Bad woman, am I pretending to be bad?

Those cold fingertips, like jade probing into a deep pool, carried an irresistible force, steadily lifting the girl's drooping chin, forcing her gaze to meet his.

There was no way to dodge, nor the strength to resist.

At this moment, the usual compassion and indifference in Ms. Mossang's eyes when bidding farewell to the dead had vanished, replaced by an almost anatomical scrutiny. Her deep eyes seemed to ignite two cold flames, flickering with inquiry and an indescribable... urgency.

Nymph's long eyelashes trembled helplessly, like the wings of a startled butterfly. Instinctively, she wanted to turn her head away, to deny it, but the pressure of Sequence Two was like an invisible shackle, firmly pinning down every inch of her will to resist. She could only stand frozen in place, feeling the cold spiritual power like a precise scalpel, peeling away layer by layer the shell of her consciousness, probing into the spiritual ocean that had been turbulent since the fierce battle, yet hid secrets in its deeper layers.

Charlotte, seated in the distant, silent stone chamber, watched all this through the girl's eyes, a smile involuntarily playing on her lips. She was delighted to witness this scene, eager to see the wondrous expression that would grace the face of this usually aloof and reserved obituary announcer as she unveiled the truth.

After all, what people believe most firmly is always the truth they have discovered and pieced together by their own hands, isn't it?

Ms. Mosang continued reading, turning the pages of the nymph's soul, tracing the source of each spiritual ripple. At first, there was chaos and vastness; the power of a Sequence Four priest was like the ocean after a storm, wild and unrestrained. But deep within this ocean lay a profound sense of mystery, almost primordial, that transcended its rank—something extraordinary in itself.

What shook her even more was the discord mixed in with this overwhelming spirituality. This rhythm was not entirely unfamiliar, yet it was completely out of place with the 'nymph' she had perceived.

like what?

This strange thread of soul drew her senses, sketching out some long-sealed images—the gray-haired girl in the office, energetic and cunning like a little sun, yet with her own steadfast integrity; the leader who carried a kerosene lamp, stubbornly traversing the filthy slums, just to seek a sliver of fairness for the vulnerable; the one in front of her, full of energy like a little sun, always using his smile to dispel the chill around her... Watson.

No, it's not just like that.

The woman's fingertips trembled slightly. She noticed a faint, almost embedded mark deep within the chaotic vortex of spiritual energy, almost entirely different from the nymph's soul structure. That mark possessed a unique quality of measurement and insight, a lingering compassion hidden beneath Watson's cunning exterior, a quality that could only be discerned by those who had been in close contact with it, or even by those whose hearts had been touched by it.

Are these fragments of Watson's remaining soul?

"This is impossible..." Even with Ms. Mosang's heart, which had been frozen by countless life-and-death experiences, ripples couldn't help but appear at this moment. The pressure on her fingertips unconsciously increased, almost leaving red marks on Ningfu's delicate skin.

Although she did not witness Watson's death firsthand, the sense of spiritual dissipation was almost impossible for her, as a ferryman, to misjudge.

However, at this moment, deep within the body called "Nymph," the soul aura belonging to Watson, though extremely faint, though cleverly "covered" and "grafted" by some high-level power, and even almost merged with the origin, still stubbornly proclaimed its existence with its core true spirit quality.

No, perhaps closer to the truth is that they all originated from the same profound source, and the marks left behind after being poured into different "containers" are like different pottery pieces made by the same hands, bearing the unique fingerprints of the craftsman.

This thought, like a bolt of lightning tearing through the night sky, exploded in the still waters of her heart, which had been dormant for countless years, stirring up the deep-seated silt and memories. She had always thought Watson was unique, a fleeting glimmer of light born by chance in this murky mire, which had briefly illuminated a corner of her cold heart. But now, this light seemed not to have been extinguished, but rather, in a way she had never anticipated, it had once again interacted with her.

She slowly withdrew her hand, as if the burning pain from touching the truth still lingered on her fingertips. She didn't press for answers, nor did she lash out; all her emotions were suppressed beneath her calm and composed face.

Only her eyes behind the black veil became incredibly complex, churning with scrutiny, confusion, resentment at being fooled and deceived, and... a glimmer of hope, like a dying ember, that she herself had not anticipated and was unwilling to admit.

Nymph sensed that the woman's oppressive aura had lessened slightly, but what replaced it was a complete change in her gaze. It was no longer just looking at a promising junior, a temporary ally on the battlefield, but rather gazing through her azure eyes at a figure that was both distant and close at hand, a figure she both loved and hated.

Ms. Mossam watched Nymph silently, trying to uncover more traces of that cunning girl—her lively spirit, the occasional flash of knowing wisdom, the stubbornness and rebelliousness hidden beneath her vivacity...

After a long while, she leaned slightly forward and whispered in his ear in a voice only they could hear:

"It's you."

These two words are as light as a feather, yet as heavy as Mount Tai.

"So... it was you all along."

This is not a question, but a verdict that has been reached.

She finally found a reasonable explanation for the many questions that had been nagging at her. Why was Nymph's spirituality so pure yet so contradictory? Why was she so devoted to paths similar to Watson's ideals? Why did she always feel a strange sense of familiarity and a destiny-like pull towards Nymph...?

It turns out that the cunning gray sparrow never truly left the branch. She simply changed her feathers, hiding under a seemingly harmless shell, coldly observing the joys and sorrows of the world, and even... personally intervening, guiding one tragic fate after another, including her own.

Madam Mossang slowly straightened up, but her gaze remained fixed on Nymph, like an invisible shackle still binding her, as if nailing her soul to this spot. The surrounding air grew heavier and more stagnant due to the suppressed undercurrent within her heart.

She didn't show any intense emotions, nor did she question or accuse. The dark-haired beauty simply lowered her eyes, reached out again, and gently stroked the nymph's hair, which was disheveled by the sea breeze. The gesture was almost tender, a comforting gesture towards the nymph herself.

However, the gaze conveyed through the black veil spoke volumes with a cold and clear tone—

I've found you, and I won't let you leave again.

This silent declaration is more chilling than any condemnation.

Finally, she gave Ningfu a deep look, but didn't bother to reveal the last vestige of her feelings. She simply faded away, like ink dripping into still water, blurring and dissipating from the edges.

This departure was more thorough and resolute than any before, as if it were a declaration.

That moment won't be far off.

One-on-one Western fantasy farming and immortality oranges, don't forget me wherever you go.

Chapter 243 Pursuit, and More Pursuit

When the news of Emperor Rothari's defeat and death, and the destruction of the main force of the Empire's invincible fleet, spread like wildfire through the streets and alleys of the Hadings Empire, accompanied by the printing of extra editions and the hoarse cries of newsboys, this vast country that relied on military force to maintain its strength seemed to have had its spine completely removed.

At first, there was an unbelievable, deathly silence, followed by a cataclysmic panic and chaos. In the streets and alleys, people gathered before walls displaying notices, their faces etched with bewilderment and fear. The Emperor, the invincible ruler who symbolized the pinnacle of the empire's military might, was dead? Dead at the hands of the once-despised, weak Duchy of Plantagenet? This news was more devastating than any rumor of defeat, shattering the long-held sense of superiority and security instilled in the empire's people.

"Impossible! His Majesty, he is the 'King of War'!"

"It's fake! It must be a rumor spread by those lowly people from the Golden Flower Clan!"

"The fleet, how could our invincible fleet...?"

Rumors and panic began to spread throughout the city, causing prices, especially for food and basic necessities, to skyrocket. Panic buying and hoarding spread rapidly. Banks were crowded with anxious people demanding cash, and the empire's financial system became chaotic and fragile. In some remote provinces and among nobles who already harbored ambitions, signs of clandestine activity became increasingly apparent, and cracks began to quietly emerge on the seemingly monolithic empire.

Inside the palace, the nobles and high-ranking officials who once groveled before the emperor's majesty, even their breathing trembling with fear, began to have shifty eyes after their initial shock and feigned mourning. The supreme throne, now vacant, had lost the deterrent of the strongest military force, and the accumulated contradictions and ambitions, like wild beasts breaking free of their chains, began to bare their fangs.

Disputes over succession, disagreements over political views, and the redistribution of interests... Moderates, radicals, members of the royal collateral branches, and powerful figures in the military—each faction, like hyenas smelling blood, are sizing each other up and testing the waters amidst the undercurrents, with small-scale friction and infighting already emerging. Intrigues and deals are quietly made amidst the clinking of glasses, and this vast empire, having lost its powerful helmsman, is sliding at an alarming speed into a vortex of internal division and chaos.

Meanwhile, on the scorched earth of the Broom, this earth-shattering news reached the ears of the Hastings soldiers, who were still fighting bloody battles in a foreign land, even faster.

At first, there were suppressed whispers, which quickly turned into an uncontrollable commotion and uproar. The Emperor was dead? The invincible Armada was destroyed? This was like a bolt from the blue. That pillar, which was almost the very foundation of their beliefs, was the symbol of the Empire's military might! Even the Emperor had fallen. These isolated troops, trapped deep in enemy territory and with their supply lines dwindling, had nowhere to advance or retreat. Like rootless duckweed, where was their way home?

Panic and despair, like deadly poison gas, rapidly eroded the morale of Hastings' army. The disorientation brought about by the collapse of faith, coupled with anxieties about retreat and supplies, caused the strict military discipline to crumble. Ammunition ran out, medicine was scarce, food rations were drastically reduced, the soldiers lost their will to fight, the offensive became weak and ineffective, and the defensive lines were riddled with holes under the enemy's fierce attack.

In stark contrast, the Plantagenet army and the resistance were riding high on unprecedented morale! They chanted the names of heroes—Rodney, Nymph, and all those who had perished in the naval battle. The flames of revenge and the determination to defend their homeland burned fiercely in their hearts, transforming into an invincible blade.

With this shift in momentum, the tide of battle began to turn decisively. The previously stalemate, or even slightly advantageous, front lines crumbled like an avalanche as the enemy's flank forces seized the opportunity to launch a counterattack. Hastings' soldiers abandoned their armor and weapons, surrendering or scattering in organized groups.

In this overwhelming torrent, even Sophoby, an extraordinary being, was like a fallen leaf, unable to remain unscathed.

Her unit was routed by a main force of the Plantagenets, whose morale was high. Despite her valiant resistance through her personal bravery and skill, her individual strength seemed so insignificant in the face of the overall collapse. Shells exploded around her, and familiar comrades fell one after another in pools of blood.

The meticulously modified rifle in her hand had already overheated, and her sword had chipped from countless parries and slashes. A stray shrapnel mercilessly tore through her armor at the waist, leaving a deep, bone-revealing wound, and blood quickly soaked through the hem of her uniform.

"Retreat! Retreat to the second line of defense!" the officer shouted hoarsely, but the defeat was already inevitable.

Sufby gritted her teeth, clutching her bleeding wound, and staggered backward. Her face, soaked in blood and revealing a hint of her true form, was now covered in mud, etched with resentment, pain, and confusion. The fall of the emperor and the reversal of the war made the vengeful belief that had sustained her all along seem almost laughable.

For whom is she fighting? And why is she fighting? With her wronged father's mastermind dead, what reason does she have to continue fighting for that honor?

No, she cannot die here. The deep-seated obsession within her has not faded. She must see the mentor those soldiers spoke of and ascertain that her faint hope is false.

Just as this routed army was fleeing like headless flies, about to be surrounded by enemy soldiers and face total annihilation—

A peculiar group appeared at the edge of the battlefield. Leading them was the little parrot wearing that oversized, blood-stained medical robe.

Her face still bore the traces of childishness, but her eyes held a depth of resolve and compassion beyond her years. She held aloft a simple white flag with a crudely drawn medical cross in charcoal, and behind her were countless medical personnel and stragglers who, recently guided by her, were drawn to her ideals and willingly obeyed her orders.

"Stop! All of you stop! Look around you, look at this land!"

Her voice had a strange penetrating power that made the sounds of fighting pause for a moment.

"Soldiers of Hastings! Your Emperor is dead! The source of your loyalty has vanished! Your fleet is destroyed, your supplies are cut off, and you have been abandoned on this unfamiliar land! What will you gain by continuing to fight, except to die meaninglessly?!"

She immediately turned to the soldiers of the Golden Broom: "My fellow Golden Broom soldiers! The invaders' spines have been broken! They are no longer invincible demons; they, like us, are pitiful people who have lost their homeland! This war, which has shed too much blood, must end!"

She opened her arms as if to embrace this ravaged land and all the suffering souls:

"The source of injustice and bloodshed has fallen! We no longer need to fight each other! Hastings people, Plantagenet people, we are all just ordinary people who want to live!"

The girl slammed the flag she was holding onto the ground, her gaze sweeping over the faces of both sides, which were filled with fear, anger, or confusion.

"Put down your weapons! What we need to do now is not to kill each other, but to survive, and then together persuade and tell those who are still fighting for power that this land, this wounded nation, and the people living on it, need peace and reconstruction, not endless hatred!"

Her words were like a breath of fresh air on a bloody battlefield, directly addressing the most basic desire in people's hearts—survival. There were no rousing slogans, only a deep appreciation for life. Many Hastings soldiers lowered their raised guns in a daze, the madness and despair in their eyes gradually replaced by bewilderment and homesickness. And some Plantagenet soldiers, looking at these ragged, emaciated enemies before them, felt hatred in their hearts, but also not without sympathy and pity.

A potential massacre was quietly averted by Melina's heartfelt cry. She may not have realized that on the ruins where Dr. Bella had sacrificed herself, what she lit was not just a lamp to save lives, but a new banner symbolizing transcending hatred and pursuing coexistence.

Instead of engaging in empty talk, the little parrot led the group in assigning tasks for rescue and disaster relief. Wounded soldiers were brought into tents in an orderly manner to receive temporary treatment, and the wildfires ignited by artillery shells were extinguished by enthusiastic volunteers working together.

Once everything was settled and there was no one else around, Melina turned her head and softly called out the name of her former colleague.

No surprise, the blood had already washed away most of the disguise, allowing the red-haired girl's pretty face to see the light of day.

"Melina..."

Sofby bit her lower lip. From the moment the white flag appeared and that figure stood still, she already knew the answer in her heart. However, she was still taken aback. She had never imagined that the leader standing under the flag of cessation of war, the girl who had lost some of her childishness but whose eyes were firm, would be Melina, whom she remembered talking loudly in the Tingen Salon and always following Watson.

A complex mix of emotions, difficult to describe, instantly gripped Sofby. There was a slight sense of relief at encountering an old friend in a foreign land, a shame and embarrassment at being witnessed by an acquaintance in her most wretched state, and even more so, a deep sense of guilt stemming from her past identity and position—she was an officer in Hastings, a member of the invaders, while Melina was now saving the lives of these "enemies," including herself.

She instinctively straightened her back, trying to maintain her dignity, but the sharp pain in her side made her sway and almost fall.

Melina quickly stepped forward, reached out to support her, and skillfully examined her wound, her brow furrowed. "Don't move, the wound is deep, and you've lost a lot of blood; it needs immediate treatment."

This pure, unbiased concern, like a needle, gently pierced some of the hard barriers in Sofby's heart. She let Melina help her, and leaned against a half-collapsed wall to rest.

"You, how could you..." Sofby looked at the busy figures behind Melina, who were rescuing the wounded without distinguishing between friend and foe, and at the rough medical cross flag in Melina's hand. She already understood, but she couldn't help but ask.

“It’s Dr. Bella.” Melina paused, a deep sorrow flashing in her eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a more resolute light. “She taught me that life itself is above all factions and hatred.” She didn’t say much, but Sufby could feel the weight of her emotions.

After a simple cleaning and bandaging, Melina raised her head and looked directly into Sofby's eyes. Those eyes, once filled with romantic fantasies, were now clear and firm: "Sofby, this war should end. The Emperor's death is an opportunity, but a ceasefire on the battlefield alone is not enough. We need someone to persuade the current leaders of Plantagenet to establish a true, sustainable peace, not just a temporary truce, much less a one-sided reckoning."

She paused, her tone becoming more serious: "I must meet with the current ruler of the Duchy, the representative of the Enlightenment Society, and... the man deeply revered by the soldiers on the front lines, whom they call 'Mentor.' We must persuade them to accept the conditional surrender of the Hastings soldiers, to stop the pointless pursuit, and to open the path to peace talks. This is not only mercy to the defeated, but also for the long-term stability and future of this land. Continuing war and accumulating hatred will only breed more and deeper tragedies."

"Mentor?" Sophie's heart skipped a beat. This title vaguely overlapped with the figure she had heard from the wounded soldiers, someone possibly connected to Watson. Suppressing her excitement and doubt, she asked calmly, "You're going to see that 'mentor'?"

“Yes.” Melina nodded, her eyes shining. “She is one of the leading figures in the spirit of Plantagenet today. She is said to be deeply loved by the soldiers. Her attitude is crucial, and…” She hesitated for a moment, then continued, “Her ideals are somewhat similar to ours. Perhaps she can understand that what we want to build is not just a vacuum without war, but a fairer and more hopeful future.”

Sophie remained silent for a moment, her mind racing. Then, she raised her head. Although she was still weak and her heart was filled with conflict, the deep-seated obsession with the truth about Watson overwhelmed everything at this moment. If that "mentor" truly had an intricate connection with Watson, then this might be the only chance to unravel all the mysteries.

At the same time, she couldn't deny that Melina's words hit the nail on the head. This war truly needed to end. Her father's injustice and the honor of the Dill family seemed insignificant and stubborn in the face of such a grand historical tragedy and countless lives lost. Perhaps, contributing to true peace was also a form of self-redemption and a new beginning.

“I’ll go with you.” Sophby’s voice was weak, but it carried a firm will. “Not as the alias ‘Luna,’ but as Sophby Dill.”

The agreement was thus reached. The two entrusted the aftermath of the incident to Melina's trusted deputy, instructing him to keep a close watch on the Hastings soldiers who had laid down their weapons and to do everything in his power to treat all the wounded. Then, supporting each other, they walked unsteadily but with a clear goal toward the fortress that symbolized the center of power and might hold the answers.

And all of this is exactly what a certain wicked woman behind the scenes would like to see happen.

......

Our gaze swept past scorched earth and smoke, through the quiet streets of Florence, and arrived at the headquarters of the Steam Church, a complex network of pipes and wires.

Like ink strokes on a brush, the obituary writer, returning from the battlefield, has a clear objective: the interior of the sanctuary, or rather, the girl Winnie who is climbing step by step within it through her talent and hard work.

In the blink of an eye, Ms. Mossam appeared silently in the outer corridor of the noisy hall where Winnie worked, filled with differential engines and drive shafts. Winnie was intently checking a stack of new data reports, her brows slightly furrowed and her eyes focused.

"Winnie Shana".

A cold voice sounded from behind her, startling Winnie. She turned around abruptly and saw the obituary announcer, dressed in black and exuding an elegant demeanor, silently watching her.

“Ms. Mo… Mossan?” Winnie quickly stood up, giving a slightly awkward bow, her heart filled with confusion and doubt. She had met this woman in Tingen before and had learned a little about her through church documents. But why would such an important figure suddenly come to see someone as insignificant as her, a lowly clerk?

Without much small talk, Ms. Mossant got straight to the point. "How much do you know about Josephine Watson?"

Hearing the name they were still searching for, the little sparrow's eyes widened slightly, a fleeting hint of panic and sorrow crossing her face. "Miss Watson...she, she's not already..."

"Is your heart truly so certain?" There was no room for argument; at this moment, there was no inclination for further words. The beautiful woman's tone was slightly cold. "If that were truly the case, you wouldn't have so persistently followed a clearly visible path from Tingen to Florence."

She took a step forward, closing in on Winnie, her gaze behind the black veil sharp as a hawk's:

"Winnie, are you, like me, chasing after an illusion that may never have truly vanished?"

This is one of the reasons why she didn't expose Nymph's disguise on the spot—she needed to gather these "birds out of the nest" who had been influenced by the same person and were perhaps also kept in the dark. Only in this way could she gather enough strength to issue a more powerful question in the future face-to-face confrontation.

“I’ve glimpsed a clue in some subtle traces, some clues closely related to her. Winnie, your persistence in staying here and climbing upwards shouldn’t just be for the knowledge of the Steam Church, but also to use the convenience of your actions to find the truth about her ‘death,’ right?”

Ms. Mossang's words were like a key, instantly unlocking the box in Winnie's heart that had been deliberately suppressed, filled with questions and obsessions.

"You...you also have suspicions?" The girl's voice trembled. "What exactly did you discover?"

“One possibility. Watson may just be one of several faces used by some being to disguise herself. She may never have really died. At this moment, she may just have changed into a brand new coat of feathers and is hiding in a brand new body, coldly watching the various sorrows and struggles we show in our pursuit of the so-called 'truth'.”

She paused slightly, observing Winnie's reaction, before posing a more specific question:

Have you ever had this thought? Or, among the people you know, is there anyone who seems to fit this possibility?

The more Winnie heard, the more rapid her breathing became. The clues connected, and Ms. Mossant's words perfectly completed the most crucial piece of the puzzle. Before the beautiful woman could finish her question, a long-suppressed name, almost bursting forth, suddenly escaped her lips:

Charlotte Earl!

As the sound left her mouth, in the distance underground, the slender, cold spider gathered its silken threads, carefully observing through its destiny the scenes that were either confirmed or chasing after her. She slowly raised the corners of her lips, her bright smile undisguised.

Yes, speak up, birds, I await your arrival at my door.

Chapter 244 Closing the Book (The End of the Main Story)

The former royal palace of the Duchy of Plantagenet, though still a symbolic center of the new regime, has lost its former extravagance, leaving only the oppressive atmosphere and caution characteristic of power transitions. The smooth marble corridors reflect a cold light as Melina and Sufby walk one after the other, their steps heavy as if dragging invisible shackles.

They had just finished a meeting with the ruling class of the principality, and their chests felt as if they were filled with cold cotton wool.

It was not the mentor they sought to meet who received them, but Melissand.