Chapter Thirty-Two: Calling for Reinforcements

The ancient ritual of dueling was notoriously ruthless. Though it had long since faded from the daily stage of noble life, that did not mean the aristocracy—or even the common folk—had forgotten its customs. After all, the Empire had never passed a law forbidding it.

The instant Mulan threw down his glove, the man standing across from him felt an immense weight descend upon his shoulders.

The significance of a duel was never as simple as two men settling a dispute. Among the nobility, it touched upon personal honor and the repute of entire families.

Certainly, Sir Bess had the right to refuse the challenge. Yet this occasion—a birthday ball for the count’s daughter, held in the count’s own mansion, with so many nobles in attendance—was not a setting where that right could be exercised without consequence.

Bess knew that if he refused, both he and his family would become the laughingstock of all Valentine, perhaps even further afield. Meanwhile, that upstart Mulan Jonst would, with a single cast of the glove, win himself considerable renown.

Had it been the usual Bess, he might have paused to consider who he was facing. But in this moment, with little self-restraint left and stung by humiliation, his negative emotions surged unchecked.

Whatever remnants of fear Bess had felt vanished the instant he saw every eye in the hall upon him, replaced by a fierce, burning anger.

“You think you can frighten me with a gesture like that? That you can steal the spotlight before the count? Mulan Jonst, you bastard born of a family of no account!”

Bess spat his curses, stooped, and picked up Mulan’s glove.

A chorus of gasps rippled through the surrounding nobles, some tinged with excitement—a duel was always more thrilling than an ordinary dance.

“Bess is finished…” murmured a young gentleman on the outskirts of the crowd to his friend as he saw Sir Bess pick up the glove.

“What? I’ve heard Bess is a skilled hunter and fighter, even a former soldier. Isn’t it a bit early to decide the outcome?”

“You only arrived in Valentine yesterday; you don’t know who Mulan Jonst is. He fought through that brutal war, and almost single-handedly defeated the maniac who had the whole city in terror. Bess is no match for him—no matter whether it’s with a pistol or a sword.”

As they spoke, the food table was being nudged aside by the crowd as Bess picked up the glove. Mulan caught the glove tossed back to him, moving toward the open space, with Bess following close behind.

“My lord, I apologize for this disruption. We will take our duel outside,” Mulan said to the elderly count.

“There’s no need. Duel here in the hall, Mulan Jonst. And you need not apologize. Had I been twenty years younger and faced with what just happened, I might have done the same as you.”

The old count’s stern face could not hide his partiality. After all, it was Sir Bess who had first insulted both the count and his daughter, and then behaved even more deplorably. It could be said that Mulan, by defending the honor of the count’s daughters, had brought on this duel.

Mulan would have preferred to fight outside, but with the count’s permission, he could not refuse. He stopped, turned, and faced the scowling Bess.

The nobles drew back, making room; the count’s servants hurried to clear away anything that might get in the way—fallen handkerchiefs, spilled wine.

“Father, Mr. Jonst… He’ll be all right, won’t he?” Lily and Hathaway voiced their concern for Mulan. The old count turned to his two daughters and offered reassurance.

“The Jonst family is not like the minor baronial houses people imagine today. Most such titles were bought and are never hereditary, but at least thirteen lineages are exceptions…”

The count’s words drew not only his daughters’ attention but that of many nearby nobles.

In the days of the old kingdom, noble titles were rare. There were originally thirteen knightly families who won their baronetcies through valor and loyalty, each recognized by the royal house. To preserve their martial tradition, the heirs of these thirteen families, regardless of higher titles some had later attained, inherited only the rank of baronet; their future depended on their own merit.

Such a severe yet noble tradition ensured that the descendants of the thirteen would either remain obscure or shine with brilliance. The Jonst family was among the few that still upheld this legacy.

The count’s concise account prompted many nobles to reassess their views of the lesser baronets, and the Jonst family in particular.

“Perhaps now we can look forward to a knightly house rising once more,” the count concluded, prompting surprise among the nobles and causing several young ladies to cover their mouths in wonder.

By now, the hall stood cleared; not a single dancer remained. The music had long since ceased, and all eyes watched from the sides.

“Sir Bess, will it be pistols or swords? I remind you, this is the Misses Brancklin’s birthday ball with many guests present—a gunfight would be most inappropriate!” Mulan spoke, though inwardly he willed: “Pistols, pistols, pistols…”

Perhaps spurred by both words and the challenge itself, Mulan sensed the ominous aura about Sir Bess growing stronger by the second.

His opponent was craving death—Mulan’s death.

Given that, Mulan preferred to resolve the matter instantly with a pistol; he had every confidence in his marksmanship. But if it came to swords, the duel would be judged by first blood, and with so many witnesses he could not strike a mortal blow.

“I choose swords.”

A servant stepped forward with a tray bearing two longswords. Bess strode up, seized one, and drew it, inspecting the blade. Mulan merely waved him off, then grasped the silver handle of his cane and drew forth the slender blade concealed within.

No room for tricks now; it would have to be his all.

With no further words, the two men advanced, swords raised. The moment they drew close, the duel had begun. The entire room seemed to hold its breath.

Mulan’s eyes were keen as a hawk’s, his mind running through every possible scenario. Wasting no time, he launched his attack, darting forward with sudden speed.

Bess reacted as most men would, thrusting instinctively. Mulan, who had anticipated this, sidestepped with another burst of speed and swung his blade with all his might.

A resounding clang—the impact of Mulan’s sword against Bess’s was so forceful that Bess lost his grip, his sword sent flying as he stumbled off balance.

But Mulan did not stop. As he passed Bess, he halted and, with his left hand, delivered a powerful knife-hand blow to the side of Bess’s neck.

The strike landed with crushing force. Bess’s eyes bulged as the impact coursed through him.

With a heavy thud, Bess pitched forward, sliding nearly two meters across the polished floor. His sword landed with a clatter nearby.

Mulan turned slowly, his brow furrowed. To the onlookers, the outcome was decided; but to Mulan, things had just grown more complicated. The force of his blow had been tremendous—enough to cripple, perhaps even kill. Sir Bess had been knocked unconscious.

Indeed, as Bess slipped into insensibility, that disturbing aura faded from him. Yet the pall over the hall remained—a gloom deepening into a chill that raised goosebumps on Mulan’s skin.

Applause and exclamations erupted among the nobles. Mulan retrieved his cane, sheathed his sword, and the count’s physician hurried forward with servants to examine Bess.

“Congratulations, Mulan Jonst!” the old count proclaimed, clapping. “The ball continues—”

Music resumed as if a bloodless duel were of no consequence—and even had there been blood, it would hardly have mattered. Mulan knew the festivities would last till midnight, but he also sensed that trouble was brewing.

“My lord, ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry to have dampened your spirits. The duel is over; I must excuse myself,” Mulan announced.

“There’s no need, Mr. Jonst, you may stay!”

“Indeed, Mr. Jonst, it’s not your fault!”

“Mulan, we don’t mind at all!”

Nobles and the count alike tried to persuade him, and Lily and Hathaway came forward to entreat him personally. But Mulan only shook his head.

“I really shouldn’t remain. Thank you, my lord, for your forbearance, and thank you, Miss Brancklin, for your invitation.”

He slipped on his gloves, straightened his clothes, apologized once more, and departed the hall.

He had miscalculated. The problem was less with Bess himself—perhaps no longer with him at all. Mulan dared not linger; he had to leave and summon help immediately.

He quickened his pace the moment he left the hall. At the gates he broke into a run, heading for a waiting hackney—these carriages were not permitted within the manor grounds.

“Sir, I’m waiting for—hey, what are you doing, sir? Sir—!”

The coachman’s words broke off in alarm as Mulan drew his sword and cut the harness, leading one of the horses away.

“This is urgent—explanations will have to wait! Hyah!”

He tossed a hurried explanation over his shoulder, vaulted onto the bareback horse, and with a stinging slap, galloped off at full speed.

Riding bareback was a test for any knight, but Mulan was more than equal to the challenge.

He spurred his horse on, never pausing, his destination: the Cathedral.