Chapter Fifty-One: A Most Unusual Person

A detective entered the room. Though he had grown familiar with Mulan and held him in high esteem, he couldn’t help but feel a bit nervous stepping into this office—strange symbols and script adorned the windows and doorframe, and the officers who had visited before often speculated they were wards of some kind, perhaps meant to keep something from escaping.

“What’s the case?”

Mulan had already seated himself behind his desk. The detective saluted Ivan before quickly explaining the matter.

“These days, we’ve been investigating some agitators. What started as a minor dispute—a strike by workers at a parts factory—has escalated after several workers disappeared. The rest suspect the factory owner is retaliating, which has led to riots spreading through several factories and workshops. The nearby precincts have joined forces to suppress the unrest. We suspect dangerous cultists may be involved, and both the Chief Inspector and Viscount Naro hope Lord Jonster will lend his support.”

“Viscount Naro?” Mulan asked, puzzled by the unfamiliar name.

“He’s a major factory owner. The original factory where this began belongs to him, and his losses are the greatest.”

Mulan stood, nodding to show he understood. “Go make your preparations. I’ll be there soon.”

“Is there anything you need us to prepare?”

“No, just follow your own plan. I’ll investigate on my own.”

“All right, I’ll go ahead, then.”

The detective hurried off. Most of the York District police force had been dispatched to maintain order around the factories. Once he left, Ivan also stood to take his leave.

“Looks like you’ve got work to do. I’ll be off for now—come find me if you need help.”

“Do you really think cultists are behind this?” Mulan adjusted his coat, picked up his cane—which still hadn’t been repaired—and moved to the coat rack to don his hat. Ivan merely shook his head.

“I hope they are.”

“I hope so too. When it comes to cultists, at least we needn’t bother with reason or mercy.”

Mulan and Ivan departed the office one after the other. Ivan returned to the Grand Cathedral, while Mulan, together with the recently returned Hendel, left with several dozen York District officers.

Winter was nearly over, but the cold was still biting. The officers were all neatly uniformed, many equipped with wooden shields and batons, jogging in formation after their detectives. Mulan and Hendel did not join in the march, following at a distance instead.

Because of the strike, the steam trams in the York area had stopped running; there was no way to summon enough carriages for all the officers, so they ran the entire way.

It took them over half an hour in the freezing cold to reach the factories. The officers didn’t pause for rest but immediately surged forward at the detectives’ urging.

The factory district was a scene of chaos. Hundreds, perhaps over a thousand excited workers pressed together, shouting angrily. The combined police force from York and neighboring precincts numbered less than two hundred, all wielding shields to defend key factories and the nearby noble estates.

The workers were unarmed but driven by passion, jostling and shouting at the officers:

“Hand them over! They must have locked them up!”

“Give them back, give them back—bring back Bachili and the others—”

“Pay us what we’re owed!”

“Return our wages!”

“Fall back, fall back! You’re trespassing on private property!”

“If you don’t fall back, we’ll use force!”

“Stop pushing! Stop pushing—”

...

Mulan and Hendel remained at a distance, standing among other onlookers who watched from afar. Mulan observed in silence, while Hendel and the others looked on in shock.

“There are so many—most of these factories aren’t even connected. Why have so many come together? Aren’t they afraid of retaliation?”

Nearby, someone polished their spectacles and put them on. “I’ve never seen anything like this. Have these workers gone mad? Don’t they fear losing their jobs?”

“How many are there—a thousand?”

“More like two thousand, I’d say.”

“Even the police are afraid.”

“Heavens above, surely cultists have bewitched them. This is Digo, after all!”

Mulan watched the impassioned crowd, saying nothing, making no move to intervene.

Gunshots rang out—a detective fired into the air to impose silence. It only worked for a moment; instead of quelling the crowd, it inflamed them further. Some police, frightened and losing control, used batons on the workers, and the chaos escalated—workers were struck, and some officers were set upon by groups of enraged laborers.

The local nobles were clearly alarmed as well. Many retreated into their homes, locking the iron gates, while their servants brought out firearms and left the police to hold the line outside.

Only when the sound of hooves echoed through the streets and Digo’s military arrived did the riot come to an end. The workers scattered in panic, fleeing in all directions; the police pursued, capturing the slow and the isolated.

Only then did Mulan, watching from a distant street, begin to move.

“Hendel, did you notice the people I pointed out earlier? Come, don’t lose them.”

Mulan tightened his collar and flexed his stiff limbs, leading Hendel off the street and into an alley. The two soon split up, each tailing a separate target.

By dusk, Mulan and Hendel met again—their quarry had both ended up at the same place.

Half an hour later, the people they had followed emerged from the little building at the alley’s end, joined by six or seven others, all clearly involved in that day’s riot.

Mulan and Hendel didn’t follow them further, but stepped from the shadows.

“Lord Jonster, should I notify the police?” Hendel asked.

“No need.” Mulan looked up at the four-story building, walked to the door, removed his gloves, and gently touched the handle.

Resonance.

A jolt reverberated through his heart and soul; flashes of light and a cacophony of voices flooded his mind. Vague silhouettes moved along lines of destiny—one after another, figures entered and left, their emotions running the gamut from despair to excitement to fury.

After barely two seconds, Mulan let go, the afterimages still lingering in his consciousness.

Though he had yet to choose his path, that didn’t prevent him from using certain techniques. With a powerful will and natural talent, Mulan could harness a measure of fate’s power, and even draw on other arcane disciplines.

As he released the handle, the door clicked open with a gentle push.

“Come, let’s take a look upstairs.”

Hendel nodded, drawing his pistol from inside his coat. Mulan unsheathed his cane. They entered one after the other, Hendel quietly closing the door behind them.

The house was eerily still—an empty shell, it seemed. But Mulan knew there were people above. He led the way up the stairs, stepping lightly, though the wooden boards creaked beneath their weight.

As they reached the second floor, a burly, bearded man in a vest and long coat stood at the landing, leveling a double-barreled shotgun at them.

“Gentlemen, am I to assume you’re lost? Before I lose my temper, I suggest you turn around and leave. Burglary is not a justified occupation! And you—don’t try anything with that gun, or I’ll scatter your brains before you can blink.”

Mulan raised his hands, turning slightly to caution the man behind him. “Put the gun down.”

Hendel was confident he could shoot first, but he obeyed Mulan without question, placing his weapon on the stair.

“Good. Now, turn around, go back down, and let yourselves out. I’ll be watching the whole time!”

Mulan didn’t move, only gazed quietly at the man. His beard was streaked with gray, his face deeply lined with age, but his hands holding the shotgun were steady.

“You do realize that if someone truly determined wished to investigate, they’d find you here easily. For example, us.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir. The streets are full of police today—they’d be delighted to arrest you.”

Mulan smiled. “How do you know we’re not police?”

The man’s pupils widened, then shrank. His fingers trembled on the gun, and Mulan felt goosebumps prickle across his skin, but neither made a move.

“If you’d tried to fire just now, you would have fallen before you could hit me.”

“You think you’re faster than a bullet?”

“Just need to be faster than your reaction.”

Lowering his hands, Mulan walked slowly up the stairs. The man hesitated, then lowered his weapon with a deep sigh.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like a cup of coffee. Check the kitchen, would you?” Mulan said, addressing Hendel without using his name.

“Yes, sir.”

The man stared at Mulan, surprised. He wasn’t here to arrest him? He watched as Mulan entered a brightly lit room with the door ajar, and followed him in.

Inside, Mulan surveyed the bookshelves, the desk, and the manuscript pages scattered atop it.

“I was just writing something.”

“Something to do with the workers’ riot?”

Mulan looked at him. The man nodded, then shook his head.

“It’s not a riot. It’s a struggle. No one will help them—no one wants to. So they must unite and help themselves!”

“If thousands of workers lose their jobs, their families will suffer even more.”

“No, they won’t. If it were only a handful, yes. But with so many, so many factories acting together, the nobles and factory owners won’t dare go too far—for their own fear and their own profit.”

Mulan was taken aback. These simple words revealed the man’s uncommon insight.

“What’s your name?”

“You can call me Moore. And you, detective—who are you?”

Mulan smiled again. “I’m no detective. Call me Mr. X. If you don’t mind, I’d like to see what you’ve written.”

“Go ahead.”

Moore’s manner was open and generous. Mulan did not stand on ceremony, picking up a few pages and reading as he sat. His expression grew more serious as he read on.

Though the characters and details differed, Mulan felt as if he were reading the first sprout of Capital. It wasn’t pure economics, but mingled with personal emotion and commentary.

Yet he knew what kind of power was budding here. It made his hands tremble with excitement. He’d imagined such possibilities before, but as a nobleman, he lacked both the drive and the courage for such upheaval—he knew too well how difficult this road was, far more arduous than stepping into the arcane mysteries.

But faced with the real thing, he couldn’t help but be stirred.

“What do you think?” Moore asked, eyeing Mulan with anticipation.

“Mr. Moore, you shouldn’t be so active just now. Protect yourself—suppress your emotions, finish this calmly, from the perspective of a detached observer.”

“And what do you think of it?”

“It’s destined to be a seminal work. But it alone is not enough.”

A smile spread across Moore’s face. He saw that Mulan understood his words, and that understanding, coupled with such advice, was the truest form of recognition. Eagerly, he wanted to share more.

“Are there places where it needs improvement? I have more pages—let me find them for you...”

Mulan stood abruptly, restless. Hendel arrived with the coffee, but Mulan had no mind to drink it—he sensed something amiss.

“Mr. Moore, you need to move. The police aren’t the only ones looking for you—something else is coming!”

Far off, a black mist seemed to seep through the city—a force that transcended mere physical threat, bordering on the prophetic. Mulan gripped his cane tightly. Whatever might come, he would protect this man at all costs.

“Move? When?”

Mulan looked at him gravely.

“Take your manuscript—right now, at once!”