Following a lengthy interrogation by border police, Samsere and I finally crossed into Saint-Ys with both our luggage and relative sanity in attendance. There was a brief stint of intense shame as an admittedly gorgeous older woman held my hand in comfort and promised that I could speak without reprimand, but other than that, any and all encounters with the loss of face were limited in scope. So, with all that trouble out of the way, we went into a pre-ordained car, having the old man from earlier drive us to the main city.

“Man… Is travelling overseas always this hard?”

Directing my question to open air, my exasperated pleas fall on deaf ears. With Samsere having fallen asleep a minute in and the butler remaining silent even now, I have only myself and the view outside for company. So—the car rolls on, and the scenery outside shifts. Going from industrial machines and empty asphalt roads to a country-side style landscape fitted with rolling hills, snow-covered vineyards, and the distant figure of buildings.

“Pretty… Even the sky’s blue here.”

I have to commend the scenery at this point. Despite being a newly constructed city, Saint-Ys bears more resemblance to the aesthetics of Pre-War French architecture, with elaborate stone buildings, wrought iron railings, and large boulevards fit for dates with pretty ladies. Compared to places like Shanghai (my biggest frame of reference), it’s also a lot more… antique?

There’s no skyscrapers, no flashing neon lights, and certainly no holographic projections marketing weird packaged goods. From my street-view vantage point, all I can spot are well-dressed civilians, nice little trees, and, hey, would you look at that, a card sharp swindling kids of their money!

“Wow. My future in France is bright!”

The butler coughs.

“Listen well, boy. I’m going to ask you a series of questions, and if your answers aren’t up to taste, then I shall kill you here and now.”

Wait. Did I just hear that correctly?

“Might I ask how you plan to do that?”

While my kung fu might be trifling in the face of a true master, it should prove sufficient for a septuagenarian, much less one with all his weak points in full view. The distance between is an arm’s length at best. And with a quick thrust of my finger, I could as easily puncture his Jade Pillow pressure point as one would a melon…

“First question. Do you know what a microwave cannon is?”

“Of course. It’s a cannon that ejects microwaves as projectiles. Most probably one of America’s many crude inventions.”

“Look above,” the man replies with a solemn, cold edge.

Doing just that, I ever so slowly lift my head. On the ceiling protrudes not one but four parabolic dishes, each about the size of my palm.

“Can you guess what they do?”

“Microwave me.”

“And can you guess what that might smell like?”

“Like a steamed bao bun stuffed with pork.”

“Quite so. And, unless you wish to end up like one of your Chinese morsels, I’d suggest doing as asked. For you see, the idea of allowing a plebian, much less one from an unreputable source of Oriental hooligans near my mistress, perturbs me. And, having overseen my dear mistress from birth to bloom, I have placed upon myself the duty of her utmost joy and security, thereby forcing me to consider your true character. Understand?”

Anger courses within. Hearing that, I can’t help but give him a piece of my mind.

“I do… That I do. If my death is needed to suit your morbid curiosities, then OK. But… There’s one thing I can’t forgive. And that’s dragging Aunt Samsere into this… If you wish me dead, then so be it, but as a man, have you no tact?”

“Tact?”

“The tact to face a man in martial combat… The tact to kill a man away from the view of his family and friends… The tact to avoid lies and deceit. As a man, you fail in all three regards.”

A moment’s silence ensues.

“Question two. Who might be considered the French equivalent of King Arthur?”

Too easy.

“Charlemagne.”

“Question three. Where is the ‘Château d’If’ from The Count of Monte Cristo located?”

“Marseille.”

“Question four. Which country has the most charming women in the world?”

Huh? Hey, isn’t this a bit out of the blue, and better yet, isn’t this a question with variable answers?!

“W-wait, I thought we were doing cultural trivia?!”

“You have ten seconds to answer. Ten… Nine… Eight.”

“N-none! All countries have their appeal! Face, voice, aesthetic! Each region has their own prescribed variables and attributes, and each has its own set of boons and banes! For example, I think French women have a cool sense of fashion, but I also like my homeland’s for their oval faces, Americans for the size of their breasts, and Japanese because my first crush was from there!”

“...Impressive. It seems you’ve some modicum of culture and bravery to boot. Choosing to avoid heaping praise on France’s women in attempts to gain favour is a most respectable choice. Now, as for the final question… Pommes frites, otherwise known as ‘French fries’ in English, are invented by which country?”

“The French!”

In the moments succeeding, what sounds like sniffles emerge from the butler. Bearing my eyes on his leather headrest, I spot the elderly man shaking, trembling with laughter. The butler then turns around. Meeting stare for stare, I now see a single tear hanging from his right eye, casting a rivulet down to the chin.

“The Belgians invented French Fries.”

“UWOOOOH!”

I-Impossible! What Western chicanery is this?! Who in their right mind names a Belgian dish after another country? That’d be like if Asian pear were from Africa and Japanese curry came from Malaysia!

Deprived of my last sliver of hope, the fate of Xie Yunluo—Twice Ardent Thunder becomes clear. Surging with the vigour of a man on death’s door, my body instinctively rises to motion, crashing head, dream, and ambition against the car’s ceiling. In the midst of this pathetic release, however, a faint thud crashes near my feet, taking my attention away from imminent death.

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“Wait a second…”

Not long after, it occurs to me what the source of the sound is.

“The microwave cannons?” After a brief stint of hesitation, I manage to bend over and inspect the object. Lighter than expected, it seems to be the same parabolic dish that was stuck on the ceiling. To validate my suspicions, I send an upturned glance, scanning what appears to be circular translucent residue, conveniently fitting the mould of the so-called ‘microwave cannon’.

“...”

Reaching for another parabolic dish, I easily pluck it as one would fruit, noticing just how flimsy its construction is.

“...Did you superglue this?”

“...Yes.”

Samsere’s snores fade through the air, and with it, whatever remains of my fear and anxiety.

“Old man, if you ever need a second job, consider taking up acting! With your emotion, you could deceive even the Eyes of Buddha! ”

Laughter bellows out of my lungs. Heat, rising from my chest, spreads through every crevice of my body. And my mind, finding the seriousness all very amusing, sets a small reminder to prank the old man down the line.

“Hey… What’s with all the commotion?” Samsere yawns, stretching her arm into my face. “Hope nothing interesting happened without me.”

The butler looks her over, no trace of tears in sight. “We’ve arrived.”

“Oh, well, that does qualify!”

She exits, I follow. The old man does the same and opens the car’s trunk, motioning to carry our respective luggage. Halfway into just taking mine, Samsere smacks my hand away, sending it flying to my chest.

“Let him have it, Yunluo.”

Finding myself uncharacteristically quiet, I let the act go unquestioned, walking in silence as we approach our intended destination—a place, I now notice, is a whole mansion! Right in front of us is a wide steel gate. Before that lies a classic French-style garden with orderly gravel paths, symmetrical hedges, and rose flowers all over!

“Wooow.”

I’m beholding all its splendour when I’m dragged along by Samsere, tugging me across the street, the mansion’s beauty slowly drifting out of view. As my blissful naïveté breaks into pieces, I’m met face-to-face with its cause, a wide, stone-faced building just ten minutes away—with small square windows and a dull, creamy hue. Standing before its ornate grey door, the butler taps a series of buttons on an antiquated keypad. With a loud bzzt, a mechanical switch echoes, and the door swings inwards.

Aunt Samsere prods me. “Excited?”

Crossing the foyer to our right, I nod enthusiastically. “It is my first time overseas. And… well.”

“Well?” a sly tone comes in reply, echoing as we move past a door.

“Well, I hope I can live up to Grandmaster’s expectations! He did say, if I ever went overseas, to make lots of friends, eat plenty of good food, and…”

“And date plenty of pretty girls, right?”

Her face comes into view, a wry smile on her lips.

“Ahem.” I cough. “W-well, if a fair maiden were to ask for my hand, maybe I’ll make time… Maybe!”

To be honest, I’ve never dated a girl before. And, having my first love be the one I’m actively trying to seek revenge on doesn’t exactly help my feelings towards the matter. In fact, if it weren’t for Grandmaster’s teachings, I’d probably just focus on training and fighting strong opponents instead…

“Ahhh…”

For a brief moment, a face flashes in my head. Vivid as ever, I recall her features in full detail—flowing white hair, rose-red skin, and a smile that just says, ‘Everything will be alright!’ with all the joy in the world.

“Even after all this time, it still hurts…”

I’m supposed to kill her. Coming all this way to France was for that singular purpose. So, why, Xie Yunluo, why does your heart ache at the thought?

We move into a tall stairwell, its tight space illuminated by a long piece of stained glass. The butler, who has remained silent until now, whispers a quick ‘third floor’ and ascends the spiral stairs. Samsere marches forward, stepping into an open-metal cage of an elevator. Tugging me with her, she pats me on the shoulder, brushing back my hair all the while.

“If you keep moping like that. Some girl might dote on you, and princess carry you into the sunset, hehehe.”

I mumble some half-hearted reply, “...Maybe,” and say nothing more.

A high-pitched ding plays. The elevator shoots upwards, moving in a slow vertical line. It’s tight here. Between the lack of space and ornate metal bars, the elevator feels almost like some upscaled birdcage.

“In that case, I hope I have strong wings…”

It reaches the third floor in just short of a minute. Aunt Samsere prises the sliding metal gate open, moving us along. Beyond the elevator stands a single door. Tall and decorated, it has on its frame six different door locks, wooden carvings, and, above all else—

“A moving eye?!”

Chock centre of the door is a giant eye, squirming with erratic frustration as it looks at me and Samsere all over. To be honest, it’s kinda unnerving. But, as a respectful tourist of France, I don’t want to disparage their culture, either…

If I can’t survive this, then how can I survive their mouldy cheese and snails?

“H-hello, Mr. Eye! My name is Xie Yunluo; I like martial arts and good food and have no impure intentions… Feel free to call me Michel Polnareff if you can’t pronounce Mandarin…”

Its scarlet-red pupil glimmers under soft afternoon light. Paying it no heed, the butler pulls out a water gun and sprays at the eye. Spasming thrice, once livened, the second dulled, and third with the energy of a deadbeat snail, it shuts, clamping with a slight squish. Everything after follows custom, with the old man unlocking the door normally and, at long last, pushing it open.

“Nom de dieu de putain de bordel de merde de saloperie de connard d’enculé de ta mère.”

A string of profanities comes through in a regal and feminine voice. Belying its vulgarity, the tone is elegant—angelic, even, as if reciting poetry of all things. As we come face to face with its source, walking into the living room, overwhelming self-consciousness takes hold.

“Hello.”

Drawn to her visage, that’s the only thing that leaves my mouth. The girl—no, the woman before me, might as well be a fairy tale princess taken form. She looks only a bit older than me, and yet everything about her feels ethereal. Her brown hair, extending past her shoulders, is curled into ringlets. Her ruffled blouse and slit black skirt wielded like a blade’s scabbard, stand testament to her authority, revealing a sharp but tempered edge. And her face…

Surely, such a beauty belongs in the high court, frolicking with fairies…

And surely, such a beauty can’t be the one I’m supposed to work under!

“Xie Yunluo. Do you think, if a lion could speak, that we’d be able to understand him? That, the intermediary of language, as a means of communication, could bridge the chasm between species?”

”Um.”

I find myself slightly taken aback.

To heap a question like this out of the blue… The French really do value their philosophy!

“I’d-I’d like to think so. Back home, I couldn’t speak with the rabbits, deer, or birds, but I could still empathise with their way of living. So, if an animal could speak, I think we’d be able to come to terms.”

“But one can argue that to come to terms is not to come to understand, yes? Just as one comes to terms with pigeons and allows them passage on the footway, one, all the same, cannot truly grasp their way of living, their existence, their cause, their desire to spread wings and take flight.”

She paces forward, setting down an empty wine glass on her ebony desk. The princess—um, woman, then moves forward, striding in my direction. Frozen still, I can do nought but watch, staring in place as she moves ever so closer, now a hair’s breadth away!

“Aieeee…”

S-seeing her up close isn’t boding well for my heart! Do I warrant such close examination? Is my face pock-marked? Are my eyelids drooping? Is my breath scented still by the dumplings I had for yesterday’s dinner?

“Present your cheek.”

“Eh?”

She lifts my chin by her thumb, angling it to her face. While doing so, her face begins to lean in, eyes shut all the while.

This…

This can’t be how I get my first kiss, can it?!

Logically, it’s just a procession of flesh, but emotionally, it’s like treading uncharted territory!

I-is this what Columbus felt when he discovered America?!

Given to her touch, my eyes shut in wretched instinct, unable to bear the anticipation any longer.