Chapter Fifteen: Always Just a Little Short

Mulan had no time to wonder why a sword had suddenly appeared in his hand. He dared not let his attention waver; the assailant before him was absolutely capable of killing him.

The cane-sword in his grasp clashed with the attacker’s blade in the darkness, sending sparks flying. A powerful force pressed down his way, transmitted through the enemy’s knife. Mulan’s body was forced backward, but he immediately twisted sideways to deflect the force and lashed out with a kick at his assailant.

Predictably, his kick missed, but it forced the attacker to loosen his grip on the blade, giving Mulan a brief moment to catch his breath.

Since the assailant revealed himself, his knife had barely left Mulan’s body; only now, for the first time, did it draw back even slightly.

Mulan struggled to steady his quickened breathing, forcing his tense muscles to relax. He raised the silver sword at an angle before him, never taking his eyes off his opponent.

On this windy, frigid night, the assailant wore nothing but an ordinary short vest, a shirt, and a pair of suspenders—no hat, no coat. He was thin, with somewhat long hair that obscured his features. He gripped a sharp boning knife and watched Mulan with a calmness that, in contrast, seemed utterly relaxed.

“You hid your sword well. I didn’t notice it at all.”

Mulan had expected the man to be taciturn, but to his surprise, the attacker spoke first. Still, Mulan did not answer. Instead, he shot back a question of his own.

“Are you the suspect in the missing child case—the one who dismembered the victim?”

The upper half of the assailant’s face was shrouded in shadow. The lower half, caught in the glow of a distant streetlamp, twisted into an exaggerated grin. He did not answer Mulan’s question.

“Your coat is too heavy. It’s slowing you down. Without it, you wouldn’t die so quickly.”

Mulan made no reply, his attention wholly focused on the attacker.

“You’re related to that detective, aren’t you? You two look quite alike. Let me guess: you’re the younger brother, and he’s the elder? He gave me a bullet, so as a return gift, I’ll send him his brother’s corpse. That should be fair, shouldn’t it?”

The attacker cocked his head, revealing a bleeding graze—apparently a bullet wound. As his words fell, he sprang into action, blade flashing as he charged at Mulan.

The brief exchange had been unexpected, but it would not alter the outcome. Though this young man was skilled, his physical limits ensured he could not win.

A cruel smile twisted the assailant’s face; to kill this man would be a far greater triumph than any of his previous victims.

As the attacker lunged, Mulan’s pupils, which had widened slightly, contracted sharply. He reacted instantly—retreating swiftly while drawing his revolver with his left hand, leveling it at his foe.

Let’s see whose weapon is faster—your knife, or my gun!

The instant Mulan raised the revolver, the assailant’s pupils dilated, and he twisted his body in a desperate dodge.

A flash of fire leapt from Mulan’s gun barrel.

Bang!

On the silent streets of Valentine, the stormy night was split by the revolver’s dazzling muzzle flash—far brighter than an ordinary gunshot, so much so that it stung the assailant’s eyes.

Clang—

Bang! Bang! Bang!

After the first shot, Mulan fired three more in quick succession, but all he could see was a phantom-like silhouette darting into the darkness.

Gasping for breath, Mulan kept his revolver raised in his left hand, the sword in his right arm held defensively across his chest. In less than two minutes, the brief clash had drained him of strength. In the biting cold, the shirt beneath his coat was already damp with sweat.

He remained vigilant, standing his ground until his strength returned somewhat. Only then did he glance toward a glint of metal nearby—a slightly bent boning knife.

His first shot had struck the flat of the blade, but the force of the bullet was great, and it had still wounded the man.

What a pity—the man was far too quick, and shooting with his left hand compromised his accuracy. Otherwise... I’ll have to practice shooting left-handed, he resolved silently.

Having made up his mind, Mulan inspected the silver sword in his hand. The shaft of his cane lay quietly on the ground not far away. Had this sword not appeared suddenly at his side, he would likely be a corpse now.

The slender blade glimmered faintly, bearing a small nick from the recent violent clash.

After another quick glance, Mulan stepped forward, picked up the twisted boning knife—its edge marred by a large chip from the collision—and then straightened up to leave. He did not head home, but instead made for the hospital, intent on warning those inside to be on their guard.

Some time after Mulan’s departure, in the dark corner of an alley not far from the scene, a shadowy figure clutched his right arm and exhaled raggedly.

Hah... hah... hah...

The assailant, having held his breath and stilled his presence for so long, now gasped for air. Blood dripped from his wounded arm onto trembling fingers, then splattered on the ground.

He had come within an inch—just an inch—of dying.

And within an inch—just an inch—of killing his opponent.

He had brushed shoulders with death, and suffered grave wounds for it. The gunshot wound tore at him with a searing, indescribable pain, far worse than any he’d felt before.

Yet amid the terror, a manic grin spread across his face.

Who is he? Who is that detective’s younger brother? No matter who he is, I will kill him. I must kill him!

Staggering slightly, the assailant left the alley, emerging on the wind-ravaged street. Mulan had feared the man might double back, but clearly he no longer had the strength.

Once both parties had departed, the street in Valentine returned to utter stillness, broken only by the howling wind.

Even in this storm, gunshots could be clearly heard—they might not carry far, but many nearby residents were startled awake. Yet none made a sound; perhaps someone would later sell the story to the papers.

Though Mulan was unscathed, as he stepped into the gas-lit brightness of the hospital and finally let out a breath, a lingering dread gnawed at his heart.

This world, with its fascinating and alluring mysteries that might fulfill anyone’s dreams of the extraordinary, was also a place of immense danger. Life was fragile—even his own.

And that assailant—the one who abducted children, that madman performing some kind of dark ritual—was simply too dangerous. He must die!