Bad woman, am I pretending to be bad?

The sealed artifact devoured the flesh and spirit of the living puppet, the extraordinary laws stirred up emotional turmoil, and the hidden prohibitions rendered concealment ineffective. Everyone witnessed this murder, this blatant killing—the killing of the weak by the powerful.

Standing quietly in the center of the stage, Watson lowered his head and raised his eyebrows, his eyes gently closed, as if taking a nap in the approaching spring. The crimson blood soaked his clothes and overflowed from the corners of his lips.

She spoke softly, like a weak plea, or the murmur of someone falling asleep:

"Fang En knew he could never win back his lover's forgiveness. He came alone to the precipice, the morning wind whistling past his ears like steel knives scraping his heart... He didn't blame the birds' cries, he couldn't deny the initial deception, he only blamed himself for falling in love. Deep regret requires heavy pain to find relief. Rather than leaving as if nothing had happened, perhaps it would be a better choice to use the rest of his short life to silently give everything to his lover."

The sound fades, the person goes far away.

Blood and flames intertwined as the girl's body slowly slumped. Jacaranda petals fell gently, drifting down like fallen snowflakes, piling up on the ground and forming a thin layer on her body. Then, the cool breeze scattered them outwards in waves, creating a poignant scene, just like a flower bud in full bloom.

The sudden turn of events silenced the entire hall. Everyone stared at the frail young girl and the violent knight, exchanging bewildered glances, their hearts heavy with unease...

Having once received the kindness of the former, and been able to regain hope of life, now I hear those words of pleading, those overflowing bloodstains, that girl who was oppressed and murdered by the powerful, and those comrades who share the same land with them.

Gradually, some people raised their heads, and gradually, everyone raised their heads. They slowly walked towards the nobleman in the high place, and they understood the words that the girl had not spoken.

Only through bloodshed can equality be achieved.

Pebbles, spittle, tools, broken easels... they shattered the magnificent walls, flattened the smooth steps, and easily turned the powerful into a pile of mud.

Only today do I realize that what was once out of reach is now so close.

In "Rigoletto," the male lead, Fang En, doesn't seek forgiveness, but silently pays the price for his deception, giving everything as if the past false feelings were a lie. He selfishly makes another decision. How tragic, those shared moments are like a stone thrown into water, only creating ripples, unable to buy a lifetime of devotion to one another.

The curtain closed amidst the orchestra's powerful lamentations; Hua Sheng had died, surrounded by the crowd.

Chapter Eighty-Eight: Death is Rebirth (Volume Conclusion)

......

[My beloved is the moon on the turbulent sea of ​​my night; her eternal sleep has withered and faded the grass and trees.]

It's a new book that will be published in half a month.

Her slender fingers turned the last page of the book. The blonde beauty sat on the bed with her legs together, like Sleeping Beauty waking from a dream. Upon seeing the deeply moving conclusion, she also raised her thin lips and smiled gently.

She did indeed look through Birdstalk's new book, but only under the guise of Charlotte Earshaw's exoneration.

"Miss Melina, seeing is believing. Thank you for bringing this book."

Her tone was gentle, her voice melodious, and her dark blue eyes blinked and trembled slightly, her lashes fluttering, as if she were born a melancholy and lonely lilac, destined to bloom alone.

The nobleman, who was at the very top of Göttingen, died amidst the hurled stones and spittle, amidst the pent-up anger and resentment of the people, and amidst the detective's willing sacrifice.

The once prosperous manor collapsed, and the fortress and mansion were auctioned off to the public, which benefited the people. Although the empire would eventually restore order, the demands made through bloodshed would finally be taken seriously.

The workers' working conditions improved, the unreasonable deduction of wages ceased, and the exploitation of workers working day and night was strictly prohibited. The Earl Shaw family's crimes were overturned, and Charlotte was able to stand tall, leave the luxurious single room, and return to the city that was both familiar and unfamiliar to her.

Amidst pitying glances and concerned inquiries, stepping on vibrant red jacaranda leaves, she returned to the public eye, upright and dignified, yet utterly alone.

The birds no longer lingered beside her; their sweet whispers had all turned into spring mud, only able to nourish the earth beneath her feet, washed clean by winter snow.

she says:

"My long imprisonment has left me with very little knowledge of Tingen's current situation. Before I could recount our shared feelings and joys, the man who pursued his ideals died amidst the crowd's cheers. It is indeed a tragic tale. I wonder what you think of this story written by Mistletoe?"

The spring rain fell on the windowpane, making a rustling sound. The chestnut-haired girl clutched the hem of her dress, and upon hearing this, she swayed almost imperceptibly.

No longer dressed in that vibrant emerald green outfit, her skin was now covered in dark clothes, as if she were grieving and mourning the deceased. Her expression was blank, and even her chubby baby face had become much thinner, clearly showing how haggard the little parrot was.

After a long silence, Melina finally raised her head and looked at Miss O'Shaw, whom she had discussed with Watson.

Back then, she was in high spirits and, in order to spend time together, talked at length about all sorts of topics, expressing her regret at not being able to see him. But now, what does it matter whether she sees him or not?

Those I cared about are gone, and those I longed for have left.

So she simply pursed her lips and whispered.

"Mr. Todd once said that tragedy is about tearing apart the things you cherish in your heart right before your eyes. It reaches out, buries the seeds, smiles mysteriously, and waits for the day when they will blossom and bear fruit."

Her eyes slowly welled up with tears, revealing a sorrowful redness.

"As Mistletoe wished, after reading the whole story, I did shed tears for the ending. Some loves take a lifetime to forget, and some hates will also fade with time. Its greatest harm to me was that it came without warning."

As she spoke of the characters she had created, Xiao Que's mind was filled with thoughts of that dazzling silver hair, that girl who shone upon her like the rising sun, and who bowed to her like a knight.

Her name was Watson. She passed away on the last night of winter, taking with her the approaching romance of spring, and even the hearts of the birds died with her.

"I don't like this story, even though it's very well written, so very well, so realistically written, as if it really happened around me..."

It was a trembling voice, choked with sobs and unable to be slurred out.

In the past, the silver-haired girl would have leaned down to comfort the bird's small sorrow with a deep embrace, but now, the blonde beauty could only take out a handkerchief and hand it to her.

She added oil and wax to the kerosene lamp, adding light to the hazy, dim glow, but it could not illuminate the girl's eyelashes, just as the rain obscured the heart of the lake, preventing it from ever seeing the sun again.

How tragic, how pitiful. Charlotte knew the sorrow and bitterness of the person before her, but this expression was like a priceless delicacy, captivating and irresistible.

Haha, it looks really good.

She slightly curved the corners of her lips, took a sip of warm black coffee, and in the crisp morning air, hid away those deadly memories, like poison. She could only say lightly:

"Condolences."

......

Turning the page back to the moment the gunshot rang out, the fatal bullet pierced his chest, and blood bloomed like a bright flower behind Watson.

Life is as light as a feather, as fleeting as dust, as gone tomorrow...

But as death drew near and the evening bells tolled, the opera's protagonist laughed, a laugh that was unrestrained, a laugh that was pure and romantic.

It's not afraid; the heart isn't afraid because it's been pierced by a bullet. Only a person is afraid; it's just revealing its true nature at the very last moment.

The fireworks and ribbons, as alluring as August catkins, rained down from the sky onto Watson, as if she herself had become part of the painting, this festive spectacle.

There are thousands of masterpieces displayed on the exhibition stand, but even though they have brilliant ink, they cannot compare to the beauty of this moment, not even a little bit.

There was no need to hesitate any longer regarding who would win first place at the art exhibition; the young girl was already the winner.

Watson then left with a clear conscience.

She ignited the first spark in the darkness, gave her life for her ideals, and pointed out the future for her comrades.

She was selfless and noble, yet she was also selfish and despicable.

She gave selflessly, yet selfishly left the birds behind.

They were left alone, staring blankly at themselves as they tilted downwards and fell into the jacaranda tree, so strange yet so familiar, lying there coldly, no longer uttering soft, tender words.

Only when we lose something do we realize that some warmth will never return, and we understand how much we fear the cold winter wind. All those indistinguishable emotions of the past surge into our hearts, those unforgettable memories tear our souls to pieces, unstoppable tears overflow from the corners of our eyes, we gag as if we're vomiting our souls out, we cry as if we're draining our life force.

"--boom!"

The gunshots finally stopped.

Winnie's emerald eyes slowly widened as the object she held in her hands slipped away. She murmured in confusion and bewilderment.

"...Watson, Miss?"

The confused girl witnessed everything.

The innate ability to 'read' definitively determined the answer, disregarding personal will.

One ballistic trajectory, one life.

"no no!"

Ignoring the flying stones and bricks hurtling towards the platform, pouring her grief and anger into her words and actions, she practically used both hands and feet to push through the crowd, bent her knees, and knelt before the other person.

That slender body seemed so light at that moment; the little sparrow had given it its all to protect the girl who had fallen.

Occasionally, some miscellaneous objects would miss their mark and land on the girl's slender shoulders, leaving bruises and marks. But she would simply hold Watson's hand, trembling slightly, without uttering a word.

Blood streamed down her cheek from the corner of her lips, seeping into the steps. It reflected Winnie's disheveled face, and her emerald green eyes lost their luster. Tears, stinging and bitter, kept falling, unstoppable, and she couldn't utter a sound even when she wanted to sob.

In a daze, a warmth covered her cheek; it was Watson's pale palm.

“Ahem... Winnie, don’t cry. I know what I’m doing. From now on, your lives won’t be so hard. You can put on a nice dress and continue working for Mr. Singh.”

"Stop talking, Watson, that's not the most important thing right now..."

The girl gently wiped away the little sparrow's tears, but the bloodstains added to the stains, making the girl look like an ugly duckling that had fallen into the mud.

"Pfft, even a lovely girl like Winnie looks awful when she cries. Her eyes get red and her lips become stiff. Besides, there aren't that many important things. Like I said back then, I'm leaving, silly girl."

"No, I clearly promised, Watson, you said you wanted to see me become a swan, and that goal has always encouraged me, I, I!"

Memories of the guidance, kindness, and care I received in the past flooded my mind.

Looking around hastily, Winnie tried to find a doctor, but all she saw were the same faces, and all she could hear was a noisy clamor—people driven by grief and anger.

She couldn't find it, she searched with all her might but couldn't find it, and the hand was slowly sliding downwards, at an unbearably desperate speed—

This is a second that is almost eternal.

She smiled and closed her eyes, whispering:

"Don't cry for me. I'm not afraid of pain, nor of sacrifice. What I fear is dying a meaningless death. From now on, continue reading, continue enriching yourself. Only knowledge can transcend societal barriers and transform you into a pure white swan..."

The wind and rain whistled hoarsely, as if bidding farewell to the young girl. They made the little sparrow's feathers tremble and the books at her waist turn their pages.

Just like time, just like the ending, a book will always be finished. No matter how long you want to stay on this page or this chapter, it will eventually turn the page.

Unfortunately, the ending of this volume is bitter, a bittersweet citrus flavor.

The nearby birds, pleading in vain, finally broke down in sobs, shedding tears on the ground. The distant peacock, too, had lost its former brilliance; it simply stared blankly, its blood-red pupils unfocused, as quiet as a doll.

The greatest sorrow is a broken heart.

The beautiful dreams of yesterday, the sweet moments shared in bed, the tender glances exchanged yesterday, all now whisper like a gentle breeze, like white feathers scattering, like bright flowers withering. That one word then, that one farewell afterward, is forever.

Why, why is this happening?

Josephine, I beg you, please lie to me one more time, okay? Like before when you took me home and joked with me while we were painting, lie to me and say it was all a joke, all just a whim of yours, okay?

The little bird spread its wings, pecked open the shallow bark, and drank the sweet sap. She thought she had received a true promise, but little did she know that the intersection of life and death was the final lie.

If loving someone means loving everything about them, then she would rather have refused the job in the first place.

Silent and still, Sophie bit her lower lip, trying her best to maintain her composure, just like when she used to act coquettishly in front of Watson. But bloodstains spilled from her lips at an inopportune moment, and the restrained tears eventually turned into tears that slid down her cheeks.

She crouched down, burying her face in her arms. She didn't want to show her disgrace; she only wanted to display her wretchedness to her deceased lover.

After an unknown amount of time, the little peacock finally couldn't hold back and muttered a curse under its breath.

"fraud......"

"I hate you, I hate your irresponsibility, I hate your self-righteousness. You gave your life for them, but did you ever think of me? You liar, I hate you, Josephine!"

Scene after scene, comfort after comfort, the vows of love made in the past, now separated by life and death.

You said you would try to let go of the past and try to get used to love, instead of just being loved.

You said that as long as we keep waiting, until the wind is tired, until the clouds are weary, until the flowers bloom over the winter snow, until time wears away our nature, we can wait for the miracle of enduring love.

But now, all the tender feelings had turned into unrealistic emotions. She cried, silently weeping, weeping incessantly, unable to stop.

The bending of the waist, the curling of the body, the slung leather bag tilting open, revealing a well-worn book—the very book that first brought them together, the medium through which they touched something extraordinary. Titled *The Newcomer to the Mossy Land*, the story it tells is about—

The Earl returns.

Chapter 89 Funeral and Returning Traveler (True Scroll End)

In the quiet afternoon, the church bells tolled deeply, and sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting dappled shadows.

Sometimes, the melody of a pipe organ accompanies the procession, and as the wind gently blows by, it stirs the funeral couplets, making a soft rustling sound, as if the deceased is using this to gently tell a story.

There was no grand funeral, no solemn silence from thousands. The cemetery was filled with towering stone monuments, and Watson's memorial was buried among the common people, in the vast graveyard, insignificant and unremarkable, ordinary and unremarkable.

Three days after the shooting, her funeral was held as scheduled in Tingen's cemetery, accompanied by a gentle spring rain.

Few people came, but their eyes were filled with tears.

The black-and-white portrait could not capture her vivacity, and the barren colors could not depict her cunning. It was not until the coffin was buried in the mud, and until the mourners gathered before it, that they realized how fragile that girl's connection to the world was, like a fleeting breeze, gone in an instant.

This is a story destined to be tragic, its masterpiece—

die abroad.

"Birds from the broom eventually return to their nests, landing on branches where mistletoe is rooted, and fly to the other side where the sea breeze cannot reach. She transforms into warm sunshine and spring mud, nourishing the world, yet asking for nothing in return."

"She had a clear conscience and a heart devoted to good. Her life was full of love and dedication, and her passing has caused immense grief to the world. Her name was Josephine Watson. She was a good girl and a kind-hearted girl. May the goddess comfort her soul with the embrace of new life."