and considerate obituary writer, but perhaps her only wish when she left was to have pity on the world and to advocate for equality."

She left with only one word, then turned and took her leave, her demeanor becoming distant and polite once again.

"Excuse me, Ms. Mossang, take care."

These words seem indifferent and without any sense of coercion, but every word tells us that it was Watson's ideal and her lifelong pursuit. As her mentor and the one who caused her death, shouldn't Mozambique pay the price and take responsibility for it?

Today, wars waged by power have spread to countries across the strait, plunging countless unfortunate people into bloodshed and tragedy. This is an unjust and aggression, not the revenge touted in the newspapers.

The two situations are similar. Is this black-haired beauty supposed to be so indifferent, just to forget what she has lost and seek a peaceful place in her heart?

No, absolutely not.

Therefore, even if it means deliberately exposing herself, Charlotte is determined to drag them into the quagmire of this war. Facing the undefeated emperor, relying solely on nymphs and that weak fleet, along with Melisandre and the Enlightenment Society, is absolutely insufficient to contend with him.

Lady Mosang, a demigod classified as Sequence Two in the archives of the Steam Church, was both the key to the outcome of the battle and one of her trump cards in turning defeat into victory.

Although, with the former's abilities, if she found even a trace of the broom in the land, she could probably deduce Watson's location in an instant, the black-haired beauty was also a gentle and considerate person. She probably wouldn't punish a disobedient child who liked to lie too much, right?

The answer remains unclear, yet the person announcing the death still stands there, gently picking up the string of bells in the rain and comparing them to a similar headdress in their hair.

jingle......

The wind passes without leaving a trace, only the sound of rain remains.

Ms. Mossam slowly tightened her grip on the bell, her fingernails digging into her palm.

Charlotte Earl...

She silently murmured the name, as if trying to etch it into her heart.

This time, she will not let 'connections' leave so easily.

Chapter 228 The Wildfire

"Sister Rodney, what do helmsmen usually rely on to change course and determine the wind direction at sea?"

Barefoot on the deck, the occasional sea breeze rustled her sky-blue hair and lifted her pure white robe, partially concealing the delicate, flower-like girl.

"In the military, you should address me by my rank, girl. Don't be disrespectful." With a flick of her finger, she tore off the peel of the tangerine, broke off a segment, and after a moment's thought, handed it to the woman.

"I really don't know why Melissand sent a clueless girl like you to the military. There are already a bunch of stinky men on the ship who haven't showered for half a month. With your fair skin, you've never even been exposed to the sea breeze. How can you stand the constant stench?"

Rodney complained, but his movements were meticulous as he brought the plump, juicy segment of citrus to Nymph's lips, watching her bite into it like a kitten, the juice staining her pink lips.

"Remember, fruit is a valuable resource."

Nymph squinted her eyes, swallowed the sweet fruit with satisfaction, seemingly oblivious to the rough descriptions. Her bare feet rubbed gently against the slightly undulating deck, feeling the roughness of the wood and the lingering warmth of the sunlight.

“Because my mother said that the sea is the source of all stories and the broadest classroom.” Her voice was clear and innocent, “Besides, with Sister Rodney around, who would dare to bully me?”

"It's a major general." The beautiful woman corrected her helplessly, but still reached out to tidy up her long hair that had been ruffled by the sea breeze.

When her fingertips touched that delicate skin, even her usually rough movements softened. "Besides, a classroom? Do you think this is a trip to broaden your horizons? This is the front line, where we might run into the ironclad warships of Hadings' hyenas at any moment. I won't be able to protect you then."

"No, I still think we can't let you stay here any longer, no matter what that profound woman Melissand says. Tsk, it's better to have Pussend take you back in the small boat."

Just as she was about to instruct her subordinates to take the former back, her sleeve was slightly tugged.

Looking down again, he was met with the girl's pretty face. Her eyes, as clear as the sea at its first light, were looking at him as before, without any fear, but instead full of curiosity: "That's why you need to learn even more. Sister Rodney, you still haven't told me how the helmsman finds his way on the high seas. There are no road signs, no rest stops, and all around is water, and everything looks the same."

Seeing that earnest and sincere desire to learn, the woman's impatience and worry were strangely lessened.

She sighed, pulled Ningfu to the ship's side, and pointed to the horizon where the sea met the sky.

“Look there, girl. First and foremost, it’s all about the eyes.” Her voice gradually took on a teaching tone. “During the day, observe the sun’s position; at night, discern the stars’ paths. The North Star is the most constant beacon in the north. And the shapes of the clouds, the colors of the ocean currents, the tracks of birds… all of these are letters the sea writes to navigators.”

Ningfu gazed intently into the distance, following the direction of her finger, her small face filled with concentration, as if she could truly read endless information from that expanse of blue.

“And then, this.” Rodney pulled a brass sextant, full of intricate gears, from his uniform pocket and gently placed it in the girl’s pale palm, the cold metal contrasting with her warm skin. “By measuring the altitude of celestial bodies and combining it with precise timing, we can calculate our latitude.”

Nymph carefully held the exquisite instrument, her eyes wide open as if she were holding some priceless treasure. "It's exactly the same as described in the book."

“Finally, and this is what we’re relying on more and more these days,” Rodney patted the metal device with its complex pipes and instruments fixed to the deck beside him, its pointer trembling slightly as it pointed in a certain direction, “the compass. Guided by magnetism, even in thick fog or torrential rain, as long as it keeps turning, we won’t be completely lost.”

She paused, looked down at the petite girl beside her, and softened her tone: "Knowing the way is just the most basic step. The real test is judging the wind direction, using the sails, calculating the speed, avoiding reefs, predicting storms... Every decision concerns the life and death of everyone on board. This is not the romantic voyage in your fairy tales."

A sea breeze swept by, bringing with it the salty, fishy smell and the hoarse creaking of sails and cables. The warship cut through the deep blue water, leaving a long trail behind it.

Nymph listened quietly, her fingertips unconsciously tracing the cold dial. After a while, she suddenly looked up, her flawless blue eyes staring directly at Rodney, and asked an unexpected question:

"So, Rodney, when you look at the compass needle, are you thinking about the direction you want to go, or the place you want to leave?"

Rodney was stunned. Looking into the girl's clear eyes, she couldn't tell whether the question stemmed from childlike, innocent philosophical contemplation or from a deeper insight that seemed so out of place with her appearance.

She was silent for a few seconds, a complex expression flashing across her face before being replaced by her usual coldness. She reached for the sextant and carefully put it away.

“Soldiers don’t think about these useless things.” His tone turned cold again. “They only think about how to complete the mission and bring back as many ships and people as possible.”

She turned around, ready to leave, but then stopped and looked back at Nymph, who was still standing barefoot in the same spot.

Sunlight shone on the girl, making her pure white robe and sky-blue hair seem to glow, a stark contrast to the war machine made of steel and cannons.

"Put your shoes on first, there might be splinters on the deck. And..." Subconsciously, a slightly awkward concern rose in her heart, "Stay away from those rude sailors, and stay within my sight unless necessary, understand? This is the maximum I can tolerate."

Gazing at her receding figure, Nymph slowly raised a pure, small smile.

“I heard that, Rodney. So you categorize yourself as outside of rudeness.”

The sea breeze blew again, lifting one corner of her robe. She walked to the side of the ship, looked down at the deep, surging sea below, and the location, wind direction, and ocean currents she had just mentioned were all clearly visible in her eyes.

Her consciousness is split from that of the blonde girl in the arbitration court, composed of childlike innocence and thirst for knowledge, while her body is sculpted from the flesh and blood of a scaled dragon. She is skilled in swimming, adept at manipulating weather, and can even detect the source of the battlefield by following the scent of blood dozens of kilometers away.

Yes, she is also the trump card yet to be revealed in this battle, a hidden surprise, and the last weapon in conventional warfare.

Chapter 229 Goddess

Charlotte felt a pang of melancholy as she gripped the iron handle and slowly opened the black silk umbrella.

This morning, she was carrying this very umbrella when she unexpectedly met Ms. Mosang at the cemetery. The memory lingered in her mind, and she could only step into her own design, just like always.

Yes, the craftsmanship of this black umbrella, used for sun and rain protection, is far beyond the precision that modern machinery can achieve. It is a product of mechanized and modular industrial processes, and also an inexpensive item that could be easily purchased from a small street shop in the past. It was unremarkable and often damaged in a storm or forgotten in a remote corner.

Of course, that only applies to the modern era when productivity was unprecedentedly abundant. In the present context, it is not something that can be easily exchanged, and for oneself, it is a corridor that carries countless memories.

It always brings back so many memories—those regrets, those things I felt ashamed of and didn't know how to change...

Every morning after the rain, that world-weary face would take this plain umbrella and go to bathe in the coolness, bearing a deliberately disheveled air, to visit the little birds who were troubled by love and had fallen for her. After all, a heartbroken and lonely face always evokes pity and makes one reluctant to condemn, doesn't it?

Moreover, he was their nominal 'lover'.

A slight upturn of the corners of his lips, but his fingertips rested on his chin with a hint of distress. In the Vatican's inventory, this umbrella was numbered only 4-20, not even reaching the middle tier. Yet, he had spotted it in one of the most prominent cabinets, a coincidence indeed.

Number 4-20.

It's a seemingly ordinary combination of numbers. But in some ancient metaphorical systems, April 20th, during Easter... symbolizes rebirth, awakening, and the return of divinity.

Wow.

You pursed your lips and gave a gentle, faint smile.

What a coincidence.

Heh, in this world filled with the extraordinary and the mysterious, especially in the inventory of the Holy Temple headquarters, is there really such a thing as coincidence?

The scratches from bumps and knocks, the bends in the inner ribs, and even the paint chipped off the handle—it was exactly the same as everything else I had put in the umbrella basket back then.

It's like something deliberately brought from that world.

With a flick of her fingertips, she produced a subtle, random sound as the black silk unfurled like night wings, casting a small, secluded, and private space around her.

It has no fancy patterns, only a small, cold spider embroidered on the umbrella surface, radiating outwards with mottled white silk threads.

A little further away, footsteps seemed to approach, but then stopped in front of the rest room, pausing with piety and reverence.

The air under the umbrella seemed to change abruptly; the usual soot and humidity of Florence were shut out, replaced by a strange "silence." Not that there was no sound, but rather that the flow of things was slowly tightened by a viscous net, with no way to escape.

hum-

In the stillness, a deep and vast sound emanated from the depths of her soul, like a giant whale sleeping in the ocean, awakened by a familiar ray of moonlight, lazily turning over and stirring up the vast blue waves.

She maintained the posture of holding the umbrella, slightly closed her eyelashes, and immersed her whole mind in that vast and boundless, yet misty, spiritual ocean.

Normally, this ocean, though far more expansive than others of the same sequence due to her special rank and soul essence, is like a frozen glacier, silent and cold. Most of her power lies dormant in the deepest depths, difficult to mobilize. Only wisps of spirituality can be driven, supporting her to use her Sequence Eight abilities and maintaining the activities of several puppets.

But at this moment, using this black umbrella in his hand—which should not exist in this world—as a medium and an anchor point, he awakens the dormant consciousness. Beneath the frozen sea, it seems that something is gradually awakening.

The scene before my eyes began to distort and peel away.

The cold stone walls of the meditation corridor, the compassionate face of the goddess on the stained glass windows, even the hazy sky outside the window... all appearances are fading and blurring.

Instead, countless intricate, interwoven threads wove, intertwined, and flowed, forming a deeper network of the world. This was a moment she had never witnessed so clearly, never been so close to the truth.

Her senses spread with unprecedented speed, easily penetrating all barriers and obstacles, just as focused as when she first awakened Watson. She saw the whispers of the seals beneath headquarters, heard the prayers and lamentations from the distant battlefield, and felt every emotional fluctuation of the scattered avatars—Bella's compassion, the nymph's purity, everything as clear as the lines on her palm.

The invisible barrier that had been preventing her from fully understanding and digesting the extraordinary knowledge of this world was now dissolving within the lines of her vision. A vast amount of obscure knowledge—about sequences, about rituals, about origins—was surging into her consciousness as if the final lock had been unlocked, instantly understood, absorbed, and mastered.

In an instant, the old path, through its understanding of the world, transcended the necessity of rituals and ignored the need for potions, swiftly approaching the ladder where it was currently located, namely Sequence Six.

Yes, in the blink of an eye, all the puppets she created, those parts that originated from her spirituality, leaped into the ranks of the priesthood, and some even advanced further.

This is both a miracle and a logical conclusion. The vast ocean of spiritual energy has served as a filler, replacing the main ingredient of the potion. As for Charlotte, the process of digestion never existed from beginning to end.

The reason is quite simple: she understands these pathways, or to put it another way, she is the creator of these pathways. The reason why the Primordial Goddess has this title is because she possesses the most abundant and complete pathways.

Am I a god?

What a cliché story! Is it that the writer's enjoyment has waned, or that he has lost interest and has no desire to continue, so he plans to end this story prematurely?

Mostly yes.

This understanding and compatibility has not yet stopped, but Charlotte still needs time to get used to the excessive filling of identity and knowledge. Therefore, she has not yet mustered the courage to cross that step and enter the so-called higher sequence realm.

Hey.

The slender door was pushed open by someone else, and the silver-haired beauty holding a sword remained silent, simply gazing at Charlotte with a mixture of surprise and unexpectedness.

Countless days and nights, when facing sacred objects and meditating before the statue of the goddess, she felt this familiarity.

Her cold expression remained unchanged, but her body reacted before her thoughts.

This usually aloof and revered "Goddess Sword" actually took a step forward, touched her right knee to the ground, placed her left hand on her chest, and performed the most solemn single-knee kneeling salute to the girl under the umbrella whose rank should be far lower than hers.

This behavior is called loyalty.

“Bishop Hilbert has noticed a great deal of spiritual activity and a renewed divine oracle. He has commanded me to come immediately and await your instructions.”

"The Order's top-secret archive, the 'Silent Chamber,' is now open to you. All the sealed secret texts concerning the 'Source Law,' 'The Essence of Paths,' and 'The Lost Era' await your perusal—"