Bad woman, am I pretending to be bad?

If you look up, the moonlight doesn't seem like moonlight. If you insist on calling it moonlight, there must be an endless field of flowers on this crescent moon. Everywhere you look, there are glowing grasses and dancing flower clusters. The bright moonlight is not visible in the atmospheric circulation. It is like burning incense and drifting in the air. In the distance, there are faint streams of fireflies, all of which are thriving.

With a gentle sway of his legs, like a sparrow taking flight, Watson waits, waiting for the final scene of the entire play.

As promised, the moon's light faded, finally tangent to the rising dawn line as the moon's horizontal plane sank. The lingering light sent a message through the edge of the moon, its thread as light as the boundless sky, soothing the restless darkness, composing a final lullaby, and leaving a farewell message.

She smiled, her lips curving upwards, just as she had when she first stepped onto the stage. She said:

Goodnight, world.

Chapter 86 Goodnight, World (Part 2)

rustle......

The flickering candlelight is the soft sound of a pen tip touching white paper, writing words and phrases.

A gentle breeze stirred the curtains and made the windowpane tremble slightly. Charlotte was bent over her desk, writing slowly and carefully.

Hearing the rustling nocturne and seeing the faint dawn, she seemed to awaken from a dream. Her delicate eyelashes trembled slightly, her fingers holding the pen hesitated, and the ink spread out in a daze.

"Its daybreak."

It was a gentle sigh.

Wiping away the fine sweat from my forehead, even as a close friend, after a long night of hard work, I still felt a little tired.

Fortunately, this was not a wasted effort.

She placed the letters into envelopes, lit the sealing wax, and turned off the nightlight. The girl then opened the hotel window and quietly observed the alternation of the moon phases and the morning glow.

She wrote all night, poured out her heart, and did not waste any time. What she wrote was a farewell letter, an apology letter, a gift to the little birds, to Ms. Mossant, to the old detective, and to all those who cared about her.

She said to the little birds:

I'm sorry, I lied after all. This parting is forever.

Meeting you is my destined good fortune. Buildings and high walls have shaped my past, and arrogance and pride were my past, but this short time together has added color to my upcoming journey.

If I had a healthy body, perhaps we could sit on an unknown park bench, snuggling together and feeling each other's warmth, watching couples laughing and joking in the bustling crowds by the roadside, and a mother holding a young child and a father gently humming a lullaby.

If I were just an ordinary girl, perhaps we could watch the night quietly fall, the neon lights paint the earth, and in the fifteen minutes before the last rays of the setting sun have faded and the first streetlamp has yet to light up, perhaps you would receive a kiss, a slightly bitter, citrus-flavored kiss.

Unfortunately, Watson had nothing, she was nothing, and never was.

She was a patient, terminally ill and on the verge of death.

So, in my limited life, I want to try my best to do something more for you and for those in similar situations, even if it's not what you expect. But I have no time left, and nothing more to give you.

Love the house and the bird.

So please forgive my selfishness, forgive my wishful thinking...

rustle......

High in the clouds, a heavy cloud hung down. Charlotte spread her fingers and peered out the window. Tiny, translucent raindrops fell from the eaves and into her palm.

The girl stared intently as she watched the raindrops gather into drops, forming a cool sensation in her palm.

It wasn't snow, it was rain.

Suddenly, the spring tide has swept away the cold of winter, the rain has melted the thin, chilly snow, dawn is breaking, and the flowers are about to bloom.

For some reason, Charlotte suddenly felt a sense of unreality.

She used to do this often, cupping rainwater in her hands. But back then, she was still a lone wolf, struggling through harsh winters, enduring wind and rain, barely surviving, battered and bruised. She had not yet experienced this new yet fleeting life as Watson.

Those memories are so vivid, as if they were engraved in my bones. I haven't forgotten a bit, and I can't forget them even if I wanted to.

Compared to them, the journey I've taken so far seems more like a fleeting dream.

It can't be a dream.

Charlotte was certain of this. She unzipped the suitcase and looked at the paintings drawn in the twilight, the turquoise gem embedded in her bosom, and the small box containing the Sachertorte. The ripples in her heart gradually subsided.

After saying goodbye to the hotel where she had spent the night, the girl went to the newly established post office, divided the envelopes into several parts, handed them to the receptionist, and instructed her on the time and address for mailing each one.

It wasn't just a simple farewell. Over the course of the night, she wrote a great deal. She imagined what the birds might say after she left, where they might go, and who they might meet. With these thoughts in mind, she wrote a reply that was destined to go unanswered.

A week, a month, a year...

This is a prayer that one does not want others to forget, a humble reminder, written by hand under the lamplight before death, suppressing grief. It tells of how the promise of the past was broken, and how that farewell was never to be repeated.

Those letters, delivered reluctantly and sent through intermediaries, will eventually cease to be exchanged.

Only at the moment of her death did the silver-haired girl grasp the last piece of paper in her hand.

As if feeling the warmth of the little sparrows' fingertips, tears streamed down her face, yet she wore a serene smile; the traces of tears on the paper lingered for a long time.

What a sorrowful farewell, as if the whole world has shrunk, turning into thin sheets of paper. The departed me, the emotions that can no longer be retrieved, are like words that only live on paper, visible but untouchable.

It would be very interesting to witness it in person, but it is not a pity if we cannot see it. Many beautiful things in the world are like this: they are more beautiful when they are covered up, and they lose their beauty when they are exposed.

The pleasure lies not in writing the letter, but in the anticipation of waiting.

What would the birds' reaction be upon seeing this? How haggard would Watson have looked when he wrote the letter? Despite trying so hard to forget the sorrow, receiving a reply from before brings back vivid memories of the past, warm and comforting. All the emotions deepen in her thoughts, involuntarily drifting towards a blissful state, and the girl's gloomy mood suddenly lifts—

Watson will eventually depart, while Charlotte will return, sitting quietly to the side, casually mentioning the detective, watching the birds' expressions of grief for the deceased, and seeing their silent sorrow and even regret.

The horse's hooves swept across the stone path, splashing water droplets that landed on the girl's face, staining her fair skin with a drop of black ink.

Without wiping her fingers, she turned to look at the distant mansion, a luxurious and absurd building in the heart of the city, surrounded by greenery. It was the venue for the "Blooming Flowers" art exhibition, Sir Bathory's property, and also the prison where Miss Earlshaw was held.

It's time to get going.

As I walked onto the wide road, the clamor of voices was like waves crashing on the shore, endlessly echoing in my ears, and all around me was a dense, dark mass of people.

After a long snowfall, the sun finally shone through. Even if it was just rain or sunshine, it was a weekend festival day, and with a grand event being held, the people of Tingen all set off to attend, shoulder to shoulder, surging from all directions to the central area, towards the courtyard bathed in the rising sun.

With ribbons fluttering and colorful flags waving, a giant hot air balloon floated directly above the city, displaying the words "[The Flourishing Flower Art Exhibition Officially Opens, A New Chapter in the Empire's Great Cause!]" in large characters that could be seen even from a kilometer away.

Charlotte stood on a platform suspended by two ropes, the kind of swing that children love. She didn't mean to take up the children's favorite facility, but she couldn't see anything if she didn't find a good spot. It was so crowded, and she wasn't tall, so all she could see were scalps of people.

Slightly annoyed, the girl shook the suspension rope. She hated crowds, but even a carriage could hardly move in such a throng.

"I didn't expect Josephine to have such a childlike heart."

A cool female voice cut through the rain and reached Charlotte's ears.

Turning around, she caught a glimpse of long, snow-white hair, and saw the once solemn and dignified beauty remove her robes, wearing a mesh beret, wide-legged trousers, and a knitted turtleneck—a completely casual outfit.

That is the Goddess Sword of the Papacy, Sylva.

Not feeling the slightest shame at being caught for her childish behavior, Charlotte looked directly at those delicate eyebrows and explained earnestly.

"Childlike heart? It's not childlike heart, it's just that I've never grown up. Whether I'm seventeen or seventy, I hope I can live as easily and happily as I did when I was a child."

Raising an eyebrow, as if clashing with a needle, Silva disagreed, but walked to the young lady's side, pondered for a moment, and then said in a deep voice.

"That's difficult. Children's happiness depends to a large extent on their limited understanding of the world. Rather than age, it is the deepening understanding of the world that makes it difficult for us to be as carefree as we were in childhood."

These words were spoken too formally, but they were indeed an undeniable truth. Charlotte nodded, unusually yielding to the situation.

To encounter the goddess's representative in this remote place seems unexpected, but it's actually quite reasonable. Every action leaves a trace, and with enough effort, one can always trace back to the person in question.

So she asked directly.

“Indeed, even children have their own troubles. Well then, Ms. Silva, let’s not discuss this anymore. You’re dressed quite elegantly, but I suppose you have something important to discuss with me? Or perhaps—”

"You want to stop me?"

With a push of her feet, Charlotte made the swing sway, and silver and gray fluff danced in the air like wafting waves of wheat.

"Josephine Watson, age seventeen, a Welsh Plantagenet, entered the country as a refugee during the war. She has been staying in Tingen for half a month, during which time she has shown kindness to the laborers. Seven days ago, she shot Talon and Vorn, and five days ago she privately tried Bright and his group from the India Party, completing the ceremony of promotion and becoming an Extraordinary."

Without answering the question, the white-haired beauty calmly recounted the girl's life story, while also holding onto the suspension rope to slightly reduce the swaying motion and prevent any accident that might injure the girl.

"Ok?"

Charlotte let out a soft hum, not surprised that her actions had been exposed—it was bound to happen sooner or later—but she didn't recall having obtained an entry permit.

and so--

"Madam, are you planning to treat me like a wild consumable and imprison or arrest me?"

Charlotte loosened her hands and raised them in front of her, as if resigning herself to the other party's will, and let herself rise and fall with the swing, enjoying the graceful movements.

She asked that question on purpose; if this impartial swordsman had any ulterior motives, he wouldn't have talked to her so much.

With a furrowed brow, Silva seemed to be dissatisfied with the girl's words.

"The proliferation of wild extraordinary individuals will endanger the people. They are too easily out of control and will go to extremes. Therefore, they must be restrained by laws and regulations."

“Even without extraordinary individuals, people still live difficult and miserable lives. What is unseen from a high vantage point is more profound and cruel than what is considered out of control. Ms. Silva, have you heard people’s dwindling pleas for help? Have you seen their pleading eyes?”

Charlotte jumped off the swing, turned her head, and the smile on her face vanished, replaced by a scrutinizing gaze.

"People toiled day and night, struggling to eat dry, cold black bread, wrapped in their clothes and blankets, selling off things that were no longer of value, just trying to survive as long as possible in this winter. I am not trying to explain this to myself; there is no need for that. Just as life to me is merely a spring flower that blooms and withers as it pleases."

“I don’t understand the church or the practice of its doctrines, so I won’t criticize this or demand that. You can certainly imprison me in the future, but not today, absolutely not.”

Hearing the girl's voice, Silva remained unmoved, simply repeating it with remarkable calm.

Give me a reason, or tell me, who are you?

Without hesitation, the silver-haired girl lowered the brim of her hat and expressionlessly concealed her brows and eyes in the pouring spring rain.

"Raindrops are about to fall on my head. Who cares whether this shelter is from the rain or from the rubble? What if I were willing to be one of those rubble?"

She stated in her own words that she was certain:

"As you said, I am Josephine Watson, an accuser seeking justice, a fearless devotee, a lone figure struggling to survive in a deadly, hurried game of chess, and an ordinary person."

After a long silence, Silva slightly raised her lips. This was the first time Charlotte had seen a smile on her face. Unlike her indifferent and cold attitude, her smile had a warm and gentle quality, like the morning light melting the ice.

The white-haired beauty took out a crimson longsword from the sword pouch she carried on her back, brushed away the dust, and gently shook the sword, causing water droplets to fall.

"Go ahead and do it. I will take up the sword for you. This is not whether the law allows it, but what the people want."

This time, it was Charlotte's turn to be puzzled. She was not familiar with Silva, nor did she have any reason to help him.

"why?"

"Because there will always be people who use power, wealth, and malicious means to dominate other lives. And when they accept the rule that the stronger will judge the weaker, they should not complain or accuse me."

Silva turned to the side, leaning against the girl's shoulder and whispering in her ear.

"Today is the weekend, and as I am dressed, I am not a priest, but just an ordinary person, like those ordinary people you have helped."

People mingled, eyes blinked, and the crowd before them remained, while the beauty had vanished without a trace, leaving only the whispered promise that lingered in their ears.

Recalling that gentle smile, Charlotte felt a little smug, and couldn't help but smile slightly.

Getting a free help? What? My charm is truly unmatched!

As they joined the crowd, countless figures had already gathered in the heart of the city. Among them were nobles, travelers, celebrities, and commoners, ranging from impeccably dressed gentlemen to emaciated workers. The bustling crowd had all come for this highly anticipated art exhibition.

Sunlight and raindrops filtered through the tall plane trees, scattering across the classical and solemn facade of the courtyard. Golden spots of light intertwined with the shadows of the building, as if foreshadowing the extraordinary nature of this artistic feast.

I opened my pocket watch; it was exactly eight o'clock. The distant clock tower rang as scheduled, and the welcoming band finally began to play a light melody amidst the backdrop of the azure sea and luxurious skyscrapers.

Looking around, Charlotte soon spotted several familiar faces—people she had once helped in times of hardship. In addition, she also found her three little birds.

The little parrot stood in the inner circle, quite different from the loud, elegant nobles. The little peacock and sparrow were in the outer circle, standing in the rain-soaked mud with a group of simply dressed people, as if they were born inferior.

The only thing they had in common was that all three looked around, as if searching for their own sun in the crowd.

Seeing this, Charlotte stood on top of a bust and raised her arm to indicate the location. She didn't recognize who the statue depicted, but judging from the way people passed by bowed and saluted from time to time, it must have been a high-ranking person in life.

Thanks to what they had learned, the three little birds quickly found Watson, and their faces visibly lit up with surprise, like flowers blooming brightly in the warm sunshine on the horizon.

But the exchange of glances was soon overshadowed by a loud voice. The curtain slowly rose, revealing armed guards lined up on both sides of the central courtyard passage, and lights were lit one by one from all directions.

"Ladies and gentlemen, as winter fades and spring approaches, on this sacred day of transition, we gather here to appreciate art, both refined and popular. We are fortunate to be blessed by the Emperor, and together we will witness the prosperity of the Empire, the future of Tingen, and the power of art and the pursuit of beauty as flowers are about to bloom."

The high-ranking officials who curated the exhibition emerged one after another from behind the door, while reporters, armed with their cameras and microphones, captured the charisma of each guest and master, their voices rising and falling incessantly.

The man at the head of the group nodded slightly to the crowd. He wore a brocade robe with gold trim and was adorned with exquisite jewels. Although his demeanor was elegant, his expression carried an air of arrogance.

Through conversations with others, Charlotte quickly confirmed the man's identity. He matched the descriptions in the portraits and rumors; he was Clive Bathory, the nobleman from Tingen, the mastermind behind Miss Earl's family's downfall.

Unlike the arrogance she displayed then, Leona, who had been domineering at the tea party, simply placed her hands in front of her stomach and obediently bowed to everyone, as if she were reluctantly forcing a smile.

They are enemies, and adversaries.

So--

With fingers spread wide, the seal 3071 extended its roots, piercing into Charlotte's flesh and sucking the puppet's entire spirit and flesh.