Chapter Eighteen: Two Layers of Uncertainty

The storm raged on, just as Mulan had feared. Though Valentine was not a place unaccustomed to rain, it had never known such prolonged, torrential downpour. The city’s dense buildings and the surrounding terrain, which funneled water into its heart, only worsened the situation. Even as the water flowed ceaselessly toward the sea, flooding began to spread throughout Valentine. Compared to the previous days, the wind had lessened, but the rain only grew heavier. Even the street where the Jonster family lived was now collecting water.

By the warm kitchen hearth, Leo had fallen asleep in his recliner. Old Buck busied himself cleaning the kitchen, while Mulan stood alone in his upstairs room, gazing out the window at the distant and the near. The water on the street outside had risen considerably; the underground drainage system seemed to have abandoned its duty entirely. Though the water still crept slowly toward the port, it could not keep pace with the relentless rain and the runoff from higher ground.

Cold, wind, rain, and flooding—despite such harsh conditions, Mulan’s eyes still caught sight of people outside. Everyone knew such weather should keep one indoors, but necessity drove them out. Not every household had sufficient stores; after so many days, many were already out of food.

Some carried umbrellas, others wore raincoats, or whatever makeshift protection they could find, wading through the frigid water, their age ranging from the very young to the elderly with white hair. Their rain gear was pitifully inadequate against the deluge, but survival compelled those who could no longer endure at home to brave the storm. In some houses, the water had already flooded inside; even outside the Jonster home, the water had reached the second step of the stoop.

At that moment, Mulan seemed to glimpse another side of Valentine. Beneath the prosperous facade of this bustling port city, the common people struggled for survival. Perhaps there were many like Mulan, or even those better off, who, at this very moment, looked out their windows with complicated feelings at their fellow citizens exposed to the rain—the same Dirga people, the same residents of Valentine.

Mulan’s feelings were conflicted. He was grateful to be safe, warm, and not wanting for food, but he also pitied those outside. Yet, he knew how small his own power was. After all, the Jonster family was not wealthy; even Old Buck’s favorite vest was patched, and Leo’s wages, the mainstay of the household, were largely spent on rent, with the remainder stretched to cover their needs.

Mulan looked into the flooded distance. Here, no one would come by boat to rescue the people, no one would distribute supplies; everyone could only rely on themselves. Yes, his homeland in the twenty-first century was far from perfect, beset with its own sharp or subtle problems, but in times of crisis, people believed in her—and with good reason.

“Mister Mulan, Mister Mulan…”

Old Buck’s voice called from outside. Mulan opened his door and stepped out to the stairs, where Old Buck stood below.

“Mister Mulan, we’re down to our last potatoes. For supper, do you prefer them boiled with salt, or would you rather have them roasted?”

Reality struck Mulan with a cold hand—he was, in truth, not much better off than those outside.

“Boiled potatoes are fine, Grandpa Buck.”

“All right, I’ll call you when supper’s ready.”

Old Buck returned to the kitchen, while Mulan turned again to the window. He had barely glanced outside when his gaze sharpened. At the far end of the street, three figures emerged from the intersection, then disappeared behind the houses on the other side. Though the rain was heavy and the trio passed quickly from view, Mulan was certain he recognized two of them—they were the pickpocket youths from the Princess Nisheliar.

It was not just a matter of sight, but an intuition. Having shared tense moments with those distinctive children, Mulan was left with a strange sense that let him know, even without seeing clearly.

What were they doing here? And who was the woman leading them?

He had not seen the boy and girl when disembarking that day, assuming they had left Valentine with the Princess Nisheliar. Yet here they were, in this storm.

A sudden urge to find out more seized him, and before he realized it, Mulan was already out of his room and heading for the stairs.

“Grandpa Buck, something urgent—I have to step out for a bit.”

Even as he spoke, he was at the door, donning his overcoat, changing into the tall military boots he’d kept since his discharge, wrapping himself in a hooded cloak, and grabbing his cane.

“Mister Mulan, where are you going?”

“I saw some acquaintances. I must check on them. Don’t wait dinner for me.”

Without waiting for a reply, Mulan opened the door and plunged into the rain-soaked world.

The water made his progress harder, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle; he’d faced worse in wartime. With long, purposeful strides, he moved at a near run. Judging by what he had seen from upstairs, the three were moving slowly. After cutting through several streets, he reached the intersection and quickly spotted the trio, not far ahead.

Wiping rain from his face, Mulan confirmed he had not been mistaken. Yet he hesitated, glancing back toward home. The maniacal murderer was still at large—who could say whether he knew the Jonster house, or if he might attempt something reckless? While the weather made it unlikely the killer would be out, Mulan did not consider him a normal man.

If Mulan were at home, he felt confident he could deal with the murderer. But once he left his own “range,” Leo, still recovering from injury, would be helpless, and Old Buck was no longer young. Though it had been Old Buck who, in place of Mulan’s deceased father, had trained him and Leo in the traditions of the Jonster knights, the old man’s strength had clearly waned.

As Mulan hesitated, a lovely melody interrupted his thoughts.

“Mmm—ah—”

His pupils dilated. He turned back toward the three figures. He would never forget that tune or the voice that hummed it—however faint, it came unmistakably from the third person ahead.

A siren?

At that moment, Mulan’s hand slipped into his coat, fingers closing around the grip of his revolver.

And as Mulan’s nerves tensed, a trigger was pulled from a garret window across the street.

Bang!

With an animal’s instinct, Mulan flinched, reacting the instant danger erupted. Almost in the same moment as the shot, he dove forward.

A numbness spread across his shoulder—he crashed into the water, rolled, and pressed himself against the wall of the building opposite, revolver drawn, eyes sweeping doorways and windows, weighing whether to break in or brace for an assault.

“Damn, missed!”

In the garret, the gunman discarded his rifle, drew a pistol, and hurried downstairs, making no attempt at a second shot. On the second floor, he leapt from a rear window.

Splash—

The gunman landed in the flooded street behind and fled quickly. At the same moment, Mulan sensed his escape, darting to the front door and kicking it open with a mighty blow.

His eyes registered traces of blood as he raced upstairs, raised his weapon, and fired.

Bang, bang, bang—

The revolver spat flashes of light, three bullets chasing after the gunman. The man’s reflexes were uncanny, but he had not counted on Mulan’s speed or deadly aim. Though he twisted and dodged with unnatural agility, one shot struck his thigh.

The wound sent him stumbling, but did not slow him; he veered into a side alley.

Without hesitation, Mulan leapt from the second floor, splashing down into the flooded street and charging after him.

Now, Mulan had no time to worry about sirens; even if one truly lurked, that was a problem for the authorities or the Church. Right now, he had to deal with the gunman—almost certainly the same deranged murderer from before. In all of Valentine, only he hated Mulan enough to try again.