Chapter Eight: Dream or Illusion

Mulan, who was never particularly fond of drinking, now picked up his glass and took a tentative sip. The taste was not as bitter as he had imagined; in fact, it was rather mellow, though certainly not to his liking. He still much preferred his beloved sweet soda. Yet, remembering how poorly he had slept these past few days, Mulan took another sip, hoping it might help him rest.

Though the Princess of Nisherlir had briefly strayed from its course, the detour would hardly affect the journey; barring unforeseen events, the ship was expected to arrive at Port Valentine by midday tomorrow. Mulan no longer wished to involve himself in the ship’s affairs. The dangerous elements aboard could be handed over to the Valentine Police once they docked. Such ominous matters felt too perilous for him now.

This was an old world—a world unlike anything the soul from the twenty-first century could recall. Here, countless mysterious things existed beyond the notice of ordinary people: wonders and miracles, certainly, but also strangeness and peril. This was Mulan’s conclusion, a warning to himself to tread carefully.

Nonetheless, if the Valentine detectives sought his testimony, he would answer honestly. He would also advise them that the two boys who had heard the singing surely knew more than they’d admitted. Until then, Mulan would say nothing further.

The investigation aboard was currently limited, and Mulan understood the villains were well hidden. Anyone capable of creating such bizarre things was no ordinary person. He doubted whether the Valentine police possessed the means to handle the case. Yet the one he had seen at the military tribunal convinced him that, at least within the official ranks of Dilgar, there existed those who could deal with such matters; and Valentine, being a major city on the empire’s western coast, would not be lacking in resources.

Thinking thus, Mulan speared the last piece of potato on his plate. Today, his meal was simply potatoes with gravy—after all, no one could eat steak every day.

‘Are those two deliberately avoiding me? Or are they hiding?’ Mulan chewed the final bite, scraping up the remaining gravy with a bit of bread as he glanced around. He saw no sign of the boy and girl, but they hadn’t vanished—only appeared less often, as the restaurant staff could confirm.

He rubbed his brow to ease the weariness pressing down on him, but stopped almost at once. Without realizing it, the surrounding atmosphere had grown eerily silent.

“Creak... creak...” The sound of old wooden boards groaning reached his ears, as if the deck could barely bear its burden. Mulan slowly opened his eyes. The other passengers around him now seemed distant and blurred, moving like slow, indistinct patches of color. In the distance, laughter and merriment echoed, but his own surroundings were unnaturally quiet.

Goosebumps rose in waves across Mulan’s skin. His body tensed, motionless, as his eyes darted about. The restaurant’s decor had become dilapidated, paint peeling in flakes, tables and chairs battered and broken, the plates before him covered in dust and grime.

“Creak...” The groaning of the wood resounded again. Mulan looked up; the ceiling boards sagged and warped, the distortion growing worse by the second.

“Creak...” The floor beneath his feet began to bulge in places, as though something was writhing beneath the boards.

“Hiss... whoosh... hiss... whoosh...” Mulan took deep breaths, his right hand slipping into his coat to feel for the wheel-shaped talisman, the cool metal bringing a small measure of comfort, though the oppressive atmosphere pressed down all the harder.

Suddenly, his gaze was drawn to the porthole. A shadow flickered past, and on the dusty, timeworn glass, a twisted shape was left as though something had just been crouching there.

“Come on! If you dare, show yourself before me!” he growled, his expression grim and edged with a fierce ruthlessness, as if he were still on a battlefield aflame with chaos. His body coiled tight, every muscle ready to spring.

As Mulan’s nerves stretched taut, color began to seep back into the decrepit cabin. Gradually, the air filled with the din of laughter, conversation, children’s shouts, and the clatter of dishes. Mulan snapped back to full consciousness.

Panting softly, he found his hand still braced against his brow. He took up a napkin to wipe the cold sweat from his face; the goosebumps had yet to fade.

He looked around—everything was warm and alive again. Another dream? Or had he hallucinated? It had felt so real.

Mulan had suffered nightmares frequently these past two nights—short, strange, and unsettling, much like what he had just experienced, though never so vivid. He could not say whether it had been a fleeting dream or a hallucination.

Yet, whether in this episode or the ones before, even as he felt a profound tension, Mulan sensed no immediate threat—at least, none directed at him.

‘Is it because of the siren case?’ he wondered, though he had never dreamed of the siren or heard its song in his sleep.

“Mr. Jonest, are you all right?” The attentive waitress approached once more, noting his pale complexion and asking with concern.

Mulan composed himself and shook his head slightly. “It’s nothing. I just haven’t been sleeping well—I’m tired. Yes, the bill, please.”

Tomorrow, the ship would reach port. Mulan already knew some of the arrangements: when the Princess of Nisherlir arrived in Valentine, all passengers and crew would be forbidden to disembark until the Valentine Police arrived.

That was the plan, anyway. With such distinguished and powerful people aboard, whether the arrangements would be effectively enforced was another matter entirely.

...

Mulan left the restaurant and returned to his cabin. Even if it meant risking another nightmare, he needed to sleep; after all, he already bore the faint shadows of two sleepless nights under his eyes. No matter how many dreams haunted him, there would always be some moments of real rest.

His habits, forged on the battlefield, refused to fade, even with a new soul inhabiting this body. No matter how harsh the circumstances, he forced himself to secure some measure of sleep.

The next morning, sunlight streamed through the cabin window, falling warm upon Mulan’s face. His lashes fluttered, and he slowly opened his eyes.

He yawned, then rolled over, turning his face away from the light. Surprisingly, he had slept well, and his anxiety was much eased.

He lingered in bed, hunger gnawing at him, but refused to rise until evening.

The Princess of Nisherlir was supposed to arrive at Valentine at noon; because of the earlier deviation from course, it was nearly dusk by the time they approached the port. The weather near Valentine was gloomy, the sun long since obscured, and a heavy fog drifted over the sea.

The ship’s whistle blared, startling Mulan—the king of oversleepers who had nearly repaid all his lost sleep in one go—awake. He sat up, ruffling his hair, and gazed out the porthole.

A veil of mist lay over the water, and in the distance, the dim glow of a lighthouse swept through the haze.

Valentine’s lighthouse? That meant the ship was almost in port!

The whistle sounded again, as if in answer to Mulan’s thoughts.

Valentine—the city where Mulan Jonest had been born and raised—felt at once familiar and strange. The memories in his mind were both vivid and blurred, sometimes more like scenes from an old documentary than lived experience...

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PS: From today there will be double updates. The story has only just begun!