Chapter Eleven: The Sanctuary

Page 1 of 3

Although the Jonster family held a hereditary barony, they could hardly be compared to other noble houses; in the eyes of the aristocracy, they were nothing more than a destitute lineage barely able to maintain the facade of dignity. Yet for the Jonsters themselves, such matters were of little consequence. The old steward, Buck, who had watched the two brothers grow up, was more kin than servant, his bond with them surpassing even that of family.

Mulan’s return home after retiring from service was somewhat abrupt, but with the war ended, many officers were applying for leave. His presence brought a sudden warmth to the Jonster household, allowing Mulan to feel a powerful familial affection in this world both familiar and strange.

Each day, old Buck would try to prepare Mulan’s favorite dishes. Whenever Mulan rose, Buck would make his bed, launder his clothes, tidy his room, attending to him with the utmost care. It compelled Mulan to abandon his habit of leaving the bedding unmade; now, his first action upon waking was to smooth or fold the blankets himself, keeping the room orderly lest Buck fuss over it.

Heaven knows, back in the vibrant twenty-first century, aside from the daily grind, Mulan—once known as Li Xiu—spent his free time at home, never bothering to make his bed, his room a mess yet with everything in its place. How could he now be so disciplined?

These minor inconveniences aside, the real trouble for Mulan was insomnia. In the days since his return, only once had he slept soundly through the night; otherwise, his rest was light and fitful, waking at the slightest noise, plagued by dreams—not all nightmares, but many strange and fantastical visions.

...

On the seventh day after his homecoming, before the aged door of their old house, an elderly man and a young gentleman stood together. The elder wore trousers and a shirt beneath a waistcoat, which, though patched in several places, fit neatly and gave him an air of vigor. His white hair and beard were trimmed with care as he fussed over the young man’s attire.

The youth had brown hair and eyes, his hair lightly curled, his gaze bright, his frame tall and slightly slender. He held his arms out, careful not to hinder the old man’s movements.

“Master Mulan, don’t dwell on it; all is past,” said Buck, smoothing Mulan’s shirt and straightening his collar, tugging at the hem of his coat. His eyes lingered on Mulan’s cuffs, giving the corners a gentle pat, and then he stepped back with a satisfied smile.

Mulan lowered his hands and smiled back at the old man. “Don’t worry, Grandpa Buck, I am neither depressed nor agitated—just struggling with a bit of insomnia.”

“That’s good. Here, mind your injury.”

“Grandpa Buck, my wounds have nearly healed, I promise!”

Buck fetched a top hat from a nearby shelf and handed it to Mulan, who placed it on his head. With a gentle turn, Mulan opened the door; as the angle of the opening widened, ever more light poured into the dim room, revealing the bustling world beyond.

“I’m off, Grandpa Buck.”

“Ah, take care on the road, come home early; dinner will be sumptuous!”

Buck leaned against the door, watching as Mulan stepped out and looked back. Mulan flashed a radiant smile. “Wonderful! I can hardly wait.”

With anticipation, Mulan departed, stepping onto the street and into this new world. His pace was neither hurried nor slow as he walked the moderately narrow lane, soon merging into a broader avenue wide enough for four carriages abreast.

A strong wind swept through the streets, the crowds sparse, everyone in a hurry, and the carriages never ceased their motion.

“Whoosh...whoosh...”

A gust came roaring, Mulan pressed his hat with one hand, his hair tossed by the wind, his coat flaring to the side. He saw many pedestrians stagger under the force of the gale. Mulan looked up at the sky, which was brooding and gray.

Page 2 of 3

“Paper! Paper! Valentine Daily News! Beautiful and noble Crown Princess Nisheliel ascends as Empress of the Empire! A great storm is about to sweep Valentine! Paper! Paper...”

Not far ahead, a newsboy, his shoulder bag slung diagonally, shouted with all his might, clinging to shop walls or gas lamps whenever the wind picked up.

Mulan strode steadily toward the newsboy, who immediately pitched his papers to him.

“Sir, buy a paper? All the latest news from everywhere, just ten pence each.”

Mulan glanced at the bulging bag, felt for coins in his pocket, and drew out two.

“I’ll take one.”

“Thank you, sir! Here’s your paper.”

The newsboy handed over the newspaper and hurried off, his smile bright. With fewer people braving the weather, sales were difficult.

Mulan did not immediately read the paper, keeping it in hand as he continued on. After half an hour, the street grew more bustling and lively.

Signboards with bold lettering lined the road: tailor shops, clockmakers, jewelers, and apothecaries with glass cabinets displaying jars of vivid liquid.

Mulan slowed, absorbing every detail with his senses, the sights and sounds more vivid than any scene from the screens of his former world.

At last, his steps halted before a clinic. Buck had previously procured medicines from an apothecary for Mulan, but nothing eased his insomnia. This time, Mulan intended to consult a real physician.

Professional medical care was expensive; ordinary folk typically visited apothecaries, where a pharmacist would assess their condition and recommend treatments—an affordable option for the common people.

Due to the wind, the clinic’s door was tightly shut, but a sign read “Open for Business.”

Mulan knocked, and soon a woman answered.

“I’m Mulan—Mulan Jonster. I have an appointment today.”

“Oh, yes, please come in, Mr. Jonster!”

The woman paused, momentarily distracted by the young man in the wind, then quickly composed herself, her cheeks tinged with warmth as she stepped aside to allow him in.

Mulan nodded and entered, aware that his physical condition was now much improved.

‘Honestly, I am rather charming!’ he couldn’t help but think, pride swelling within him.

Yet the medical consultation did not go smoothly.

“Mr. Jonster, the medicines you’ve taken are all appropriate, yet none provide relief?”

The bespectacled doctor asked for confirmation, Mulan could only repeat himself.

“Increasing the dosage of Anloco helps a little, but not as much as the pharmacist claimed. Should I take more?”

The doctor shook his head emphatically.

Page 3 of 3

“Please don’t try that. Some of the drugs you’re taking, if overdosed, could leave you unable to wake up.”

The doctor frowned, pondering Mulan’s case for a long moment before finally speaking.

“Mr. Jonster, you’re a soldier returned from the battlefield; perhaps your illness is linked to the war. If the medications aren’t helping, I suggest you pray to the gods more often, visit the church—perhaps that will help.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

Mulan forced a smile, rose to take his leave. The diagnosis was of little use, though the fee would still be paid. As for prayer, he had no interest.

Outside, the wind seemed even fiercer. Mulan chose not to return home by the same route, instead wandering along a lively street to better survey and understand his surroundings.

At a quieter intersection, Mulan unfolded the newspaper, immediately catching the headline—Welcoming Our Empress.

The lengthy article distilled to a single point: Crown Princess Nisheliel had formally been crowned Empress of the Empire.

Such matters were far removed from Mulan’s life; he could not help but imagine an anime figure with a prominent ahoge, then flipped through the paper, searching for news of greater relevance. On page three, he found what he was looking for.

And then another bold headline—A Great Storm Will Soon Envelop Valentine.

Mulan clutched the paper, his gaze fixed on the words “Great Storm,” his mind growing hazy.

“Rumble...whoosh...whoosh...”

Looking up, Mulan saw only swirling murky air, as though caught in the eye of a super tornado, the storm stretching from earth to sky, spiraling with bands of color.

“Crackle...”

Mulan gripped the newspaper tightly, the hallucination soon faded, but his mind was still not right—dizzy, faintly aching, memories of the battlefield resurfacing.

“Damn—”

Mulan shouted, venting his turmoil, the discomfort easing but not vanishing. He bared his teeth, determined to head home at once. His visions could not simply be explained as postwar trauma; ordinary doctors would not help.

As he quickened his pace, he passed a cathedral, the doctor’s words echoing in his mind.

This world was home to supernatural mysteries. Might these religious institutions truly possess special powers?

Just then, Mulan saw a familiar figure at the church entrance.

‘That good head?’

He recognized the young priest who’d crashed into a lamppost days before. Mulan paused, then continued forward. The priest, upon seeing him, nodded and smiled with the gentle air of a missionary.

Yet in Mulan’s mind, the priest’s image was firmly fixed as “good head”—no matter how proper he looked, he lacked any sacred aura.

Unexpectedly, as Mulan reached the cathedral’s door, his mental discomfort eased noticeably, making him widen his eyes in surprise.