Bad woman, am I pretending to be bad?

"goddess."

Chapter 230 I Promise

In the old capital of the Golden Broom, the wartime command post is now guarded by two people. One sits comfortably watching, while the other stands in front of a military map, his fingertips tracing the interlocking areas of the eastern front and the island chains in the sea.

However, when the original body in the distance underwent a fundamental sublimation, the silver-haired girl's figure paused almost imperceptibly. The knowledge and power belonging to arbitration and law, like rising water, broke through the original spiritual constraints in an instant, reaching the same level as the sixth sequence.

Although this spiritual fluctuation was quickly suppressed back to the realm of Sequence Six, the brief anomaly was enough to attract the attention of another being in the room.

"Oh?" A lazy and playful voice escaped her lips. Melissand stood up and walked over to Watson, who was still writing down the battle strategy. Her gaze was filled with undisguised inquiry and interest, or perhaps the expected joy.

"What's wrong, my dear daughter? You seemed different just now. Did something happen to the original owner of this body? Or has the golden essence that has been dormant in your mind finally awakened?"

She naturally knew Watson's true nature, knew that beneath this skin was that blonde girl, the woman who had made a promise with her in the past and voluntarily abandoned her past.

Yes, Melissant knew the identity of the person in her eyes from the beginning, and had made an agreement with him countless days ago, promising to provide necessary assistance for their own enjoyment and goals.

"as you wish."

Charlotte responded simply and calmly, without using any elaborate words.

As agreed, Melissant did indeed help in the shooting, dispelling the unnaturalness of cause and effect. But she dared to change her pre-designed figure into a slender and short girl while she was still alive.

"Pfft, you seem quite unwilling?"

“Shut up. If you call me that again, I’ll turn you into someone like I was back then—stupid and powerless.”

She was referring to her own disheveled state when she first arrived in this world, completely ignorant of everything.

"Well, it seems that the omnipotent 'goddess' has finally decided to bestow a little more favor upon her original 'creation'."

These words naturally failed to move the young girl, and she was probably amused by Watson's tense little face. The black-haired beauty took the initiative to bend down and lower her head to the crook of his neck, sending a warm and moist breath into his ear.

"Forgive me, 'Goddess of Origin'. After all, in our past interactions and conflicts, you always took the advantage. Now that you've finally taken the initiative to let go of the past and are as pure as a blank sheet of paper, how can I stand by and do nothing, teacher?"

Rarely, after truly regaining her identity, this usually strong and beautiful woman actually acted like a little bird, clinging to him and acting coquettishly. The title of "teacher" was originally a joke she made when instructing him in the ancient Su language, but—

“These past few days, we have been correcting the doctrines of the Enlightenment Society, just as we promised when we first met.”

Charlotte's words boil down to nothing more than obedience. In fact, the nameless sage of the Enlightenment Society was herself. The reason she was able to understand the so-called secret language and writings upon first sight was that she herself was its creator and writer.

Everything is simply returning to normal. In the past, the wicked woman, through slumber and oblivion, awaited a playful opera of human drama, waiting to see how the world would develop after deviating from her predetermined path. And now, it is the beginning of its scheduled performance.

.......

On the eastern front, a field hospital less than ten kilometers from the ruins of Baiguan Port.

This place was less a hospital and more a hastily cleared corner. The heavy stench of blood, gunpowder, decay, and the pungent smell of disinfectant mingled together, creating a nauseating stench unique to war. The tents were dilapidated, stained with mud and dark red grime. The groans, howls, and dying murmurs of the wounded never ceased, intertwining with the distant, muffled roar of artillery fire to form a symphony of despair.

Once the war began, the entire front line collapsed. The Duchy's fleet could not stop Hastings's powerful ships and cannons. The only option was to maneuver in the sea, preserve its manpower, and at the same time, severely damage its transportation capacity to prevent more soldiers from being sent to this battlefield.

Several days and nights had passed, and the doctor's pure white robes had long since lost their original color, becoming mottled and stained with blood, mud, and various medicinal liquids. Her hair was somewhat disheveled, with a few strands of brown hair clinging to her sweat-dampened forehead and cheeks. Above her mask, her usually gentle amber eyes were now filled with exhaustion, yet she still maintained an astonishing, steely calm and focus.

She had just finished performing emergency stitches on a young soldier whose abdomen had been ripped open by shrapnel. Her gloves were covered in warm, sticky blood. Before she could even catch her breath, a new stretcher was hurriedly brought in.

"Dr. Bella! Over here, found near the blast site, still breathing!" The militiaman carrying the stretcher said in a hoarse voice, his voice trembling with tears.

The person on the stretcher was barely recognizable as human. His left leg had disappeared below the knee, with only rough bandages at the cut, from which blood was constantly seeping out. There were also large burns and embedded stones on his chest and abdomen.

Unable to distinguish factions or beliefs, the medics ran and shouted, their blood mixed with the blood flowing on the ground, but their unwavering compassion remained unchanged.

This is the front line of the battle, a dangerous place where artillery fire can break through at any moment, and lives can be lost in the blink of an eye.

Without a word, Isabella knelt down in the mud, her fingertips probing the other's carotid artery; the pulse was so weak she could barely feel it.

"Wipe and disinfect, quick, hemostat, prepare for amputation and debridement." Her voice was hoarse but left no room for doubt. The assistants who had been called in to assist were no longer as unfamiliar as they had been at the beginning, but had gradually gotten used to her rhythm. They endured their physical and mental discomfort and cooperated with her tensely.

at this time--

call out!

A sharp, piercing whistling sound approached from afar, tearing through the air.

"Bombard! Take cover!" A desperate warning rang out from afar.

The beautiful woman didn't even pause; she simply threw herself onto the wounded man, using her slender frame to shield him as much as possible.

Almost at the same time.

boom.

A deafening roar, like an earthquake, exploded nearby, and a massive shockwave, mixed with mud, rocks, and shrapnel, violently slammed into the medical tent! The canvas was torn, and the supporting wooden poles groaned under the strain! The whole world seemed to be shaking and collapsing violently.

The deafening explosion made everyone's eardrums ring, temporarily robbing them of their hearing. A blast of scorching air, carrying smoke and the stench of death, rushed towards them.

A piece of shrapnel grazed the medic's cheek, leaving a thin trail of blood. But her hand on the wounded remained steadfast, her gaze unwavering, as if the explosion that had just torn a person apart was merely a trivial gust of wind.

After the shelling, there was a brief silence, followed by even more piercing screams and chaos.

"Dr. Bella..."

Melina, who came with her to this unfamiliar land, also shed her former naivety and innocence. Her pretty face, which belonged to the writer, was completely blackened by the smoke of gunpowder, but her eyes had become clearer and more enlightened.

Without hesitation, the petite parrot, before even hearing a word, understood perfectly and handed the tweezers and sutures to the former.

Another shell exploded not far away, the earth howled, and debris rained down on the canvas roof. The only gas lamp inside the shed swayed violently, its light flickering wildly, illuminating the bloody struggle as if it were a scene from hell.

Yet they were so perfectly in sync, as if everything outside of them was irrelevant to each other. Only their will, body and soul, was concentrated at their fingertips, at the tiny stitches, at the struggle to snatch life from the jaws of death.

Sweat mixed with blood dripped down his forehead.

On this scorched earth, repeatedly battered by artillery fire and littered with limbs and carcasses, in this battlefield filled with desperate cries, they stood like a silent yet resilient island, fulfilling their initial and final vow—

Standing beside all those who are bleeding.

The parrot no longer mimicked singing; she understood the hardships of life and saw through the joys and sorrows of separation and reunion. She no longer stopped at idealism; she also spread her wings and flew away from Watson's branch.

"Doctor, will justice be served? Will people get peace and fairness?"

It was a very minor inquiry, a wishful thinking that didn't even ask for an answer.

However, the doctor, who was usually calm and rarely made promises, nodded and said:

"Ah."

Chapter 231 The Last Lesson

"next."

A calm voice pierced through the clamor. The kind-hearted doctor remained unfazed and threw herself back into the battle against death, as if the gunfire that had nearly engulfed her was nothing more than fleeting smoke, passing by her ears.

Boom.

The repeated shelling tore a corner of the tent to shreds. Acrid smoke and a strong stench of gunpowder, mixed with mud, poured in through the breach, forming murky pools of blood on the ground. Cries of agony, coughs, and the urgent commands of medical personnel once again filled this small, desperate space for survival.

The brown-haired beauty wiped the blood from her face; the slight sting seemed like a distant signal, irrelevant to her. Her gaze fell on the newly brought-in wounded soldier—a boy with a gaping hole in his chest. Judging from his uniform, he might even have been a conscripted boy soldier from Hadings. His eyes were wide open, staring at the tattered tent roof. His lips moved silently, each breath a terrible, hissing sound, blood gushing from the wound, his life visibly slipping away.

Conventional medical treatments were ineffective, and the assistants around them even subconsciously slowed down their movements, their eyes revealing an almost numb sorrow—having become accustomed to death, they could already distinguish which lives were destined to be lost.

However, Isabella leaned down and slowly extended her fingertips, placing them on the boy's cold, trembling hand.

The cold mud soaked through her knees, but she seemed oblivious. This action, though not medically permissible, carried a strange, reassuring power.

Unnoticed by anyone, a spirituality operates quietly, not through the cruel method of priests drawing sacrifices and praying for blessings from the source of war, but through a deeper, more profound stream originating from the vast ocean of her being, distributed and given through the "nest," transforming into a grace akin to a "transfer of life."

To outsiders, Dr. Bella was simply offering a silent comfort or some kind of prayer.

But in reality, a warm, powerful, and pure life force was quietly flowing from her own body in an extremely subtle way, slowly infusing the boy's body, which was on the verge of collapse, through their touching fingertips.

This wasn't a cure; it was more like... prolonging life, using her own life to extend the span of seconds, buying that broken body a precious little bit of time.

The boy's breathing seemed to steady for a moment, the fear in his eyes lessened, and for a fleeting instant, a blank focus appeared. He looked at Bella, at those amber eyes that remained clear and full of compassion amidst the filth and blood.

It was a smile, a faint smile of joy and relief.

However, the next moment, the beautiful woman covered her throat, raised her finger to half-cover the blood overflowing from the corner of her lips, and suppressed her own weakness that was about to burst forth.

Isabella's body was already mostly damaged by the poison she had ingested when she was transformed into Charlotte's puppet. Even with extraordinary power to mend it, she could not defy the laws of life and death and could only eke out a living. Just as Charlotte had foreseen in the beginning, she would never return.

"Dr. Bella, you..."

Standing beside him, the little parrot, who had witnessed the whole thing, clearly saw what the doctor had done: selfless dedication and noble character.

An extraordinary person paid an irreparable price for a lowly life that was about to die. She was worthy of the name of a doctor, always upholding the belief of saving lives. Melina was moved by this selflessness, but she was also unwilling to let her friend and even her teacher leave. What could she say?

He told Bella that it was just the life of an ordinary person, not worth mentioning, so why bother to sacrifice himself to save it?

How could she bring herself to say such cruel and cold words, defying the condemnation of her conscience and morality? It contradicted her ideals. So, the little parrot could only watch, only purse its lips, and watch as the beautiful woman before it grew weaker and weaker, her fingertips holding the knife becoming more and more dull and slow, until she lost all strength.

Her thoughts were sinking, but that cold hand still touched her forehead, gently combing through the sweat-sticky strands of hair, as if smoothing the feathers on a parrot's head.

"Melina, I know what you're thinking. This is unnecessary, this is unfair, isn't it?"

A rare glint of cunning crossed the doctor's amber eyes, and his smile was exceptionally radiant, like the warm glow of the first rays of dawn.

"Yes, for you, Dr. Bella, this is not—"

Before the word "fairness" could be uttered, it was gently stopped by an index finger.

"There is so much injustice in the world. Whether we can see it or not, whether we intervene or not, we can only avert a very small number of tragedies."

"But just because of this, can we feel at ease considering ourselves useful, and thus arrogantly look down on others and remain aloof?"

Charlotte shook her head slightly but firmly.

"Of course not."

The cool touch on her fingertips eased Melina's anxious mind slightly. The roar of gunfire seemed like a distant background noise, with only the doctor's calm yet weary voice clearly audible. "Melina, you yearn to pierce through hypocrisy with your pen and awaken the numb with the truth. That's good; it's a rare spring of clarity in this filthy world."

The pauses in the voice symbolize the rise and fall of the tone, "But ideals, if they cannot recognize the weight of reality, are easily broken by the first gust of cold wind."

“Melina, look at me.” He withdrew his finger from the girl’s lips, forcing the little parrot to focus on her, even as the hellish scene around them remained unchanged. “Idealism is never wrong. The mistake lies in… believing that it can be easily achieved, believing that it is black and white, believing that one setback is enough to negate its entire value.”

"What is reality?" she asked almost interrogatively, yet her tone was unusually calm. "Reality is that resources are always limited, power always has its limits, and the human heart is even more unpredictable. Just like now, if I save this boy, it might mean that another soldier with slightly minor injuries will suffer a lifelong disability due to not receiving timely treatment; if I expend my spiritual energy to sustain his life, perhaps the next moment a shell will fall and wipe us all out along with this meager effort."

"Who should we save? Who should we prioritize treating?"

"If we can't save everyone, does that mean saving the one who is saved is meaningless and there's no need to lend a hand? Is doing nothing the wise choice?"

The doctor breathed slightly, suppressing the metallic taste rising in his throat, his gaze sweeping over each life struggling in pain in the shed, asking questions and answering them in the same way.

"The contradictions in the world are countless. We yearn for peace but are forced to face war, we pursue the truth but often get bogged down in a quagmire, and we embrace goodwill but may bring even worse results... Fairy tales seem to exist only in thin books."

"Melina, if you know that your words may be ignored or even misinterpreted, would you consider wise silence to be more noble than frankness?"

The little parrot's eyelashes trembled slightly, tears mingling with the blood on its face as they slid down: "Then what should we do? Are we just supposed to watch helplessly, and then... and then numbly accept it?"

She received the cruelest denial from the beautiful woman.

"Of course not."

Charlotte parted her thin lips again, looking into the pair of emerald eyes before her, filled with confusion, pain, and resentment. It was as if she saw countless souls in the past who had once harbored ideals, only to have them crushed by her and reality—they were all the same.

Fortunately, this time, Bella was just a healer destined to sacrifice herself.

"True ideals are not about singing and celebrating one's own greatness in a fictional utopia, but about choosing to ignite one's own glimmer of light after recognizing the cruelty of reality and knowing that the road ahead is full of thorns, to illuminate the darkness in one's own small space and to be the one who holds up the lamp."

"True perseverance is not about closing your eyes and shouting slogans, but about opening your eyes wide, seeing all the oppression and injustice in this world, acknowledging the necessity and pain of making choices, and then still doing your best, within your own power, to embark on the path of justice you have chosen."

"Don't deny the value of saving one person just because you can't save everyone. Don't give up every step towards your ideal just because it seems distant. And don't tarnish the pure land in your heart just because reality is cruel."

Another cough interrupted her words, and blood once more seeped from between her fingers. The doctor's face grew increasingly pale, while the light shone ever brighter, like the last flicker of a candle.

she says:

"Melina, your pen may not be able to immediately overthrow an unjust system or stop all wars, but if it can truthfully record the fear of a soldier and the helplessness of a civilian, so that future generations can reflect on it and be vigilant, then its value far exceeds that of thousands of flowery words that whitewash the truth."

she says:

"The true growth of an idealist is not becoming worldly and sophisticated, but rather... after thoroughly understanding the cruelty of reality, still choosing to do those 'unprofitable' but 'right' things with clear understanding."

After finishing his sentence, the doctor seemed to have exhausted his last bit of strength. He swayed and almost fell to the ground, but he forced himself to support himself on the medical table next to him, his knuckles turning white from the force.

Melina stared at her blankly, the confusion in her eyes gradually replaced by a heavy, blood-stained understanding. She saw no longer just a selfless saint, but a martyr who was consciously walking towards the end of his own choice—even though this 'way' was just a performance woven by Charlotte herself.

She was not a truly virtuous person. For her, the so-called ideal romance was more like an immersive script, spoken so grandly that even she herself couldn't help but believe it, even shedding tears. But in reality, she had experienced too much, and was merely quoting the most simple words of great people.

She was moved, she agreed, but she was just a 'villain' who followed her own heart. She could even be distracted by thoughts of Florence, of that city she might never return to, and of Eliza.

To think of those dark blue eyes, always brimming with tenderness, slowly eroded by pain and overwhelmed by tears upon learning of her death, ultimately solidifying into an eternal, heartbreaking grief. What a moving sight it must have been to witness that love buried beneath selflessness, a sacrifice destined to end in vain.

The tears shed for the heartbroken stage sprite will surely please the wicked soul deep within more than the most magnificent opera.

The meat grinder of war continued to roar. More wounded were brought in, and suffering was everywhere. She was like a ferryman going against the current, using her own life as fare to pull those on the verge of sinking back from the brink of death time and time again.

She healed the soldiers of the Plantagenets and the prisoners of Hastings; she bandaged the armless warriors and cleaned the wounds of the burned and disfigured enemies. In her eyes, there seemed to be only the distinction between the wounded and the dying; nationality and allegiance became blurred.

This kindness, so out of place on the battlefield where factions were clearly divided, was so deeply moving. Even those soldiers who had initially harbored doubts or hostility towards her, after seeing the undeniable value she held for every life in her eyes, silently suppressed their hostility and transformed it into a complex sense of awe.