“Once you do so first, I’d be more than happy to join you.”

“Liar.”

“Rightfully so. After all, I’d be needed to give a eulogy at your funeral—seeing as your circle of friends dwindles by the day.”

“I’d rather a mutt’s barking than your faux platitudes.”

“Ever the one for animals, aren’t you? Well, I can’t be too surprised; ‘unique’ individuals such as yourself are ever fond of them…”

“Strong words for a man who tilts his head like a doe in headlights. And tell me, how did you spend last Friday, again? Right. In the company of paper, ink, and blotched-out tears.”

Scary… If I look closely, I could almost see imaginary sparks flying…

“Attendant—some emotional support, here.”

Ysabeau turns and looks at me. Confusion scours my mind soon after.

Emotional support? Am I to cheer and flash a thumbs-up or something?!

As soon as I think it over, I understand that’s precisely what I need to do. In a bid to rally my mistress, I clap my hands and flash a thumbs-up, attempting to signal a ‘10/10’ with hand signs alone.

“Five out of ten. Too little too late. I want you jumping like you’d just been proposed to by a middle-aged billionaire with seven kids.”

In what world does that invite happiness?!

“Attendant.”

Her left hand extends to my side. With the speed of a frog’s tongue, it digs into my flesh and retreats a second later.

At the same time—

“Aie!”

—A boyish sound escapes my lungs.

“Peculiar.”

Despite her practised attempt just this afternoon, I’d subconsciously let a sound that’s now at least ‘65%’ male.

“...Is this what I think it is?”

And so, Caulaincourt strikes, positing an inquiry with furrowed brows.

“Of course. Hardened on the Mongolian steppes, my attendant was just practising her acquired ‘throat singing’, producing a low guttural sound found even in males.”

Good save, Ysabeau!

“What an impressive feat. In that case, might I ask her to re-enact that croaking harmony?”

A breeze rolls by. The bones in my body transmogrify into noodles, and my face flushes with heat. Three sets of eyes are set on me, burrowing into every pore on my skin.

Ok, here goes!

I massage my temple, recalling an imaginary image of my tutor, Genghis Khan, lecturing me on the sensibilities of throat singing. Under a thousand-star night sea, he sits by my side, a bowl of kumis held to toast.

<Та үүнийг хийх ёстой>

But what if I can’t, Khan?

<Айвал бүү хий, хийвэл бүү ай>

Of course, Khan, of course… How could I have not known?

<Санаж, тэдний эмэгтэйчүүдтэй хамт хэвтэж, манай агуу эзэнт гүрнийг барууны эдгээр чөтгөрүүдэд өргөжүүлээрэй>

Well, I’m not sure what ‘laying with their women’ and ‘expanding the Mongol Empire’ has to do with it, but I’ll try…

Swinging back to reality, I let the cool evening air fill my lungs.

“Aieeeohhhhhh—”

“You can stop now.”

Two seconds in—my harmony reaches its end.

“Madame de La Rue.” Curious, Caulaincourt puts forward a question. “Could it be?” he asks in false amazement. “That you’ve been so starved for male companionship that you introduced one as your servant under the pretence of disguise?”

“And Caulaincourt. Might I ask, what reason there is to take a mistress of foreign, much less German sensibilities?”

“...She’s my bodyguard, Madame de La Rue. Trained under the Paladins of Charlemagne themselves.”

She inhales proudly, showing no signs of backing down. “Talk means little. My own attendant is a warrior of no small fame, having trained in a sect back in that war-torn land.”

At the mention of my history, I begin to nod supportively.

“Madame de La Rue, shall we let our attendants indulge themselves, then?”

Indulge.

The word seems misplaced at first. A flicker over his bodyguard—and that notion is dispelled. Illuminated under azure blue, both grin and scars come out in full force, each as frightening as the other.

I gulp.

Steady, I tell myself. Steady, Xie Yunluo! A warrior of Snowcave does not fear, nor does he stand down from a fight!

“Besser ein Ochs im Frieden als ein Ochs im Kriege; better a ox in war, then a egg in peace.”

Her French is coarse, emphasising consonants in a distinctly German fashion. Inappropriate as it is, I still find it in me to be impressed, finding her accent cool even so.

“Étienne. Acquire the weapons.”

The butler emerges, head sticking out of a nearby bush. He steps into the building, turns right and spends a good minute before returning with a pair of weapons and an audience in tow.

“Attendant,” Ysabeau implores. Her eyes are serious, showing an unwavering confidence in me. If she has any smidgen of indecision, then she’s hiding it well—keeping it under a veil of complete faith. “Take care.”

She descends the terrace’s stairs, making way for an open plot of land in the garden. I follow, taking position atop a thin layer of snow. As if on prompt, a line of lights flares to life, covering the space in a cold, ocean-like hue.

“Boy,” Étienne whispers, “death before dishonour.”

Of course Étienne, how could I sully Madame de La Rue’s honour? How would I face Grandmaster in the afterlife having done so?

I nod in a gesture of confidence.

He presents the weapon in both hands. About 81 centimetres in length, the thin blade comes with a gold basket hilt, unblemished and pristine. Judging by its double-edged nature and thinness, this must be a rapier, a signature choice of both the European military and nobles.

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Taking care to pay my due respects, I gently hold the rapier, feeling its soft, shagreen grip.

It’s not a terribly unfamiliar feeling, per se. Back home, Grandmaster was renowned as an eccentric of sorts, enforcing a regiment composed of multinational fighting styles. Even so, when compared to a master of the rapier, I’d undoubtedly fall short.

All I have is a few dozen hours of training and a pre-existing frame of martial arts to draw from.

When it comes to similarities with Chinese martial arts, the jian would have to be the most similar—being both wielded by one hand, double-edged, and used primarily for thrusting.

“I am Leapolda Schmidt.” My opponent flourishes her blade, shifting weight to her back foot. “Student of Auer-Henning Adler. What is your name?”

Ysabeau speaks in my stead, “My attendant is Xie Aili—Twice Ardent Thunder, student of the Snowcave Sect.”

“Very good.”

Leapolda nods earnestly.

Étienne faces me, then my pink-haired opponent, raising his voice to speak, “Until severe injury or concession, let this fight begin!”

On prompt, both of us assume position, widening our feet and bending our knees. The muscles in my body immediately tense, bearing pressure on my hamstrings, lats, and hand. My off-hand moves next to my face, pointing with its elbow out so as to engage both halves of my back.

Meanwhile…

My enemy has confirmed her stance—Seconda. With her palm pointed downwards and her sword arm at shoulder height, she has shown impeccable aggression, seizing a stance used for attack.

This, however, comes as no surprise.

Tales of Germanic valour have not failed to reach me. Grandmaster spoke of them well, of their mensur, their fencing that bares no defence nor retreat, where to wince or flinch invites great shame. Such rules, therefore, speak to the woman’s scars—each one a testament to her bravery thus far.

Unlike Leapolda, however, I am not beholden to such values.

Moving my blade inside my knee, I let my palm face upwards, forming a defensive quatra stance.

“...”

She inches closer. Our blades cross, the soft twang of a bind in action. Pressure flows through the rapier; its tactile feedback relayed all the way to my shoulder.

She’s coming!

She lunges, aiming to put my neck in check. In a flash, I raise my rapier, pushing hers aside while attempting to strike with my own.

“Checkmate.”

A smooth, steel sound ensues. Leapolda rolls her wrist, forsaking the bind entirely. She then steps to her left, incorporating a full-rotation of her blade before slashing at my face.

“Ah.”

Warmth coats my skin. On my face’s side, I feel what amounts to a shallow cut and wipe away stains of crimson. In the meantime, my opponent walks back, returning to her initial position. I do the same.

Here goes!

I lunge on my inhale. My rapier thrusts true, aiming to strike centre.

”Checkmate.”

Our rapiers bind. Leapolda flicks her wrist, gently guiding my blade upwards. With an in-step, she crosses the realm of no return, gripping my wrist within her open hand.

A grapple!

My conscience proves far too slow. She forces my rapier towards the sky while dropping her own. With both arms free, she wraps them around my waist, picks me up like a ragdoll and—

”Goodbye.”

—Slams me into the ground.

On impact, air wheezes out my lungs like pressure out a valve. It hurts. More than the pain of injury, it hurts so bad to lose again. It hurts so bad that even as my breath steadies, I lie for what seems like an eternity, gazing into the night sky above in pursuit of solace.

…But I can’t give up now.

If I caved into such a minor loss, how can I show my face ever again?

Better yet, how will I stand in front of her and attain justice for what I lost?

“Hoo!”

I let out an exhale of air. My legs kick forward, propelling me upwards and landing me on my feet. Wanting to console those watching, I put out a thumbs-up, brandishing my best smile all the while.

“Concede.”

A voice rings through the air, spoken more like a demand than a request. It is from my opponent, now spearing me with a solemn glare.

“Or I will end it in the next round.”

Gone is her grin, replaced now with pulled lips and narrowed eyes. Her expression implies either pity or boredom, neither of which incites surrender. Therefore, doing what I do best, I ready myself once again—this time, into Seconda.

This is, in part, to a hopeful naïveté that things will turn out differently—that somehow, introducing a new factor may yet turn the tides. It is, however, also in part to a flash of knowledge, a sudden inspiration from the books of old.

“Brave.”

With her word set in motion, she too enters Seconda.

“...”

Time draws to a still—counted by the passing of each breath. Holding this stance proves a noteworthy challenge, proliferated further by my clear lack of skill. My opponent steps forward, and our rapiers stand just barely out of reach—its points, almost touching.

“Hah…”

The end of my blade weighs like a stone, threatening to waver with every exhale thereafter. We are on the precipice of action. The precipice of a decisive exchange that, as she described, ‘will end it.’

—Or so I allow her to believe.

At this moment, I lunge for the most obvious spot—her face. Given Seconda’s placement, the rapier is held extended at shoulder height, meaning that there are two spaces left undefended.

That being one’s lower line or one’s inside line.

The former is self-explanatory, inferring the space around the knee, while the latter refers to the space around the chest area—the inside of one’s body, so to speak.

My plan, therefore, is a simple one.

—Mezza Canvazione.

Strike at her face, feint, and while she’s in the motion of parrying upwards—lunge, stabbing her under the sword arm.

“A good effort.”

Yet, it is a plan that ends far too soon. Rather than parry, my opponent has done the unthinkable. Pivoting on her right foot, Leapolda withdraws her left, crossing it behind as she leans ever so slightly backward. With a gymnast’s finesse, she effortlessly evades the thrust and returns with a riposte.

—Inquartata.

Awareness comes to me like a tender lover. Slowly, pain surges, coming forth like a constant throbbing sting, burning as it makes contact with my sweat.

“...”

The blood gushes like an open fountain. It stains the turquoise dress crimson, flowing down my torso and leg. I bite down the pain, fixing my eyes on Leapolda’s still-raised rapier.

“You fought well.”

She peers into my eyes, staring with newfound civility.

“Surrender?”

Her voice is firm but underlined with a real deliberateness, something like respect, something akin to an almost begrudging tone. For that precise reason, I answer in refusal, offering a final shake of my head.

I can barely grip my rapier at this point, much less swing it. Not only that, but it’s taking every smidgen of effort to just keep standing, what with the oozing blood and all.

So, as for why I’m doing all this…

In the end, the reasons are too many.

“Your swordsmanship was excellent.”

My opponent turns her back to me. Gripping her rapier, the meaning relays to me and me alone.

“Tschüssi.”

She spins upon her heel; cold steel dances under the moonlight, whistling ever closer towards my neck.

“Yunluo, no!”

Acceptance. Warmth, utter acceptance. Before looming death, all I can wonder is why it didn’t come any sooner.

Why, that fateful evening, she didn’t take my life instead.

Clang.

Steel echoes against steel. A harsh thud, not unlike the sound of two gongs colliding, reaches my ears.

…Am I dead? In the darkness of shut eyes, it’s hard to say for certain.

Hmm… Actually, I can safely say that’s not what death sounds like. More than anything, it’s supposed to be silent and save for a whistle of steel, pretty un-clangy. But if I’m not wearing cutlery for clothing, then what made that noise?

What is it that stopped her blade?

“You know, there’s nothing sadder than a beautiful girl dying, don’t you think?”

Her words come clear as a bell. Opening my eyes, it’s a familiar sight greets me.

Hair the tint of ripe rice ears.

Verdant eyes the colour of baby bok choy.

It’s only her clothing that’s changed now. Swapped to a full set of plate, with a billowing red cape that reaches all the way to her knees. Not only that, but a sheathed blade rests in her belt while a small round shield faces Leapolda—no doubt used to deflect the rapier.

“Caulaincourt…who is this proverbial cockblocker before me?” my pink-haired opponent asks, raising a brow.

I watch the nobleman shrug apathetically, regard Ysabeau, and say nothing of it. Not only that, but everyone else seems surprised, too, muttering things along the lines of ‘Who is that?’ and ‘Is she English?’

That said, of course, I know who this is.

Our last exchange—what transpired just this afternoon, how can I ever forget?

“E-Earlene…”