I try to recollect myself, but find my heart beating vividly.

”Why…”

Why did Chigetsu ask Ysabeau to inform the Sect? If it had been a matter of survival, then remaining inconspicuous would prove the wiser choice. Evidently, however, she had chosen otherwise.

But for what purpose?

Does guilt consume her heart and demand clemency? No, that cannot be it. She was never the type to regret her decisions, whether for better or worse. So what is it?

What compelled her to ask Ysabeau?

In search of an answer, I spread my fingers against the cold wooden floor. Its chill creeps past my skin and into my bones, spreading like my very own melancholy.

The answer should be clear.

She wanted to see me. All this time, she still loves me, like she had during the days of yore. My reasoning is nigh absolute, and it is precisely so that pain wells in my chest.

“I love you, Yunyun.”

I’m sure that’s what her lips spelt. Those eight months ago, when everything went to ruin.

Yet, it makes no sense.

How can she love me even now? If that were true, then she wouldn’t have done what she did… In which case, I am delusional. Yes. I am a fool strung on the misgivings of emotion and sentiment, drunk on adolescent love and misplaced faith.

That, or there was something even more important to her than love. Something worth killing Grandmaster for—worth betraying all that was. But what? How can such an infallible thing exist? To she who preached loyalty and brotherhood, to act against that very same principle, what reason can there be but madness?

I’m losing myself in a whirlpool of feelings. I’m sinking. The world itself has become a current, spinning me round and round until I give way, puke, and watch all that is before me become an unidentifiable haze. Except nothing comes out. Nothing but heavy breaths and incoherent mumblings. Emerging from a foolhardy boy who knows little but the back of his palm and sword.

I flip on my side and look into the darkness of the hallway. I picture Chigetsu standing there, a tall silhouette accompanied by a long curved weapon that carved everything away. I want her to take me, to seize my being and claim dominion, whether by blade or by love, and slice my very existence to nothingness.

And now I turn back. For fear of seeing her encroach. And now, I hear a knock on the door, a threefold strike accompanied by a soft thud. For want to see what it is, for fear that delusion has me overrun, I flip again, bearing witness not to Chigetsu but a…

“Tray?” I unconsciously mumble in Mandarin.

Wait, what?

Just after the door lies a small porcelain tray laden with a teacup and snacks. It takes a moment for the sight to register, for my mind to put two and two together. But when it does, when it suddenly occurs to me how exactly it got there, it becomes so much worse.

Because if Étienne had come with these treats, then, then…

He must’ve seen me rolling on the ground like some hedgehog!

“Uwah…”

I cover my face and moan in disbelief. Perhaps I ought to rename myself Twice Fearful Hedgehog in honour of my new like-minded masters. Actually, scrap that! Why am I concerned with my own embarrassment when I should be thanking Étienne?!

“Stupid, stupid!”

I bonk myself twice on the head. Manners maketh man! Telling myself that, I hastily scramble to the tray and sit myself properly. Legs crossed, I then bow a thanks, before putting the teacup to my mouth, blowing on it as I do so.

“Wait a second…”

As I breathe in the tea’s scent, I begin to make out a few notes of fragrance.

Something distinctly familiar…

Something most common back home!

“Jasmine tea!”

Knowing it to be true, I take a sip of the drink. Sweet and floral flavours coat my tongue, like blood on a just-used blade. The memory of home comes back all at once, flooding me with its sights, scents, and tastes.

“Thank you, Étienne. You are an honourable man. Ten times over, I shall pay this respect in turn.”

Quiet fills the air. Over the next ten minutes, I slowly consume the tea and snacks in their entirety. Then, seeing to pay my respects, rise, taking leave for the butler in question.

“Étienne?”

I walk through the dark hallway, each footstep met by a wooden creak. On my way through, a mechanical noise greets me behind a wooden door, halting me in my steps. It’s hard to place what it is, but it sounds a bit like what I imagine a robot would when moving.

Very mechanical, very jarring, and marked with both spontaneous and consistent inflexions.

Could one of Madame Ysabeau’s robots have flared to life? Last I’d heard, these types of machines were discouraged in Europe, so that can’t be it. Or maybe it is? Hm.

As the introspective foreigner I am, I lower my gaze to the keyhole, peering through its tiny aperture. I’m at first surprised by the sight but soon find it lining up with what I know. Before me is Étienne, currently overlooking what I know as a ‘3D printer’—one quite massive, and making a…

A what?

I stand still, keeping watch like a mantis poised to strike. The object in the 3D printer gradually takes form, becoming not a figure but something akin to a piece. Like an accessory to an already concrete foundation. Immediately after completion, Étienne picks up the uncoloured object, moving to the wooden desk behind.

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Seeing what lies there, everything becomes clear.

Étienne is putting together a model! And not just any type, but one clearly in the vein of a cute girl from one of those Japanese cartoons! She appears to be wearing a frilly ankle-length dress with socks up to her thighs and ribbons all over. The design is, admittedly, quite cute, and I find myself drawn in by the overall impression it gives.

Intent to see this through, I watch Étienne affix a cute headpiece, seemingly completing his masterpiece. Uncoloured as it is, the figure bears likeness to a marble statue, pristine and white all over.

“Not yet!”

Étienne pauses and then yells again, “It’s not over!” He shakes his head vigorously and clenches a closed fist, “A man of culture must never surrender until he is done! HWOGHHH!”

His words form a rally to action. Like a daring young hero, Étienne seizes a paintbrush and palette, painting with the vigour of a man half his age. A tear comes to my eye as I cheer him on, clenching my own fist in exaltation.

“You can do it, Étienne…”

Enraptured by a still-spirited old man, I watch until the very end. Until Étienne covers each and every crevice of the statue in colour, breathing life into an already staunch piece of art.

Covered head to toe in a pink dress…

With supple skin that is alabaster white…

And eyes like the edge of night itself…

Should this character come to life, then surely, they’d be unmatched throughout heaven and earth for their beauty…

“Cuteness truly is justice…”

That, I can concur Étienne…

“No matter the gender.”

Indeed, Étienne, what meaning does that hold before tru—hey, wait just a moment…

That small word—gender. There’s something about its placement that puts me off, something that gives me an awful premonition, indeed…

“It can’t be…”

Scanning the figure thoroughly, I understand an all too clear fact.

That figure he’s holding is me!

“Hohoho and I can’t forget the finishing touches…”

My heart thumps against my chest, threatening to break free and implode. What I once thought artistic zeal, soon transforms into something more sinister, imbued with an undertone of lust and madness.

“Hohoho.”

Étienne angles the figure towards himself. Presently, he appears to be peeking under my—I mean, the figure’s skirt, ready to insert the tip of his paintbrush—intent on thrusting that unholy appendage god knows where!

“It appears correction is needed, uwoooooh!”

Unable to bear his lecherous cries any longer, I turn open the door. Like a drop of water out of a hot wok, I leap forward at the man, pointing my finger in accusation.

“What is the meaning of this madness, Étienne?!

“Hoh. Whatever could you mean?”

“D-don’t play coy with me! That art piece is a one-to-one of what I’m wearing right now!”

“And what of it?”

Étienne pushes up the bridge of his glasses. I notice that his expression hasn’t changed one bit. With some degree of embarrassment, I then approach, pointing at the figure in question.

“E-explain! What were your plans with that paintbrush?”

“Hmph,” he lets out as if it were the most obvious question in the world. “Why, I was about to paint the underwear, that is all.”

U-underwear?!

I angle my head sideways, taking a look for myself. Sure enough, under the frilly dress lies none other than a pair of white cotton panties, one I should mention I’m not even wearing right now!

“W-what is this?! I don’t wear women’s underwear!”

I hike up my dress. A pair of baggy white underpants reveals itself, fastened just below the knee.

“I wear bloomers! Bloomers! What type of sexual pantie-wearing miscreant do you take me for?!”

“There’s nothing miscreant about a cute man wearing women’s underwear. Otherwise, your esteemed self wouldn’t be doing it right now, am I wrong?”

“W-what?! There exists a world of difference between bloomers and panties! One bears a likeness to a pair of shorts and provides ample space. The other is tight and puts one’s sensitive parts into bondage!”

“Oho. Spoken like a true pantie connoisseur. So you have worn them before.”

His accusation yields my near surrender. Shameful as it is, what Étienne said is true… I may or may not have been prompted by a certain degenerate to try prior to coming here.

“O-only a fool comments on what he does not know! D-do not slight me for pursuing knowledge, p-pervert!”

I silently begrudge some leeway to Étienne. No matter how much I deny it.

“M-moreover!” I say, trying to shift the topic. “What explanation do you have for this?!”

My finger falls on the front of the pantie—on that inconspicuously small peak that bears no explanation.

“Why, this is but a man’s—”

“Thunder spear! The truth of one’s manhood made manifest!”

“Indeed, and what of it?”

“What of it?! Compared to its real-life counterpart, this thing is a speck—a molehill in the face of a true mountain!”

I breathe heavily, instilled with a sense of masculine honour. The waves of passion flood me over, somehow managing to overtake the shame of before. Two seconds later, it seems my meaning reaches Étienne.

“I-I understand.”

“Do you see now? If you’re to mould my manhood—at least match it to reality… It is a Lance of Longinus that is contained within, not a dagger of Sicarius…”

I appropriate some European historical concepts for my own means, hoping to resonate with the man before me. After another few seconds of quiet contemplation, I feel my emotions ease, becoming little more than a passing thought.

“Ahem.”

Now that that’s all well and done, it might be time to move the conversation forward…

Awkwardly, I let out a “Anyways…” Referring back to what I came here for, I cough thrice into my palm. “I wanted to thank you, Étienne. Your gesture was, um, much appreciated…”

I offer a grateful bow. Turning upon my heel, I ready to go to the kitchen and return the tray.

“I was just fulfilling my duty. Seeing a friend of Madame Ysabeau roll like a schizophrenic rabbit was just the prompt for it.”

Gak.

His words are like a thrust to my legs, pinning me in place.

“T-thank you, once again.”

I begin to walk—entering my second step, trudging slowly to the hallway—

“Young man.”

—When Étienne stops me again.

“I am unsure what ailment you suffer from,” says the butler, in a tone all too sympathetic. “But if it concerns Madame Ysabeau, then know she has only your best interests in mind.”

“I’ll remember that.”

He continues. “You may not know this, but the young mistress has taken a liking to you. Your textbook—albeit charming French. Your ability to jump in and die for honour. And your ‘cute, vulnerable aura that arouses her sadistic desire to tease and spiritually dominate you’, those are all traits she finds particularly novel.”

I put my chin down, blushing at those words. To know Madame Ysabeau holds such an opinion of me… Admittedly feels very pleasant. Even if I don’t know about the ‘spiritual domination’ part.

“She also said you use some strange Chinese idioms that don’t translate quite well and have the social awareness of a lost lamb who trips over itself in excitement. But even those, she finds endearing in its own way.”

“I-is that so?”

To know Madame Ysabeau even regards my faults in such a manner… Easily swayed as I am, a smile creeps on my face, and with it, a new burst of enthusiasm. While the pain of prior has not yet subsided, it has, in some effect, dwindled. Reduced now to a manageable feeling, one unable to stop my pursuit of power and discipline!

“Thank you, Étienne! I won’t forget what you’ve done for me!”

Energy courses within. Cycling my qi, I let myself be guided by the strings of emotion, carrying me to the kitchen and back to my room. With that done, I then prepare my weapons, jumping into the garden once again.

It goes without saying the journey to become a martial hero never ends!