“Please tilt your legs inward, my cute attendant. I happen to think it’ll make a most stimulating sight and would like to see it in action.”

I try to follow her instructions.

“Aie!”

As if on cue, she immediately prods me right to my side, wielding a cold telescopic stick for her cruel bidding.

“More distance—I’m most pleased when there’s a small gap in between. It leaves a certain air of possibility, if you will. Like a plot of fertile land ripe for the taking.”

She studies me inquisitively, only now leaning forward from her stool.

“Mhm.” Her gaze passes down my barren, revealed legs. “I’d heard those of the Orient are rather shaven when compared to us, but this does exceed expectation.”

“Be that as it may, Madame Ysabeau, I’d still had them waxed in advance…”

Painful memories take hold.

I remember that dreadful morning clearly now…

Having tricked me into receiving her special ‘apotropaic Burmese ointment’, Aunt Samere had me lying on a table—wet cloth over my eyes while she gradually applied that vicious substance. Needless to say, while the initial warmth and viscous-like texture felt quite pleasant (like a massage even), what came after didn’t.

Uwah…

Even now, I recall Samsere’s all too wicked cackle and the pain that came with it…

“Did it hurt?”

“Very much so. Like being stabbed with a hundred needles at once…”

“Out of suffering emerges the greatest triumphs; the hairless legs rinsed of impurities…”

“Is that a quote, Madame?”

“Yes. One I appropriated for my own lascivious needs and corrected to fit this situation at hand. It’s far easier to sound intelligent when you have a wealth of sources to inspire yourself from.”

“Isn’t that just copying?”

“To copy from one is plagiarism, from many—research. Now, quit questioning the logic of your mistress and let her indulge herself.”

Ysabeau pokes my thigh with her telescopic scope. Then, putting her left hand forward, squeezes it. This continues for the next few seconds as she transitions from poking, rubbing up and down before squeezing again.

“Very adequate,” she whispers, “you possess most ample muscle definition there…”

“Madame Ysabeau, I was under the assumption that this was supposed to be punishment…”

“Mhm, is my dear attendant enjoying himself now? Has his mind been so thoroughly corrupted as to experience pleasure upon his mistress’s touch?”

“No—not at all!”

Well, partially, yes. Admittedly, when her supple fingers trace my skin, there might be a tiny smidgen of enjoyment, but that’s beside the point!

“How strange. I could’ve sworn your face just said something along the lines of ‘admittedly, it feels quite good, but that’s not the point. Maybe I am a pervert, after all.’”

“Gah…”

Excluding that final part, Madame Ysabeau is spot-on…

“And now you’re thinking ‘Madame Ysabeau is spot-on. Uwaah, I hope she molests me more.’”

I’m sorry, Grandmaster, at this point, I can’t even deny that thought might’ve sprung into mind… The more time I spend with her, the more I enjoy it. Feminine attention truly is the death of pride…

“Forgive me, Madame Ysabeau. I had just think that the ‘punishment should fit the crime’ and considered your treatment too lax…”

She shuts her eyes, seeming pensive over what I’d just said.

“It’s ‘thought’ not ‘think’. You got your tenses mixed up.”

There seems to be a complete non-sequitur to her statement. Only as a few seconds pass, and her lips press to form empty sounds, I understand she has something more to add.

“Maid or Lolita dress, attendant?”

”T-the one that’s less embarrassing.”

As it turns out, what amounts to ‘less embarrassing’ is still a pink dress.

Decked out with frills.

Bows.

Bonnets.

And a pouch with a (admittedly cute) stuffed bear design.

”Checkmate.”

Her chess piece of some brown, exotic wood ends the game. In the span of four turns, she has already won, and what’s more, for the fifth time in a row.

“Sorry, I can’t be a better opponent, Madame Ysabeau…”

“Nonsense, Yunluo. It’s seeing you struggle, to which I owe the pleasure. If I wanted an opponent above a grade school level, I’d ask Étienne.”

How cruel… To torment her attendant while making him wear some lolita dress…

Are all women of France so deviant?

“If it proves a consolation, know your tormenter will be out soon.”

“For a meeting?”

“Yes,” replies Ysabeau, in a manner all too annoyed. “I’ll be gone for the better half of this afternoon and evening, so don’t go getting yourself in trouble.”

“Yes, madame.”

“Otherwise, I’ll just have to lock you up somewhere. Somewhere solitary, secure, and unknown, where I’ll be free to torment you whenever I want. Yes, that doesn’t sound too bad…”

“Haha, good joke, madame…”

The lady replies in silence, during which she sips a glass of sparkling water and resets the chess board. Judging by her lacklustre response, I’d put a 50% chance of what she just said being a joke.

Which, as far as my freedom is concerned, seems quite low!

What happened to ‘liberté, égalité, et fraternité?!’

Tell me, which part of freedom entails being imprisoned?!

“One last thing,” says she. “What is Earlene to you?”

“Earlene?”

When did Ysabeau learn her name? If I recall correctly, I’d only mentioned it in a whisper.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“Well, I don’t know too much about her,” I reply shortly after. “But she did save me once, and while I might be wrong, she seems to be of a good character, if not a little eccentric.”

“Then you are not betrothed to queer concepts such as ‘love at first sight’, ‘raging male hormones’, or ‘the submissive desire to be courted by a lady knight’, am I correct?”

I flatten my lips, giving Ysabeau a nod as I do so. Giving it a bit of thought, I then offer my own take on the matter: “While she is pretty, it’d be a bit out of left field for me to fall in love. That type of thing comes with time and understanding, I think.”

“Yes. Well said. Love is the type of sentiment you gather after spending long periods of time in close quarters, sharing meals, discussing, and making merry, is it not?”

“Rightly so. Though in that case, I guess if we spent some more time together, I could see myself falling in love with her, if that makes sense.”

“...”

Ysabeau’s eyes meet mine. I stay steadfast, feeling as if I’d made a very poor choice of words.

All things considered, what I meant was that Earlene and I had the potential to get along.

Meaning that, she shouldn’t be treated as a complete stranger. Or, to put it frankly, with the sensibilities Ysabeau might impose on one.

“She seems like a good person.”

“Good?” muses Ysabeau, who, in a few moments, inhales. “Yes. I suppose in your sensibility, any of the Round must be. After all, what better paragon of virtue than a shimmering knight clad in plate and cape?”

The Round… Then that means Earlene is a knight, after all. Honestly, beyond knowing they serve King Arthur and own a lot of land, there’s not much I can say. Growing up in the Snowcave Sect, I learned more practical subjects, and when it came to study, mostly focused on languages, poetry, and literature.

“I won’t deny I’m a bit unaware when it comes to the state of Europe, but I’m speaking from instinct here, not anything else.”

“Instinct? Ah yes, what better judgement than that? I suppose we should just forsake all semblance of law and knowledge then, leaving it to the whims of everyone’s collective instinct, because no doubt, that will do society wonders, wouldn’t it?”

Ysabeau stands. I stare at her uneasily, watching as she leans over the low-hanging table and onto my sofa. The distance between our faces is a hairs-strand at best, making her hazel eyes all the more intimidating—as if burrowing into my very soul.

“Squeeze.”

Ysabeau pulls on my cheeks, stretching them out like rice cake. Also, did she just voice her own onomatopeia?

“Since you’re so adamant on instinct. Let me indulge my own before I leave.”

With my muffled voice, I ask, “So you’re not mad at me?”

“For an infinitesimal moment, I considered doing something quite horrible, but frankly, I don’t have it in me for that any more.”

She relinquishes control of my cheeks, stands straight, and twirls her drills.

“I’ll be going now,” Ysabeau adds after a short pause. “If you need anything, just ask Étienne.” After which, she makes for the foyer. “In any case, do avoid going out in the evening.”

With that follows the distinct sound of locks being undone and the final, gradual shut of a tall wooden door. Thus, Xie Yunluo—Twice Ardent Thunder, finds himself all alone (save for the company of a well-meaning butler).

“Alright!” I exclaim, in a motivational tone. “Time for training!”

I stand, turn right, then left again into the hallway where my room is located. Continuing down this dimly lit path, I return to my bedchamber and set about opening my luggage. There, strapped by nylon and string, lies a selection of weapons, with my chosen one appearing dead centre.

It’s a jian. More specifically, one modelled after those in the Han Dynasty. Featuring a long, thin blade and a guardless handle, it’s traditionally a weapon used by civilians due to its ease of carry.

For warriors such as myself, however, it is one of The Eighteen Arms of Wushu.

An arm bearing significant status and reverence in tradition. Famed as it is, the jian has spawned countless sayings, one of which goes like this.

It takes a hundred days to master the sabre, ten hundred the spear, and ten thousand days the jian.

Knowing that, I make sure to bow my head in thanks, paying heed to the blacksmith who forged it.

“Thank you.”

In an instant, I seize the weapon, open the window, and, by effort of dexterity, leap to the garden below. It is an effortless movement, carried out by breaking my momentum by way of rolling and smacking the ground.

With my landing secured, I set about finding a place—deciding on a quaint little spot atop a tiled path. Cycling a series of breaths, I then channel my dantian with qi—feeling its soft tingle spread through the meridians in my body—like heat through a kettle of water.

“Foo…”

My sword draws several thrusts in the air. Time and time again, its grey blade moves back and forth, shimmering under the midday sun. I accordingly switch to my usual routine a thousand thrusts in, forgoing it for something more diverse.

Cut, swing back, thrust, parry, fu hu bu, then thrust again.

This, I repeat four hundred and twelve times, stopping only to beseech my visitor.

“He capers, he dances, he has eyes of youth, noticing that which strays above.”

I look towards the voice’s source and address them with a bow. Situated on a windowsill three floors high is Earlene, standing with her usual confidence on a hand-length piece of limestone.

“Come down; I have something to give you.”

Slowly, she descends, treading gently down the windowsills. Once down, she emerges from a nearby lavender bush, approaching like a receiver of good news.

Unlike last time, Earlene’s dressed in much more conspicuous clothing; her outfit, now a red frock coat, tie, and furry ankle-length cloak—itself, inlaid with two chains that connect like frog knots. Doing without her buckler—that small metal shield, she now carries a poniard worn at her waist girdle—the only weapon on her bearing.

“Here.” I reach into my stuffed animal pouch and retrieve my gift, thrusting it out like a torch. “A thanks for last time.”

“Well, don’t mind if I do, hehe.” She takes the gift and unwraps its paper-bound exterior. Her eyes light up with expected curiosity, as if not knowing what it is.

“It’s beef jerky.”

“Beef jerky, you say? What’s with the white specks on it?”

”They’re Erjingtiao pepper flakes! I like them a tad spicy, so I added some for good measure.”

“Meaning you made them yourself, yeah?”

I nod.

”Well, that works out just fine. As it turns out, some spicy midday meat is just what I needed!”

She tears into the meat, biting a chunk clean-off. The sound of splintering wood comes from her mouth. Savouring the piece for a good while, she swallows only twenty seconds in, nodding with approval at its taste.

“It was hard, I’ll give you that. Bit more than I’m used to, honestly. But hey, the flavour was there.”

Earlene re-wraps the jerky and tucks it into her cloak.

”Say, you free this noon? We can go out and grab some lunch, you know, some steak au frites, croque Gentilhomme, or whatever Frenchies sell.”

That does sound like fun! Strolling through Saint-Ys, assessing local cuisine, what can be better? Plus, if I go out now, I would probably be able to return before evening.

”Sure. Just give me a minute, and I’ll be back!”

I climb back to the apartment. Here, I call for Étienne, tell him of my departure, take my shoes and briskly return to Earlene.

”Sorry for the wait!”

I apologise hastily and head to the gate. Walking side by side, Earlene and I leave the building, heading into the stone-paved streets of Saint-Ys.

“So, since it’s been a long time coming, could I get your name?”

“Xie Yunluo,” I whisper.

“So, Yunlo would be your first name, right?” says Earlene in a low voice. “Yun-low? Yunlao?”

“Luo, with a rising tone.”

Earlene speaks to herself, reciting my name several times to no avail.

“Yun would work just fine too.”

“Yun, you say. Yun, hm, well, that does roll off the tongue quite well. Shame cause I haven’t a nickname of my own. Turns out, when you subtract the ‘ene’ from ‘Earlene’, you just get a rank of nobility.”

I think it over, make a mental note of the word ‘Earl’, and continue walking.

“You know, I can’t be friends with someone who doesn’t speak English, right?”

Earlene’s face suddenly turns dark, removed from its prior joy. This provokes an immediate response from me as I formulate a quick apology and lower my head.

“Sorry, I’m just not used to puns in the language. Though, I’ll make an effort to try harder.”

The Englishwoman looks away, looks back, sucks in her lips, and stares me in the eye.

“I was joking, you know. Sarcasm and all. You’ve got that back home, right?”

“We do. I mean, I got the meaning behind the joke. I just wasn’t sure if you meant it or not.”

“So, is that why you look so glum, then? Scared you can’t get into Dear Earlene’s good graces?”

“...Well, yes. You are a nice person, so it’d be sad if we couldn’t be friends.”

“Haha, so you wanna be my friend, huh?” Earlene looks into the distance, her eyes moving in erratic patterns. “Say, you’re not pulling my leg, right?”

“Not at all. You seemed like a worldly, respectable woman, so I wanted to be your friend. Is there any other reason I’d follow you?”

I tilt my head at the idea. Earlene scratches at her chin, letting out a ‘hm’, then a long, drawn-out chuckle before pulling me closer.

“Heh.” She locks her arm around mine, tugging me along.

The feeling is a bit sudden, but I restrain myself from commenting.

She’s done it with such ease of spontaneity that it makes me think it’s either normal or just not that meaningful of an act.

That, and being in such close proximity to her, isn’t so bad, either.

“Ooh, how about we eat at ‘La Fontaine’, hehehe.”

“You think there’s a fountain inside?”

“No way to tell unless we give it a check, eh?”