The Shadow of Great Britain
Chapter 477 - 477 258 Collision of Eras 5K6_3

477: Chapter 258: Collision of Eras (5K6)_3 477: Chapter 258: Collision of Eras (5K6)_3 The Duke of Wellington replied with a gentle chuckle.

Clearing his throat, the old Duke straightened his slightly stooped back considerably.

He scanned the cavalry below and, with a sudden gesture, flung his white glove forward; his penetrating and resonant voice, like a hurricane, filled the ears of everyone present.

“Stand up, Imperial Guard!

Charge once again, immediately!!!”

The command was assertive and almost simultaneous with its issuance, the cavalry raised their riding crops and lashed down hard.

Immediately after, the warhorses neighed in unison, and then the cavalry began to recklessly canter around the central round stage.

Dust billowed in the theater, and the passionate performance of the cavalry instantly unleashed the emotions of the audience, who cheered and shouted in approval.

Gentlemen threw their hats skyward, and even the usually sweet and quiet ladies clutched their chests, seemingly on the verge of being overwhelmed by the fervent atmosphere.

In the midst of a dusty haze, the announcer skipped the formalities and leapt onto the stage, which usually required the support of both hands to climb.

He, too, was absorbed in this sea of revelry, his face flushed and his voice wavering.

“Ladies and gentlemen, gaze towards the east side of the stage!!!”

Following the announcer’s command, two torches on the eastern passageway of the stage were instantly lit.

Perhaps due to the angle of the light, a figure’s shadow was cast upon the floor tiles, stretched to an impossibly slender and long silhouette, like an indescribable backstage specter creeping to the center of the stage.

“Allow me to introduce, with great fanfare, the man who brought dust to the glory of British swordsmanship, who made the London Fencing Association hang its head in shame, the legendary Sword Saint from Paris, France’s Foil Napoleon—Francois-Joseph Ber~~~trand, Monsieur!”

As the announcer finished, crisp and clear footsteps echoed from the passageway.

Out of the shadows emerged a well-built man draped in a blue cloak, making his steady approach out of the passageway.

The man’s face was entirely hidden in the shadow of his cloak, obscuring his visage from view.

The only thing that the audience could clearly see was the iconic slender French foil strapped to his waist.

Bertrand ascended the stage step by step, arms slowly stretching wide like a crucified Jesus; attendants by his side quickly approached to remove the cloak draped over him.

The shadow covering his face dissipated, replaced by a black mask covering the upper half of his face.

This was a typical French style, and also a stroke of genius inspired by Arthur.

In Arthur’s eyes, a European Sword Saint should rightfully don such a mask, just as Zorro did.

With one hand on his waist, the entire audience held its breath.

Suddenly, Bertrand drew his foil and rapidly traced a Z in the air, and before the audience could exhale, he had already completed the action of sheathing his sword.

Bertrand stood with arms crossed, looking down upon the audience, and hummed softly before spitting on the ground disdainfully.

“British swordsmanship is nothing more than this!”

Upon these words, French expatriates in the audience immediately erupted into fervent applause and cheers, and even Talleyrand beside King William IV stood up, smiling, and clapped along.

As he clapped, Talleyrand nodded towards the King and the Duke of Wellington, saying, “Excuse the mirth.”

Before Talleyrand could finish, the announcer’s robust voice once again filled the entire venue: “As we all know, nearly half a century ago, another swordsman from France swept through the entire London fencing circle.

Although so much time has passed, we still cannot forget the great swordsman’s name, the Europa Sword Saint from the land of the iris—Dion de Beaumont!

Although we remained unclear about the gender of this enigmatic Europa Sword Saint until their death, still wondering if they might have been a hermaphrodite!

What we do know for sure is that the then 59-year-old Dion defeated London’s strongest swordsman, Saint George.

My grandfather told me, he witnessed that duel with his own eyes; that day Dion, struggling with the hem of their skirt, felled Saint George with a swift, clean Sevenfold Thrust.”

It is well known that losing to a Frenchman is absolutely unacceptable, but if Monsieur Dion were a lady, I believe the audience present would find it somewhat more bearable, for after all, we Britons have lost to French women before!”

With that, the audience below burst into loud laughter.

“If it were a Frenchman, even Napoleon would be at a loss against us.

But if it were a woman, just sending a village wife from France would suffice for the fight.”

“In that case, does this mean there really is no reason for us to lose today’s match?”

“The French haven’t even sent a village wife to the field, and the London Fencing Association can’t hold the line.

In my opinion, this fancy association might as well disband!”

Seeing that the atmosphere was sufficiently heated, the announcer promptly cut off the chatter and redirected the audience’s attention to the west side.

“The challenger from the west side!

Roaming in the dark corners of London, hands stained with sin, but ever harboring justice in his heart.

Outlaws shun him, he’s the dread of Barbary Pirates, his fingertips sparkle with electricity, versed in the mysteries of magnetism, a radiant police star shining at Scotland Yard.

Tonight, at the Astley Theatre, he will conduct a waltz named trial!

Please welcome, Arthur Black~~~Hasting!!!!!!!!”

The moment the announcer finished speaking, Wheatstone, who had been prepared, hurriedly ordered his men: “Electrify, damn it!”

Upon Wheatstone’s command, the iron pillars arranged in front of the west passage erupted in noise, as blue-purple lightning leaped from pillar to pillar, spiraling up and culminating in a burst of brilliance at the top of each pillar, under the gaze of the audience.

The cold night wind blew, carrying with it the sound of Arthur’s footsteps, rustling his black cloak into waves.

Arthur’s pace was slow yet rhythmic, as if keeping time to a silent beat.

He ascended the steps one by one, arriving at the center of the stage, where he laid his white-gloved hand upon the brim of his cloak’s hood and with two fingers gave a gentle push, revealing his face to the audience.

He wore a mask as well, one that covered his entire face, his visage as pale as a lady’s who had applied an arsenic cream, yet upon this ghostly complexion hung a terrifying sardonic grin, two up-turned mustaches, and the cold, dark hollows of his eyes.

Like Bertrand’s Zorro mask, Arthur’s mask was also well-known to Britons, and in 19th-century Britain, there was no one who had seen such a style of mask before.

It was named after the leading figure of the Gunpowder Plot, Guy Fawkes, but in later times, fans would give its wearer a distinctive and special name—V for Vendetta.

Arthur, his white gloves immaculate, placed one hand over his chest and bowed slightly to the audience members who had come to watch the day’s spectacle.

He straightened his back and turned to Bertrand, not far in front of him, asking, “Monsieur Bertrand, my hearing is not good, could you please repeat what you just said?”

Hearing this, Bertrand simply placed his hands on his hips, threw back his head, and burst into laughter, then once again looked at Arthur and retorted, “Repeat it?

Are you saying you’ve sent a deaf man to fight me?

Very well!

Then I shall say it again!

British swordsmanship is nothing special!

Mr.

Hasting, you can’t even understand such simple words, what in the world are you here for today?”

Arthur, hearing this, suddenly flipped open the collar of his cloak, revealing the deep, night-like fencing attire hidden beneath.

He drew his 48-inch English shortsword from his waist, took a small step forward, readied his stance, and though his voice was not particularly booming, it carried through the quietude to resonate throughout the venue.

“My purpose for being here?

I simply wish to prove that you are wrong.”