"You're dreaming!"
Bertha Marley waved her broken hand, laughing maniacally, "Isabella Lindsey is dead! Don't bother anymore, I stabbed my dagger into her heart!"
"She...is indeed dead."
All the doctors simultaneously stepped back, bowing as if in silent mourning.
Vermes Marley suspiciously questioned the oldest doctor among them, "Are you sure?... Is there no way to save her?"
"Your Majesty, she has no breath left, let alone a heartbeat. Now, it's beyond saving."
The old man wasn't particularly sad, just as indifferent as he was with many of the dying patients he had seen before. He turned and fawningly looked at Bertha Marley, pondering, "The Princess's hand, perhaps it could be replaced with a mechanical prosthetic hand..."
"I want a bionic one, exactly like a real hand! I want it now!" Bertha Marley couldn't wait.
"Then Princess, let's go now."
