Chapter Ten: I Have Returned

The young cleric was strikingly tall, even through the haze, and his movements as he turned after bowing were graceful. Yet in that very instant, he walked straight into the iron gas lamp post.

A crisp clang rang out as his forehead met metal, echoing clearly in the evening mist. Mulan watched as the cleric pressed his hand to his brow and hurried away without looking back, unable to resist a private remark.

‘A good sound means a good head!’

Mulan’s spirits lifted a little. He had never been a devout believer, not in this world or the last, and now felt even less so; he felt no guilt at poking fun at the cleric in his heart.

“Sir, shall I carry your suitcase?” The carriage driver, who had clearly heard the clang as well, withdrew his gaze after a moment and approached to help. Only then did Mulan realize the driver was merely a child—by his estimation, no more than thirteen or fourteen.

“No need, I’ll carry it myself. Valentine Port is unusually quiet today.”

“Yes, the weather’s been bad lately. I heard a big storm is coming soon. That’s why some of the ships have left early, and the war has ended, too. When there was fighting, the port was lively well into the night.”

“A storm?” Mulan turned again, this time not toward the Princess Nishelriel, but toward the distant sea.

Yet he quickly wondered: in such a backward era, was there even such a thing as a weather forecast?

“When did people find out about the storm?” Mulan asked. The boy, eager for conversation, answered readily.

“There was a storm warning in the newspaper, so everyone knows now.”

“How did the newspaper learn about it?”

The boy scratched his head. “That, I don’t know.”

So advanced? Mulan’s question went unanswered, but he didn’t press further. He was simply intrigued by this forward-thinking meteorological report, uncertain of its accuracy, for he recalled no mention of newspapers offering weather forecasts.

“Do newspapers always carry weather forecasts now?”

“Weather forecasts?” The boy was puzzled, but quickly grasped the meaning.

“They only do it for big storms like this; not usually.”

“I see.”

Mulan sensed the boy had nothing more to offer, but the lad’s tongue did not rest.

“Sir, I heard Officer Jonest say you just came from the front. Is it exciting on the battlefield? How many enemies did you kill?”

Mulan frowned, recalling the battlefield—the fallen comrades, the souls lost to gunfire and bayonet, and the bodies crushed under steam tanks...

But when he spoke, he wore a smile.

“The battlefield isn’t fun or exciting. Sometimes you don’t get supplies and have to find your own food. We ate all sorts of odd things—half the men were constipated for two weeks, some even died from it! And the jungle’s venomous bugs—they crawl right under your clothes and suck your blood…”

The driver was taken aback. “Uh, is that so?”

“War is no fun. I’m tired, need to rest a bit.”

With that, Mulan climbed into the carriage, closed his eyes, and the boy ceased his questions about medals, recognizing Mulan’s unwillingness to speak further.

Outside the docks, Ivan walked briskly, rubbing his forehead. The collision had been hard; his brow still throbbed, likely bearing a red mark. He massaged it as he glanced back at Valentine Port, shrouded in mist—the Princess Nishelriel was merely a vague silhouette.

“The storm is close!” he murmured. Ivan thought of the young man by the carriage, who carried a faint scent of blood. When their eyes met, even Ivan, a cleric of the cathedral, felt a shiver—the gaze was sharp, piercing!

That man had surely seen blood—much of it!

‘Holy Light above, may God forgive his sins!’

At the same time, atop a tower in Valentine, an elderly man wrapped in a heavy blanket gazed through glass toward the port. No ships were visible from his vantage; the most prominent feature was the distant lighthouse—its beam alone piercing the fog.

The old man turned, sat at his desk, and began to write with a steel pen. His script was peculiar, the content stranger still—a lengthy passage on the storm.

...

The carriage rolled smoothly onward. Inside were only Mulan and Leo, both returning home. The faint jostling and the sound of wheels accompanied Mulan’s narrative, which was drawing to a close; the atmosphere was silent.

After a long pause, Leo laughed. “It’s alright, Mulan. I believe you. Old Buck will too. Even if you were guilty, we’d still stand by your side.”

A vein pulsed in Mulan’s forehead—clearly, Leo didn’t believe him! Had he listened to a word all this time?

“Thanks, Leo, but let me repeat—I'm innocent. I did not desert; I retired of my own accord. If I were guilty, I’d have been hanged.”

“Right, you’re a noble—it has to be dignified. By the way, don’t mention your trial to Old Buck just yet.”

Mulan now understood why relations with his brother had always been so strained.

“Un-der-stood!” Mulan spat the words from between clenched teeth, eyes closed, unwilling to say more. Suddenly, Leo reached over and pinched Mulan’s cheek, pulling hard.

“Hahaha! That’s my little brother—at the docks you were so mature I barely recognized you. Hahaha, the feel is just right!”

“I… Let go! Let go of me! If you don’t, I’ll fight back!”

“Go ahead, fight back! Hahaha!”

Mulan’s cheeks stung as he struggled, and the two brothers began to scuffle in the carriage.

“Officer Jonest, we’ve arrived!” The curious young driver steadied the carriage, called out, then hopped down to open the door.

The door swung open; out came two men—one carrying a suitcase, rubbing his cheek, the other massaging his left eye.

“Uh, gentlemen, you…”

“We’re fine. Run along, little Ball, head home. Be careful on the road,” Leo said. The boy nodded, still peering curiously, then drove the carriage away. Mulan stood to one side, silently rubbing his cheek, using his tongue inside his mouth to probe the sore spot; Leo had pulled with all his strength.

“Remember, don’t say anything to Old Buck.”

“Just mind your own mouth!”

Outside a row house on a street of terraced homes, the two brothers bickered at the door. Though his cheek ached, Mulan felt a strange warmth—a bout of horseplay had quickly bonded them in kinship.

“Knock knock knock…”

The door was rapped; footsteps approached from within. As the door opened, a sprightly old man with a head of white hair saw the two standing before him. His pupils widened, his expression shifting from disbelief to joy, and his eyes filled with tears.

“Is—is it Master Mulan?”

The blurred memories sharpened, distant scenes drew near. Childhood moments flashed by, ending at the moment of enlistment. Mulan’s face relaxed into a smile; he set down his suitcase and stepped forward to embrace the old man.

“Grandpa Buck, I’m home!”