Bad woman, am I pretending to be bad?

In an instant, Melina seemed to recall the gunshot again, and the slender figure that fell with the falling snowflakes. She almost staggered to her feet, trying to hold onto that warmth again, but the tent curtains had already cruelly closed.

What one sees is an atmosphere of death so heavy it's almost tangible, with the groans of the wounded and their faint cries for help mingling together.

Bella pressed her lower lip tightly, slowly scanning each young and pained face—there were soldiers of the Plantagenets, and prisoners of the Hastings. But in the eyes of a healer, at this moment they shared only one common identity: lives in dire need of saving.

She took a deep breath, no longer suppressing the spirituality within her that belonged to the 'nest'. This time, it was no longer a subtle, insignificant act of giving, but a selfless dedication, a burning passion that disregarded the cost.

A warm and powerful current of life emanated from her, spreading outwards like ripples. The light was not dazzling, but it was incredibly warm and compassionate, giving without expecting anything in return.

Those outside the tent could only glimpse the old canvas illuminated by soft white light from within, like a pale sun rising. At the same time, an indescribable, soul-soothing aura emanated from it, dispelling the bloodshed and fear of the battlefield, as well as the weariness and burden of body and mind.

A miracle is happening.

The soldier whose abdomen had exploded was now visibly shrinking and repositioning his exposed intestines, and the horrifying wound began to heal.

The old soldier, whose chest was sunken, suddenly found his breathing becoming smooth, and his sunken sternum made a slight cracking sound as it gradually returned to normal.

The boy who had been in shock regained color in his pale face, and his weak heartbeat became strong and powerful.

All the wounded who were on the verge of death were recovering at an incredible speed; life's compensation was forcibly pulling them back from the brink of death.

However, the cost must undoubtedly be borne by the caster himself.

The brown-haired healer stood in the center of the light. With each treatment, she became more hunched over and her face more ashen, as if her not-so-tall figure was transforming into tangible light and heat, warming this cold land of death.

Her knuckles, which had been supporting her on the edge of the operating table, gradually loosened, and her amber eyes, which had always held a soft light, slowly lost their color and turned to gray.

Hey.

It's the dull thud of flesh touching equipment.

She did not collapse. Even though her body had completely lost its warmth, even though her soul could no longer remain in the mortal world, even though there were still endless regrets, a calm and peaceful smile remained on the corner of her lips.

She did not want others to see her weakness, and even in death, she wanted to remain asleep at her bedside, serving as an example for all who would follow.

She selfishly chose to say goodbye, yet selflessly chose to sacrifice herself.

She got what she wanted.

The spirit belonging to the nest transcended the limitations of the body, transforming into a cluster of shooting stars, returning to the golden-haired girl sitting or lying in the silent stone chamber.

Are you at peace now?

Charlotte tapped her fingertips lightly, a bright smile on her face, as if asking a question to the empty space.

"Um......"

However, even though it was unclear whose tone it was, there was a genuine response in my ears.

Looking closely, one can see a faint figure with long, brown hair, a gentle face, and delicate, patient features...

That was the evil spirit that should have dissipated, but which she had absorbed into her body; that was the doctor who died in the pharmacy, yet never forgot the world; that was the real Isabella.

At the last moment, it was her choice.

This selfless doctor ultimately lived up to her beliefs, giving her life to strangers on this scorched earth.

As the light gradually faded, inside the tent, the wounded sat up in a daze, touching their completely healed bodies, their faces filled with shock and joy.

Outside the tent, everyone stared in disbelief at the scene, but Melina was the first to bite her lip and rush inside.

She saw the wounded who had survived the ordeal and looked at each other in bewilderment, and she also saw the beautiful woman holding her instruments even though she had her head down. In an instant, the image of the doctor rushing between the beds was still vivid in her mind.

She instantly understood what had happened.

Overwhelmed by immense grief, she collapsed to her knees, her legs giving way beneath her, letting out a suppressed sob, a cry as mournful as that of a young animal. The doctor who had guided her, teaching her how reality and ideals could coexist, the one she regarded as her mentor and beacon of light, had, like Watson, completely given himself up to save these strangers.

Tears blurred my vision, but Bella's final, complex look kept replaying in my mind—a look of concern, instructions, and farewell.

And... that unfulfilled ideal.

As the crying gradually subsided, Melina vigorously wiped away the tears and stains from her face with the back of her hand, not caring even if red marks appeared.

The shelling continued, and new wounded continued to pour in.

She walked to Dr. Bella's side, gently closed her eyes which still held a hint of compassion, then picked up the blood-stained medical gown from the ground and solemnly draped it over herself.

The robe was large and ill-fitting, yet it carried a heavy weight.

The beautiful woman's words echoed in my ears.

"Measure, choose, and lead them in the right way, to survive and move forward..."

As memories flooded back, her eyes lost their former naivety and hesitation, replaced by a deep light that was a mixture of sorrow and determination.

"Categorize the wounded!" The lively chirping faded, and the parrot, no longer mimicking others, began to sing its own song. "The seriously wounded are prioritized, but resources are limited in assessing the severity of injuries, so we must make a choice!"

Her homeland invaded with violence and lies; her mentor, by setting an example, exempted her from having a choice; now, she has to make all the decisions herself.

"This needs to be treated first, stop the bleeding, there's still hope."

"This one is too badly injured. Let's give him some final pain relief."

"Do you still have the strength? Come and help me hold this place down!"

She began examining the wounded like Dr. Bella, but her movements were no longer hesitant. She assessed the injuries quickly and calmly, using the limited amount of styptic powder and clean gauze on those most likely to survive. For those whose injuries were too severe and clearly beyond saving, she could only suppress her guilt, administering a final injection and allowing them to pass away peacefully.

This process was incredibly painful; each act of giving up felt like a knife slicing through her heart. But she knew this was the final lesson that figure was teaching her with his life—in reality, true kindness means enduring the pain of making choices in order to save more lives that can be saved.

In this process, she could see in the eyes of the Plantagenet soldiers the longing for life, the hatred for the invaders, and the complex gazes they gave to her, a Blackingtonian, who was now extending a helping hand.

"Why did you save us?" one of the boys, who was still conscious, asked weakly, his eyes filled with confusion.

Melina's hands didn't stop moving as she answered in a low voice, as if speaking to the other person, or as if making a vow to herself: "Because life deserves to be saved, no matter which side it belongs to."

"Dr. Bella sacrificed herself for your rebirth, but that's not enough. The war is not over yet, and many more are dying here!"

"From this day forward, there will be neither Hadings nor Plantagenets here. Only the wounded who need help and those who yearn to live."

His gaze swept around, his tone becoming even firmer.

“I, Melina, will carry on Dr. Bella’s legacy! I will do everything in my power to save every life I can! But I will not fight for any banner—”

Her voice suddenly rose, carrying a resolute determination, like that of someone emerging from a cocoon:

"I will grip the knife for all the civilians ravaged by war on this land, rise up for the ideals Dr. Bella could not fulfill, and move forward for a future free from aggression and injustice!"

She picked up a scalpel that the doctor had left on the ground, and held it tightly in her hand, as if she were holding onto the inheritance of some kind of belief.

"Those who wish to follow us, stay. We need to create a new order and save more people. Those who do not wish to, may leave on their own and return to your units!"

The girl's declaration echoed across this land that had just experienced death and miracle, like a pebble thrown into stagnant water, creating ripples. Gradually, a new flame ignited in the eyes of some Plantagenet soldiers, while some Hastings prisoners revealed complex and wavering expressions.

Melina, the little parrot who once needed Dr. Bella's protection, finally shed her naivety and grew into a capable leader who could stand on her own and uphold her inner principles through the baptism of blood and fire and selfless sacrifice. She took on not only a blood-stained medical coat, but also a heavy responsibility and a redefined ideal rooted in reality.

She was no longer loyal to the empire that had brought endless suffering to this land. Her heart, her pen, and her actions would all be closely linked to this traumatized Putian and the common people struggling to survive.

And the ripples of Dr. Bella's sacrifice will slowly spread with the return of her coffin home.

Chapter 239 Thank you for the hospitality

The rain in Florence seems to always accompany tragedy. The leaden sky hangs low, and the fine rain falls silently, tapping on the newly erected tombstones in the cemetery, making the scene in front of you even more hazy and indifferent.

The air was still, broken only by the patter of rain, punctuated by suppressed sobs.

The stone tablet bears no lengthy titles, no ornate inscriptions, only a single name and the date:

Isabella Valenti

—A doctor

Her coffin was covered with a thin black cloth. The oak coffin was simple, but it was all that the soldiers she had treated on the eastern front of the Plantagenets could do. It was rough, but it carried the most sincere respect that transcended friend and foe.

A bunch of white chrysanthemums, already soaked by the rain and slightly wilted, were quietly placed in front of the monument. They were the cleanest flowers that the soldiers on the front line could find. A few wreaths surrounded them, mostly wildflowers spontaneously offered by the people of Florence. They drooped their heads in the rain, as if weeping silently.

The funeral was extremely simple, almost meager. There were no grand processions, nor throngs of mourners; only a handful of people stood in the cold wind and rain, bidding farewell to this man who died far from home, a man who had dedicated his life to service. A representative from the steam church solemnly read a brief eulogy, praising the doctor's nobility and selflessness; several poor people who had benefited from his care, wrapped in tattered raincoats, secretly stayed to the side, wiping away tears; and at the very front of the tombstone stood two figures, their world seemingly completely shut out by this cold curtain.

The black-haired girl stood silently before him, her dark blue dress clinging wetly to her waist, outlining her trembling figure. She seemed to have stepped directly from the stage of an unfinished tragedy into reality, her black hair disheveled and plastered to her bloodless cheeks, only silent tears falling drop by drop.

She pushed aside the attendant who tried to hold an umbrella for her, stumbled and lunged at the coffin, her slender fingers gripping the cold oak edge tightly, her nails turning white from the force. But how could the physical pain compare to the emptiness in her heart, the void that had been brutally ripped out?

Memories, like wildly growing seaweed, entangled her, dragging her downwards, making her increasingly morbid—

It was that kiss, both shy and resolute, under the brilliant starlight atop the mountain; it was the sweet fragrance of roses and croissants in the morning dew; it was the gentle profile of the doctor's focused face under the clinic lights; it was the pair of amber eyes, brimming with admiration and encouragement, that shone only for her after every performance.

"I will miss the fragrance of your hair every morning..."

"Even now, I'm starting to envy the air in Milan."

The words still echo in my ears, the warmth still lingers, but the person who spoke has turned into a handful of cold ashes, lying in that small wooden box, forever sleeping beneath the damp, cold soil of a foreign land.

Why? Why you of all people? You saved so many lives, why couldn't you save yourself? You promised me, you comforted my anxiety with such an optimistic tone.

Why did you save everyone else, but abandon me?

Doctor, you bastard.

The immense grief, like a tsunami, finally broke through the dam. Eliza's body began to tremble uncontrollably, and she staggered forward, almost falling onto the coffin, but was gently supported by an elderly nun beside her.

“Miss Eliza…” the nun’s voice was filled with pity.

Eliza, however, paid no heed. She simply raised her head, gazing at the somber sky, letting the chill wash over her face, drowning out the heartbroken sobs in her throat. The sound was not loud, but it was filled with endless despair and questioning, making those who heard it feel heartbroken and those who saw it weep.

With Bella's departure, her world has lost all color and sound. The stage, applause, glory—everything has become meaningless. From now on, every curtain call she takes will be without applause; every performance she gives will be a solo dance dedicated to the departed soul.

If that's the case, what's the point of this singing voice? Perhaps it's better to just destroy it...

With fingertips pressed together, she pinched that slender neck, the elf of the stage without the slightest hesitation.

She pierced her fragile vocal cords, ignoring the seeping blood and the ruptured trachea, tearing apart the voice that God had given her, turning it into a funeral for mourning, turning it into proof of her deepest love.

"Doctor, my voice sings only for you..."

She gently wiped the mud off the stone tablet, but the blood on her fingers stained the doctor's name red. Her lips moved again, but she could no longer utter a complete sentence, only a dull, hoarse sound and a sickly gaze.

Unlike the former, Zelena stood a little further back, wearing a dark trench coat with her epaulets removed, signifying her special status during her observation period. Her back was ramrod straight, like a pine tree that refuses to bend in the wind and rain, but her trembling fingertips and haggard face could not conceal the deep sorrow in her heart.

Piercing through the rain, she lowered her gaze, landing on the resting place of her once intimately familiar friend, now separated from her by death. Memories flooded back—the laughter and playfulness under one umbrella in the academy, the long conversation over blankets shared by the fireplace in the arbitration hall, Bella's meticulous and gentle care when she was injured, and finally, the hurried reunion filled with estrangement and misunderstanding in front of the Florence station.

Guilt, like a poisonous vine, coiled around her heart, almost suffocating her.

If, if she had been more perceptive back in Tingen, and had been able to persuade Bella to stay before she left, would none of this have happened?

If, if when they met again in Florence, she could have let go of that ridiculous pride and suspicion, and given her friend a hug, a word of farewell, or even just a "take care," as she had done in the past, would the ending have been different?

She had thought Bella had changed, become a stranger and distant figure. But now she understood that Bella had never changed. That kind, selfless doctor who considered saving lives her sacred duty was still there. What had changed was her own heart, blinded by duty, guilt, and suspicion.

Now, all the "what ifs" have lost their meaning. The friend who comforted her in her most vulnerable moments, the one she could never let go of deep in her heart, has gone to sleep forever in a foreign land to fulfill her beliefs, leaving only a cold coffin behind, without even giving her a proper goodbye.

Zelena slowly closed her eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks, indistinguishable between rain and soot. She took a deep breath of the cold, earthy air and forced herself to straighten her back.

As a survivor of the arbitration tribunal, and as a guilty party burdened with responsibility, she had no right to indulge in grief. Bella's sacrifice, like a mirror, reflected her weakness and inadequacy.

This heavy death will become an inescapable shackle for the rest of her life, but also a driving force spurring her forward. She will carry this guilt and remembrance as she continues on her journey to fulfill those unfinished duties, and perhaps... this is what Bella would have wanted to see.

Refusing the handkerchief offered by others, she bent her usually straight back and bowed deeply before Bella's tombstone.

This bow was filled with unspeakable apology, mourning, and farewell.

The funeral ended in silence. The coffin was slowly lowered into the dug grave, and soil was gradually covered, burying the color of the oak and the life that had once been warm.

Eliza was eventually helped up by her attendants. She stared blankly at the gradually filling tomb, her eyes empty, as if her soul had been buried along with it.

Zelena took one last look at the newly erected, still blank tombstone, then resolutely turned around, trudging through the mud, step by step leaving the cemetery and walking into the endless rain of Florence.

One grave, two people, two completely different kinds of sorrow, yet equally profound, both etched into this gloomy, rainy day.

After a long, long time, a black silk cloth once again stretched across the drizzle, allowing the raindrops to mercilessly fall along the umbrella ribs onto the simple stone tablet, making the flowers even more wilted and heartbroken.

"Ah."

It seemed to be a bright, uplifting smile.

Her light golden hair swayed in the wind, revealing her beautifully curved jawline, which was partially obscured by shadow.

A slender, cold spider crawled out from the man's sleeve, severing two branches of the web filled with sorrow and love as if cutting silk threads, before disappearing back into the boundless heart and lurking in the depths of the ocean.

The spirituality frozen at Sequence Six then rose, crossing the ladder of demigods, only to finally come to rest at the pass of Sequence Four.

In the masterpiece *Charlotte's Daughter*, a woman lays her hand over her slender fingers, causing the piled-up earth to tremble slightly. A bronze piston then breaks through the soil and lands in her palm.

Facing that unremarkable copper block, that source of steam, that foundation where another goddess resided, she parted her thin lips slightly:

"Adeline".

"Thank you for your cooperation."

Chapter 240 The God of Pleasure