Chapter Fifty-Three: Retreat

It was just after dusk, the moment when darkness first began to settle. The gas lamps along Digao Street had yet to be lit. Mulan stood beneath an eave, his body shrouded in mist, pausing at the blurred threshold between the Inner World and the Surface World.

To be honest, even Mulan himself was startled by his current state—a fright that only made him more exhilarated. The creature, moving with feline agility, armed with deadly claws and fangs, was indeed perilous, yet its existential power was weak, making its sense of reality faint. In common parlance, it was all attack, little defense, and fragile as glass. Mulan’s current condition, however, countered it perfectly: as the creature’s fangs swept past, its body dodged, but the shadow of its fangs bit directly into the monster’s own shadow, wrapping around it like a sinister viper—killing and consuming it in one fell swoop.

A surge of immense feedback coursed through the fangs into Mulan’s body and soul. The creature’s resentment and negativity were devoured, leaving only pure power to flood into Mulan, spasming his organs, muscles, and bones with excitement, making his soul tremble and a haze of gray mist coil around him.

A shadowy figure wearing a tall top hat, its eyes narrowed and flickering with an eerie red glow, manifested over Mulan—this was the totem, symbolizing the height and perfection of world-formation, the level of evolution, and the personalized manifestation of power for those of the same profession.

Devouring that spirit gave Mulan the illusion of overwhelming strength, as if nothing in existence could threaten him. The madness might have shown on the surface, but deep down, Mulan remained perfectly calm. He knew this power was just an illusion; all supernaturals were powerful and enigmatic. His only goal was to cover for Moore, not to recklessly provoke all of Digao.

But the trouble before him could not be ignored.

He forced down some of the frenzy within, then immediately left his perch, leaping nimbly across lower rooftops. In moments, he returned to the small building where Moore had once lived, slipped through a window, and already had his lighter in hand.

By the time Mulan leapt from the window on the other side, flames had begun to rise within Moore’s old place.

Fire, the most ordinary yet perfect neutralizing force—perhaps the blaze would spread to adjoining buildings, but it would also erase many traces.

Following the trail left by the feline monster he had devoured, Mulan darted across the city rooftops like a specter. He could see the fog-like traces lingering in the space between the Inner and Surface Worlds, reminiscent of the tracks left by passing animals.

A low, whimpering sound slipped out.

In Mulan’s hand, the fangs were no longer a slender sword, but a knife adorned with grotesque fangs, whistling as it moved. To ordinary ears, it was merely the wind, but in the gap between the two worlds, a strange, hoarse laughter could be heard.

On a rooftop, a cat wreathed in black mist crouched low, fur bristling, eyes scanning warily.

“Are you looking for me?” Mulan’s voice suddenly sounded beside the cat. It spun around, claws flashing toward him, but the fangs in Mulan’s hand twisted their shadow into a grinning, frenzied face that blocked the blow.

The cat’s paw struck the shadowy fangs—not only failing to harm Mulan, but becoming stuck, unable to withdraw, as if bitten.

On the rooftop, Mulan—still reeling from the powerful feedback—again felt enveloped by that illusory strength; his aura expanded, the totem behind him stretched like a shadow, a pair of glowing red eyes opening in synchrony with his own, turning to scan another direction.

There, another “cat” suddenly leapt up and fled, but Mulan was faster, his body gliding weightlessly between rooftops.

“Kitten, where is your master?”

A raspy voice echoed in the black cat’s ears. As it glanced back, it saw a figure wielding a sinister weapon, death’s shadow unfurling behind him.

With a soft “pop,” the black cat dissolved into a wisp of black mist. Mulan hesitated a moment, then turned and vanished into the night.

...

In a basement in another district of Digao, a man’s face was ashen, sweat beading on his brow and body.

“He’s looking for me—he’ll find me soon. I’ve never seen such power, never felt such maddening spiritual erosion! I want nothing to do with such evil; I must leave at once, and you shouldn’t stay here either.”

“This is Digao!”

“Exactly. That kind of evil presence will be noticed by the Sanctuary and the Black Castle soon enough. There’s no need for us to take risks.”

“What about them?” His companion gestured to the workers nearby—representatives recently snatched from the swelling labor movement.

“Dispose of them.”

Seconds later, the two men had vanished.

What they didn’t know was that Mulan had already withdrawn ahead of them. After crossing several districts, he finally managed to suppress his state, the shadow on his fangs gradually receding back into the blade. Once he sheathed his weapon, calm returned.

He tidied his clothes and steadied his breath before stepping out of an alley. Outside, the passersby hurried home, none paying him any mind.

Thanks to the foundational knowledge he’d studied with Ervin, Mulan now understood the mysterious world in greater depth. The powers of the supernatural were myriad and bizarre, but all were limited in their own ways.

So long as it wasn’t someone like Walton who had targeted Moore from the start, Mulan was confident he could shake off any trouble that night. Still, a trace of anxiety lingered as he headed home.

He worried about Hendel and Moore’s safety, and also pondered Moore’s writings—their ideas and power seemed incomprehensible to some, likely to be condemned as heresy and cultish seduction in the future. Such was the way of things.

...

An hour later, at the Digao royal palace, two men were ushered in to see Queen Nisserhel after a brief wait, to report on the day’s events.

“In summary, Your Majesty, there is indeed a cult inciting the workers’ uprising—an evil and bizarre entity has come to Digao with an extraordinary purpose. Yet the Black Castle remains heedless, allowing this being to bewitch countless citizens. Their arrogance must be punished!”

Nisserhel frowned and looked to her attendants.

“When will Walton arrive?”

“He has been summoned, he should be here any moment.”

As the advisor spoke, a voice approached from the distance.

“I am here, Your Majesty!”

Walton appeared at the doorway, removed his hat, and bowed deeply at a perfect right angle.

“Your Majesty.”

Nisserhel’s mood was far from pleasant; her voice was cold. “Walton, a powerful and evil presence has appeared in Digao, seducing thousands of workers to riot—an utter disgrace to the Empire! If not for these two royal constables from Queensborough, the consequences would have been even graver.”

Walton looked slightly surprised and glanced at the two men. They, who had previously expressed their dissatisfaction with the Black Castle, now dared not meet his gaze, but Walton cared little for that.

“Did you engage with this entity?”

“No, I sacrificed my spirit to escape its influence. Its corrosive power is beyond anything I can withstand. At first...”

The man recounted his experience in detail, adding nuances left out in his earlier summary for the queen. Walton, needing the specifics, listened with a furrowed brow.

“You say it devoured your spirits?”

“Yes, several in succession. I dared not observe further, so I cut off the connection. Clearly, he was searching for my location.”

Walton nodded and turned to the queen again.

“Your Majesty, this is indeed a formidable adversary. In fact, he recently infiltrated the Black Castle itself. It seems some of our actions have provoked widespread discontent—even drawn out such evil.”

He recalled how, within the Black Castle, the power of the dead and the ravens had suddenly vanished—eerily similar to these recent spirit devourings.

“The adversary’s power appears to involve devouring, with a strong ability to conceal himself and a streak of madness. Your Majesty, for your safety, I urge you not to leave the palace in the coming days. The Black Castle will handle what remains. If he dares to show himself again—”

For once, Walton’s expression was severe; this dangerous, frenzied presence had clearly roused his fighting spirit.