Bad woman, am I pretending to be bad?

The artillery fire continued to fall intermittently, the earth trembled, and new casualties kept emerging. Limbs and torsos, scorched earth, desperate cries... the cruelty of war was vividly displayed here. And Bella, like the only unextinguished lamp in this bloody swamp, calmly and stubbornly radiated a light that seemed warm but was actually cold.

She overdraws her own resources, playing the role of a saint, while secretly hoping for the scene of her lover in the distance being heartbroken by the fall of this saint, whether it be the affectionate blue morpho butterfly or the unforgettable old friend.

As his thoughts faded, the doctor bent down again and pressed his bloodied fingers against the wound of the next injured person.

Her figure appeared so frail yet so resilient amidst the chaos and bloodshed of the tent, like a withered tree about to be crushed by the wind and snow, yet still standing tall, giving the bewildered parrot behind her her final lesson on ideals and reality, sacrifice and compromise.

It uses life as chalk and the battlefield as a blackboard, depicting the growth of birds with cruel separation, and also showing that true brilliance may not come from the sun without any haze, but from the flickering and persistent flame that knows the cold of the long night but still chooses to burn itself.

She was quiet and resolute, heading towards the self-imposed end, a self-determined fate of burning out completely.

She paid no heed to the hymns and praises, but instead spoke in a hoarse but clear voice, directed at the seemingly endless rain and smoke outside the tent, at the footsteps that were neither friend nor foe, at the stretchers that were constantly being brought in:

"next."

Chapter 232 The Continuation of Will

Memory, such a mysterious thing. Perhaps we are born ignorant of it, but with its favor, we can also shape a brand new personality.

In the silent stone chamber, time seemed to lose its linear flow, with only knowledge pouring in like a galaxy, filling the void in the soul that had been deliberately forgotten or passively stripped away.

Charlotte lightly flicked her fingertips, turning another thin page. The mysteries of the Source Law, the origins of the pathways, and the secrets buried by dust resonated and merged with her awakened essence in an almost instinctive way.

With each page turned, the divine radiance in her eyes grew stronger, not from emotional fluctuations, but from the return of "knowledge" and "ability." She gradually saw clearly the thread of destiny that ran throughout, woven by her own own hands.

In the distance, across the roaring strait, the life of the healer named Bella flickered like a candle in the wind, clearly reflected in the vast spiritual perception, like a note in a musical movement about to slide to its final note.

She could even hear Melina's suppressed, tearful cry amidst the cacophony of screams and the roar of artillery fire in the field hospital: "Dr. Bella!"

And the sight of the last faint spiritual fluctuation of that avatar, perhaps carrying a satisfied smile, gradually disappearing into the boundless blood and fire.

She deliberately let it go.

Saving it? What a tedious choice. To forcibly maintain the existence of a puppet whose foundation has already been destroyed by poison and whose curtain call is destined to end is nothing more than delaying a tragedy that has already been orchestrated, postponing its opening.

Moreover, it is the tragic ending that gives rise to the most extreme and exquisite pain.

This message of death will be precisely transmitted along those pre-established emotional bonds.

One copy, sent to that little house in Florence filled with art and the fragrance of flowers, to shatter all the stage sprites' hopes for the future, turning love into eternal heartbreak.

One copy was sent to the oppressive meditation corridor at the headquarters of the sanctuary, to deepen the pain of the woman burdened with guilt and responsibility, and to make her sink further into despair amidst loss and betrayal.

It's really exciting.

Look, she is clearly a noble goddess, yet she willingly gets involved, disregarding the risk of death, just to satisfy her inner desires. Isn't that something to be proud of?

The sanctuary beneath her feet obeys her commands, and countless believers prostrate themselves before her, awaiting only a casual verbal command.

Charlotte closed her eyes, her gaze passing through the threads of fate to the little sparrow that flew away from the branch, and to the little peacock that stepped into the battlefield.

The gaze shifts, and the chestnut-haired girl is at the headquarters of the steam church, bustling about in a sanctuary filled with riveted steel and brass pipes. Having traversed autumn and winter, Winnie is no longer the ragged, timid, and self-conscious farm girl. Watson's death has stripped away her naiveté; her impoverished birth and immersion among the workers, along with the sense of connection with her fellow laborers, have spurred an awakening of her consciousness.

She was more humble and poorer than any sparrow, and Charlotte had once regarded her as a boring pastime. But this girl was like a stubborn weed, seeing the ways of the world earlier. She grew up in her neglect into an independent bird, making that wicked woman realize her misjudgment for the first time and have a deeper expectation.

At this moment, the petite sparrow was dressed in a well-fitting technician's robe, intently operating a complex differential machine.

Her eyes were focused and sharp, her fingertips moving quickly across the control panel covered with buttons and levers, checking the sequence of holes punched on the paper tape, sometimes frowning in thought, sometimes adjusting with her fingers.

She underwent a complete transformation. The bitterness that life had honed in her past had now been tempered into a kind of mental confidence and composure. Her thirst for knowledge and her almost instinctive ability to read things were fully nurtured and developed within the system of the Steam Church.

As her rank rose and her horizons broadened, her outstanding talent naturally caught the eye of the artisans of the Steam Church, who opened up the books stored in the library to her, allowing her to gain a deeper understanding of the truth of the world.

How amazing that this little sparrow, which she had picked up from the dust on a whim and polished a bit, had actually stumbled and flown here, relying on its indomitable stubbornness and the keenness honed by suffering. She was probably still stubbornly pursuing the truth about Watson's death, trying to find clues pointing to "Charlotte Earshaw" from the vast archives and everyday details of the Steam Church.

The obsession she pursued itself became the driving force that propelled her forward and made her more valuable.

Hurry up, Winnie. Now you are the one who truly amuses me. Can you drive me to the brink, forcing me to admit it, to nod in agreement? And can you muster the courage to question me about why I escaped with my life, why I left without a word?

As for Sofby?

My gaze crossed the strait and landed on that land soaked in steel and blood. The red-haired girl who used to be a little cramped and as wary as a hedgehog in the police station has now washed away her glamour.

The sleek, dark military uniform replaced the elegant dress, stained with mud and dried blood. Her once well-maintained hands now gripped a modified rifle tightly, her knuckles white from the force, and several fresh scratches appeared on her cheeks.

She lay hidden amidst the ravaged ruins of trenches, her breathing low and shallow. Her emerald eyes, no longer as innocent as they had been in the banquet hall, now held the composure of a still lake as she watched the movements of the Golden Plant army in the distance. Artillery fire occasionally erupted around her, sending clumps of dirt flying, but she remained as steadfast as a rock, her eyelashes fluttering only slightly during the brief intervals between enemy shifts.

She wasn't fighting for empty glory, but for survival, for accumulating those slim chances of achievement that might wash away her family's stain and reveal the truth. The cruelty of war, like a whetstone, was polishing this rough gem in the fastest and most ruthless way. She gradually became indifferent to death, learning to replenish ammunition beside corpses, learning to distinguish the whistles of different shells, and learning to feign sleep against the cold steel during brief respites.

What burned within her was the unquenched flame of the Dill family, a vague yet persistent pursuit of that silver-haired girl, and the instinct to survive in this meat grinder. Charlotte could clearly sense that Sophby's spirituality was becoming increasingly refined under pressure and slaughter, the barriers of the sequence were loosening, and perhaps it wouldn't be long before she would be able to take that step.

If she were to venture deeper into the battlefield, she would be able to catch a glimpse of the silver-haired girl, the Watson she longed for, on the other side of the battlefield, on the opposing side of the camp.

One can imagine the shock, grievance, and even more that must have felt at that moment.

A villain? Perhaps.

But she never considered herself a saint. What's wrong with being true to her own desires and appreciating the extreme emotional outbursts of others that she herself catalyzed? Moral criticism is nothing but boring noise to her.

The feeling of weaving emotions and overlooking the joys and sorrows of all living beings is so intoxicating that it's enough to make this "goddess"—

Sweet as sweet.

Chapter 233 The Key to Victory

The clear blue sky stood in stark contrast to the rolling, iron-gray waves of the sea.

The salty sea breeze, carrying ominous omens of war, fluttered the sails of this small fleet—the Plantagenet flag, once a symbol of naval power and glory, now appeared so thin and fragile in the face of the increasingly dire war situation.

Listen closely, and a rumbling sound approaches, followed by jagged white lines tearing through the sea – the contrails left by ships moving at high speed. This small fleet, led by Rear Admiral Rodney, is like a pack of wolves that have smelled blood, silently pouncing on a Hastings supply convoy under the cover of the morning mist – their usual "sea wolf" tactic, using maneuverability to cut off the behemoth's supply lines and disrupt the continuous transport of troops.

Just as you see before your eyes—

Nymph tiptoed slightly, gripping the cool handrail of the bridge, her long, sky-blue hair swept behind her by the sea breeze. Her bare feet could clearly feel the violent vibrations from the engines running at full speed below deck, and the dull, hoarse roar of the cannons as they rotated and aimed.

She tilted her gaze slightly and saw Rodney's upright figure standing at the front, holding binoculars and calmly issuing commands, his voice still clear and loud amidst the roar.

"At 35 degrees to port, target the stern of the enemy transport ship and fire to cut off its maneuverability."

"Notify the 'Siren' to approach from the flank and prepare to board."

Everything seemed to be going according to plan. The cumbersome Hastings transport ships, like fat sheep waiting to be slaughtered, tried clumsily to turn around and futilely retaliated with a few defensive cannons.

Yes, they rarely fail. With their familiarity with the complex waters of the near sea and the relatively fast speed of their ships, they have harassed and intercepted the massive transport fleet of the Hadings Empire, achieving numerous feats. However, today, the hunters have run into an iron wall that is far more terrifying than they imagined.

On the distant horizon, several enormous, menacing silhouettes spewing thick black soot broke through the fog wall, like moving fortresses, and suddenly approached them.

Their appearance speaks volumes: this was a pre-set trap.

There was no other way. The disparity in the number of ships and industrial capacity determined the difference in attack strategies. As the weaker party, Rodney could only break up into smaller units and strive to surpass Hastings's squadron in local waters, using superior numbers to defeat the weaker forces and achieve results.

But this was only a temporary measure out of desperation. When the berths for returning to port were occupied by soldiers from other countries, even the bravest sea wolves would eventually run out of ammunition and supplies in the endless attrition, and would eventually be caught up.

Just as I see with my own eyes.

"Hard to port! Full speed! All ships, disperse and prepare to evacuate!"

Rodney's stern shout echoed through the flagship's command tower via the megaphone, still cold, yet sharp as if taut steel. There was no time for shock or fear; the instinct for survival and the duty of an officer made her calculate the coldest option in an instant—sacrifice some to save the whole.

However, the gap between science and technology and industry cannot be easily bridged by courage and tactics alone.

boom--

A blazing streak of fire pierced the smoke, followed by a deafening roar that shook the very earth. A light frigate providing cover on the side of the "Sea Fury" jolted violently, a massive fireball erupting from its midships, hurling steel fragments, wood chips, and mangled human remains into the air.

After the explosion came a tooth-grinding, hoarse sound of steel twisting and breaking. The ship was almost blown in half, listing rapidly, and with the sailors who could not escape, screaming in despair, it sank irreversibly into the cold sea, leaving behind only a churning oil slick, wreckage, and struggling survivors.

Cold-bloodedness and cruelty were so clearly displayed before the girl.

She clung to the mast's base, her hair whipped by the foehn wind and blasts, clinging to her pale face. Those usually pure and innocent eyes now reflected the flames of the explosion, the sank ship's silhouette, and countless futile arms waving across the sea.

She then looked at Rodney.

The blond major general seemed nailed to the deck, her resolute profile flickering in and out of focus amidst the gunfire, sweat dripping down her chin, her eyes fixed intently on the enemy ship that was faintly visible ahead.

"Hold steady, load the guns. Target the enemy lead ship, harass and disrupt its observation and aiming." Another command rang out, suppressing the momentary panic on the bridge.

The Sea Fury opened fire. Compared to the ironclad behemoth, its cannons were like children's toys. The shells that hit the thick, sloped armor mostly just exploded into clusters of harmless sparks, leaving at most a few charred dents.

But Rodney's goal was not to sink the enemy ship. The Extraordinary's ability allowed for precise guidance upon firing, with the shell's impact point corrected visually to veer towards the enemy ship's observation posts and conning tower, thus interfering with the enemy's vision and preventing any further pursuit.

"Release smoke to notify the entire ship to retreat toward the 'Snake-like' reef."

Although Hastings' ironclad ships were heavy and sturdy, the increased tonnage would inevitably lead to a deeper draft, making it difficult for them to penetrate into shallow waters filled with reefs. This was the idea behind Hastings's ships.

"Z-shaped course, don't sail straight. If we get hit, we'll lose power..." The blonde woman bit her lower lip, her voice hoarse, almost clenched. "Cover the rear yourself."

This statement is too heavy and makes one seem powerless.

She had already managed to navigate through the flames spewed by the steel behemoth with great difficulty, thanks to her masterful use of ocean currents and terrain, and her almost precognitive battlefield intuition. However, the distance that was so close still seemed so far away.

The roaring shells whistled past the ship's hull, sending up towering columns of water that soaked everyone on deck. Sometimes, you could even feel the vibrations as shrapnel embedded itself in the hull.

Every evasion was a heart-stopping moment, a brush with death.

The ship was constantly being hit, though not fatally, but wood chips flew everywhere, cables snapped, and casualty reports came from the gun emplacements. The sailors were soaked to the bone and covered in soot; some operated the guns to return fire despite their injuries, some desperately repaired the damage, and some silently pushed their comrades' bodies into the sea—there was no time for mourning.

Nymph saw a young sailor fall not far from her, struck in the chest by flying wood fragments. Blood quickly stained the deck beneath his feet. His eyes were wide open as he stared at the gray sky, devoid of any spirit.

This is war—no romance, no glory, only the constant loss of young lives.

Rodney's tactical command was excellent; she was like a master dancing on a knife's edge, maneuvering with all her might, and even the occasional counterattacks she organized could accurately hit the enemy ships' weak points, causing some trouble and delaying their offensive.

However, the disadvantage in speed could not be reversed, and there was still some distance to the complex shallow waters near the reef.

Another light vessel was hit head-on, blasting open a gruesome breach. Seawater rushed in instantly, dragging life and all that remained into the vast ocean.

The sails of the Sea Fury were riddled with holes, and its speed slowed down significantly. Just then, a cluster of fire streaked across the sky, drawing ever closer to their line of sight.

"Nymph!"

Almost instinctively, Rodney stomped on the deck, tackled the still-stunned girl to the ground, and shielded her with his arms, protecting her fragile flesh and blood.

The flying wood chips and the impact of the explosion carved several bloody gashes into her back, causing the beautiful woman to groan and cough up blood.

She didn't want a naive and innocent girl to die because of her own negligence and incompetence.

"Rear Admiral Rodney, starboard side damaged, currently taking on a lot of water, speed has dropped by thirty percent!" the damage control team member reported hoarsely, his face a mixture of seawater, sweat, and despair.

“Cough, Nymph, I’ve told you before, you shouldn’t have come to a place like this.” Even as the burning pain surged back, Rodney didn’t utter a single groan, but instead smiled bitterly and cursed, “Now look what’s happened, not only can we not go back, but we also have to sink with us in this desolate sea that no one cares about.”

The beautiful woman pressed her lips into a straight line, her gaze sweeping over the relentless, mountain-like ironclad fleet on the sea, and the increasingly sparse friendly ships around her.

Even as its flagship, the Sea Fury had lost most of its power, rendering its survival impossible. So—

"Order that all remaining ships cease providing cover for the flagship, disperse into smaller groups, and regroup after escaping pursuit, with the 'Sea Fury' covering the rear."

This was a sacrifice to save the king, a final act of desperation; she wanted to preserve the last bit of life for her distant homeland and the land beneath her feet.

Therefore, she will carry out the orders she previously gave and be willing to be the one to be sacrificed.

Nymph sensed the ship beneath her suddenly turn sharply, almost capsizing, and positioned herself between the pursuing fleet and the retreating friendly ships, using her battered hull to form the last, flimsy barrier.

The artillery fire came down even more intensely.

The blond major general stood tall on the command platform amidst the raging gunfire, his figure as straight as a pine tree, only his clear blue eyes burning with an unyielding flame.

"hehe."

Perhaps it was time to leave, for she took out a bottle of strong liquor and poured it into her mouth without any hesitation, letting the liquor overflow and drip onto the deck.

"Are you scared yet, little girl? Don't keep crying and grabbing my hand when the time comes."

Looking back at Nymph, Rodney quipped, as if time had turned back to last night.

But the blue-haired girl remained unmoved. She tiptoed and gently patted the beautiful woman who was leaning against the gangway, then patted the top of her head.

"Sister Rodney, the wind has shifted."

It is both a reminder and a comfort.

"Stop joking, girl. I told you, you should read more books and learn more from the helmsman. How could you possibly be doing this—"

The former's denial ended with his words, a strand of golden hair being blown across his cheek by the opposing wind, causing a slight itch.

The once pristine sea and sky were suddenly overwhelmed by leaden clouds and swallowed by a sudden downpour. The waves surged, blurring my vision. In an instant, I could no longer see my own fingers.

Yes, it is indeed impractical, but the spirits of the deceased transform into inexhaustible spirituality, filling the void in the priests' rituals and creating the great power of changing times.

A colossal object, hidden among the dark clouds, slowly approached the seemingly decided battle, carried by the sea breeze.

Those were enormous airships, suspended in the air by huge balloons and driven by steam turbines. They carried heavy bombs and were able to stand in airspace that was absolutely inaccessible to naval guns.

The slow speed was compensated for by the sudden gust of wind, which allowed them to catch up with the speeding steel ships and unleash a barrage of bombs from above.

Yes, she could not create a giant steel bird that soars through the sky. It was the culmination of generations of hard work and dedication, the accumulation of the nation's strength. Even with her extraordinary abilities, she could not fill the sea and create land, nor could she replace countless hardworking hands and eyes. All she could rely on was that advanced combat concept.

Air power will always have a natural advantage over fixed targets at sea, and the obsolescence of naval guns and the ability to strike targets beyond visual range are lessons that the future will provide.