Bad woman, am I pretending to be bad?

It is a melodious singing voice, a leisurely nocturne, and a long-lasting eulogy.

Clad in a simple black robe and with a dark veil covering her face, the once beautiful woman known as the Goddess's Sword has now tied up her long hair, bent her knees, and gently presented a bouquet of pure white lilies before the tombstone.

The girl sleeping in the coffin was so serene and beautiful. Her slender figure remained, but her soft hair did not stray. It slid down from her snowy neck and delicate shoulders, scattering against the background of the driftwood like a clear stream.

The dawn light, the shallow shadows.

Intertwined, a faint radiance draped over the girl, settling on her clasped hands, layer upon layer, like a dream.

Her hazy, sickly appearance, adorned with overflowing red embellishments, showed no trace of the deceased's decline or struggle. Surrounded only by jacaranda trees and the vibrant breath of spring, she was like a perfect work of art, a doll peacefully entering a dream.

"Eh......"

Alone, leaning against the wall of the cemetery, the renowned old detective of Tingen watched the graves being laid and heard the mourning. Memories welled up in his heart, and he felt a deep sense of regret and helplessness.

If he had hesitated and hadn't fired that bullet back then, would his assistant have survived? Would he have been at peace with himself, instead of suffering all this sorrow today?

No, if the evening bells fall silent, the girl will definitely be furious, like a puffed-up little hedgehog, jumping around questioning his presumptuous decision, and then raising her quills to retaliate against him.

Yes, if they knew but didn't follow, they wouldn't be a well-coordinated team. If they didn't know each other, Watson wouldn't have entrusted this matter to him in the first place.

With his pipe half-lit, Singh looked up at the thin clouds in the sky, remaining silent for a long time. The girl's reminder still echoed in his ears, but she was gone, and he no longer needed to follow it.

—Mr. Singh, if you want your lungs to be punctured like steel wool, then go ahead and smoke all this opium.

Unable to resist his half-month-long addiction, he inhaled a puff of smoke, swallowing the pungent aroma into his lungs. A slight intoxication followed, giving him an unforgettable taste, just like that moment.

The old detective left, unwilling to dwell on the birds' sorrow. He blamed himself, and also the departed girl.

Ending your partner's life with your own hands, how cruel is that? Watson, have you ever considered me a friend, even in the slightest?

The stone slabs were placed back on top, the grave was filled in, and sand was poured down little by little. The shepherds of the choir bowed their heads in silent mourning with Silva, and accompanied the departing swordsman into the distance. Perhaps it was a few minutes or a long, long time, but in the vast cemetery, only three birds that had once clung to the big tree remained, now lonely and helpless.

Winnie knelt quietly before the tombstone, oblivious to the redness, soreness, and numbness in her knees. Melina stood a little further away, holding a pen and paper, sincerely trying to distract herself by writing, but she couldn't manage it.

The tears had long since dried, and the lingering red marks on their faces and their swollen eyelids spoke volumes about their sorrow. One had been their teacher, the other their pen pal; the beautiful visions they had once shared had vanished with the passing of life.

Sophie was the same, even more so; she tied up her bright red hair and stared blankly at the rows of tombstones.

I haven't slept for three days. A haggard, pale complexion clung to my body and mind, but my heart was like a stagnant lake, without wind, rain, waves, or ripples. How could a walking corpse possibly stir up any more waves?

Until a black tulle gown rustled through the wild grass, its cool, clear voice echoing in the air, drifting past my ears.

The blonde beauty wiped away the newly added dust from the tombstone, took a bunch of white flowers from the bouquet in her hands, and gently inserted its broken branches into the moist soil.

She slowly read aloud the epitaph she had written herself, saying:

Do not weep at my grave.

I am not there, I have not been asleep.

I am the spring breeze blowing through a thousand winds.

It is the glistening flow of snowflakes.

I am a ray of sunshine on the ripening threshing floor.

It was a gentle, clear autumn rain.

When you wake up from the tranquility of the morning,

I then became a bird, chirping and flapping my wings.

It hovered quietly in the air.

I will become a star, blinking and shining brightly.

Silently gazing at the night sky.

Do not weep at my grave.

I am not there; I have not fallen asleep forever.

The voice, neither dry nor irritable, rose gently from the throat, carrying little emotion, yet with a hint of melancholy, as if one had been sleepless for a long time and was just waking from a long dream.

"Miss O'Shaw, you?"

The little sparrow turned around and saw the graceful figure and sensed the melancholy air, and knew who it was.

After Bathory's glory was crushed by the people's grief and indignation, this widowed young lady was confined to the courtyard and, thanks to Watson's kindness in not meeting her, had a brief acquaintance with them.

We weren't exactly familiar with each other; it was as if we were separated by mountains and seas, by distant clouds and mist, and we both consciously maintained a certain distance.

"I come to mourn my father and mother."

Charlotte nodded slightly, but did not go any further. She simply laid a wreath on the nearby tombstone. Her attitude towards the little sparrow now was that she could admire her from afar, but not touch her.

Of course, the slight comfort and the re-enactment of old scenes are still enjoyable, not to mention that she can also see the birds' deep affection and heartbreak, which is as precious as a delicacy, making it all the more wonderful.

"People will always part ways eventually. No one is indispensable. Please accept my condolences."

The mournful voice carried out Zeng Dao and Winnie's words. But when she saw the little sparrow's eyes widen, her reminiscence deepening, as if she had thought of something, Charlotte smiled inwardly.

Don't blame her for being deliberate, don't blame her for being heartless.

Charlotte understood emotions too well, yet she had never loved anyone. The closest thing to love she ever felt in her long life was probably for the woman who brought her to heaven, yet imprisoned her in hell.

The woman who took her in but then imprisoned her, the woman who cared for her for the first half of her life but then tormented her for the rest of her life, walked a long, bloodied road home before she died, and used her last strength to unlock herself.

His last words were just one sentence, spoken through tears and laughter—"You are free."

Charlotte was deeply saddened when she saw the woman's body. She felt she should do something for this woman, so after escaping, she found a secluded corner and silently wept.

She was really crying, very heartbroken. After all, after being abandoned by her biological parents, she had only ever felt warmth in that cage, and now she had to return to a life of hardship and deprivation.

Perhaps those tears contained something else, something too unfamiliar, too distant, I'm not sure, maybe it was love.

Charlotte neither understood nor cared; she had long since given up on it. Watson had provided her with plenty of enjoyment. If it was true love, then she would give it a try; if it was just a passing fancy, then she would play with it as she pleased.

After all, they never truly understood each other from the beginning. Charlotte, due to her distorted upbringing, was accustomed to masking herself with an elegant and proper facade, never revealing her full truth in her relationship with the little bird. Similarly, the little bird never truly understood Watson. She was a shattered mirror; even if concealed with the finest silk, she could not hold up the black flower blooming in the barren soil. Even if she offered her love and gifts to her sun, she would hardly receive a response.

The birds and Watson were only briefly adjacent on different tracks, yet they mistakenly thought they were on the same train.

Charlotte opened her umbrella and waited silently for the sky to darken, for the three strangers to express their sorrow and leave one by one. She waited until dusk fell, and then another beautiful figure arrived.

The cool-colored gauze dress clung tightly to her waist, highlighting her slender figure. Her short, dark hair reached only to her neck, leaving most of it pale. The monk who delivered the obituary arrived late, only to receive the same old bad news.

Her little pony, her little sun, the child who nestled in her arms, sometimes pleading and sometimes whining, left her in the way she knew best.

The complete disappearance of both spirit and flesh is utter death...

Holding the glass cube in her arms, Ms. Mosang remained silent for a long time. After a moment of silence, she gently planted a bunch of unfading white flowers, muttering to herself and offering only a bitter smile.

"I'm late."

"With this power, you have helped countless people trapped in hardship. As your guide, I should be proud, but if this is the price, I would rather that chance encounter had never happened..."

The black-haired beauty reached out her fingertips and pierced through the coffin. She gently stroked the girl's face, then fell silent. She didn't remove the string of bells tied in her hair, but simply turned her back and chose to leave, to leave Tingen, this place of sorrow.

The rain fell like cotton wool, and the spring tide washed away the dust. In the night after everyone had left, the rain quietly washed over the mud and marshes, cold and silent.

Suddenly, a soft rustling sound blended with the sound of rain, the stone slab sealing the grave trembled slightly, and a slender, fair hand reached out from the soil near the ground.

Charlotte, who had been waiting for a long time, bent down and took it in her hand, gently lifting it up, like a princess awakening a knight, or a servant guarding his lady.

Just like the newborns said, "Gui'an, the returning person takes off his neat top hat, his short silver-gray hair, and straightens his back with dignity, smoothing out the wrinkles."

Her high-top Doc Martens landed firmly on the ground. With a measured pace, she pulled her cane from her suitcase, swung it halfway around, and then gently tapped it to the ground, leaving two soft thuds.

The continuous drizzle continued, and it seemed to be getting heavier, but the blonde beauty simply lowered her umbrella, creating a world that belonged only to them, and then it stopped.

Seeing this, the detective lowered her head slightly and said softly:

"Thank you."

He offered a handkerchief and apologized, not for any other reason than Charlotte's raised eyebrows and the muddy knuckles from their hands clasped together.

Fortunately, despite her obsessive-compulsive disorder, the beautiful woman was still forgiving of herself, though only a tiny bit.

Therefore, Charlotte ruthlessly tore open the shirt that had been pierced by bullets, revealing the girl's fair skin. She saw that the bleeding wounds on the barren valley were slowly healing.

Just like the charity of the past, she said:

"You are free, Watson."

"The workers of Tingen mourn your name, and the front page of the newspapers publishes your deeds, but if you want freedom, you must leave this seaside city."

Charlotte picked the white flower, plucked the string of bells, and smiled, her smile as radiant as autumn waves.

"After all, the birds are still captivated by your lingering fragrance, so go to that ancient land famous for its broom flower; what lies ahead is yours alone—"

"Hide and Seek~"

Author's Closing Remarks (You can take a look...)

First of all, thank you for reading this far.

This volume was inspired by many stories I've read recently, prompting me to put pen to paper. I originally wanted to write a more exciting and grander ending, giving everyone a chance to shine, as if fate were unveiling its curtain—that would have been quite good.

Unfortunately, I think my writing skills are limited, and I am ultimately unable to create such magnificent and grand scenes, so the writing may end up being anticlimactic.

Sorry

In fact, I often hesitate when I put pen to paper, afraid that I won't write this part in enough detail or that part in enough detail. As a result, I write very slowly and lose many readers.

Now, very few people are actually following along, which to some extent makes me even less motivated. In addition, there are the struggles when I write and the occasional criticisms, such as the flowery language and the excessive verbosity.

Well, I won't argue with that. After all, the number of viewers is the most authentic feedback, and I accept it willingly, but I've also genuinely lost confidence.

I felt that my words and sentences served the context, and I never used unnecessary filler words, so I was quite discouraged.

I'm not entirely satisfied with the first volume, but I'm also worried that if the second volume is repackaged, people won't read it anymore, which is really...

I feel like crying. I really tried my best, but I couldn't do it, and I couldn't hold on to it.

Perhaps it would be easier for me to start writing the first volume again, but it's all too late now. I need to finish the first part of the second volume before thinking about anything else.

Watson's story won't end here. You can guess what his identity will be in the second volume—he's a cunning yet gentle person.

I hope I can keep going until I finish writing this. I'll resume daily updates starting today. I hope you can stay with me. Love you all.

Chapter Ninety: Never Forget the Original Intention

Low-hanging leaden clouds, the setting sun gradually faded, and the gloomy sky offered little glimpse of sunset. A light drizzle poured down, wiping the eaves and turning into the familiar rustling sound outside the window.

Holding the spoon handle with two fingers, the blonde beauty tilted her pretty face to the side, resting her head on her arm, letting her hair fall over her shoulder, exuding a lazy and messy feeling.

"The virtuous pass away, the sun sets, and thus, a perfect tragedy is born."

The distant whistle of the ferry echoed nearby. Before the twilight could even spread across the ink-like surface, the port of Tingen had already seen off wave after wave of departing travelers, including a silver-haired girl.

The White Pearl, carrying the fragrance of freedom, new hope, and the returning dolls, sailed to the other side of the ocean, to the land where golden flowers bloom.

"But how long can this game of hide-and-seek last?"

She stirred the rich coffee with a porcelain spoon, creating a chaotic vortex. She spoke to herself, and also questioned the empty space where no one was. Then, her body, which had been leaning back, gradually leaned forward, and Charlotte's deep eyes softened.

Don't blame her for not wanting the story to be happy, for lovers to reunite; after all, Charlotte has always been an enthusiastic observer of other people's tragedies, born like a maliceful spectator.

"call."

It was a gentle, slow breath.

She reached out her fingertips and skillfully smoothed out the wrinkles and straightened the hem of her skirt. The light-colored coffee table reflected her gentle and elegant face.

Tall and slender with exquisite features, her long, fitted dress accentuated her slender shoulders and narrow back, highlighting the fullness of her hips. Her dark, inky eyes, shimmering with a captivating charm, seemed to evoke a sense of ethereal beauty, a beauty that, like a full moon waning after its fullness, naturally drew the eye with its blend of melancholy and allure.

An angelic face, a devil's heart—it is indeed a beautiful appearance, no less than anyone else I have ever seen, whether it be that opera star or that blue rose.

It's convenient, useful, and perfect for strolling around dances and winning people's favor. That's all you need.

Reaching the edge of the balcony, Charlotte watched the departing ferry light its kerosene lamp, part the waves, and listen to the birdsong fading into the distance. Heartbroken, she felt a surge of emotions.

Sending Watson overseas was not a spur-of-the-moment decision, but a long-planned one. The Hastings Empire was a one-man show under Emperor Rothali. In a political arena where interests were already set, it would be difficult for a detective without status to advance further through extraordinary means and social standing, no matter how hard she tried.

The Duchy of the Golden Flower Kingdom was different. Amidst the infighting among the imperial faction and frequent popular uprisings, even its own nobles fled to neighboring regions, struggling to survive. Who knew whether a noble lady was gaining or losing? Furthermore, in such a chaotic situation, didn't they desperately need a person of both talent and virtue to set things right and bring about a decisive victory?

Watson has such abilities, Charlotte has such thoughts, the arbitrator's promotion requires a ceremony, and disorder and chaos are equivalent to boundless opportunities. In the past, she was proficient in this, and now, following the steps upward, from a fallen heiress who left home to the savior she longs for, it is the perfect drama.

Just like in the book "The New Noble of Mossy Land," how wonderful is the carefree joy of the Earl's return? Perhaps, the history books of this world will also have more illustrious empresses?