The Shadow of Great Britain
Chapter 483 - 483 260 Song of Life 7k2_4

483: Chapter 260: Song of Life (7k2)_4 483: Chapter 260: Song of Life (7k2)_4 Lionel, upon hearing young Angelo’s statement, which was rich in emotional intelligence, nearly lost his composure and almost burst out laughing despite his usual pride in managing his expressions.

If one wasn’t paying close attention, they would have missed the subtle way in which Angelo implied that Arthur and Bertrand were putting on a display of theatrical swordplay.

Indeed, even for a Swordsmanship Master like the Angelo brothers, they couldn’t escape tradition.

The moment they pulled out their naval cutlasses and broadswords, no matter how much they disapproved, they would not reveal the true nature of the duel.

King William IV, who was enjoying the show, stroked his beard and nodded as he said, “I knew the lad was strong, but to gain the approval of you two, that’s somewhat unexpected.”

Just then, Arthur and Bertrand engaged in a sword clash, the Fist Spike and the police officer’s sword at a deadlock, with flashes of electricity twining around the iron cage suspended above the duel platform, as if the will of both swordsmen had accumulated in the countless sparks and arcs.

The iron cage was like another moon in the sky, only, compared to the enchanting moonlight, it has an added air of savagery and brilliance.

In the eyes of the onlookers, Bertrand’s mouth twitched, and the frost clinging to his body slowly melted away due to the heat produced by the vigorous movements, making him look like a monster thawing out from an iceberg.

On Arthur’s side, the ice beads hanging from the Guy Fawkes mask were also melting away, drop by drop, trickling down from the corners of the eyes of the mask—though no one knew for whom these tears were shed.

Suddenly, a fireball burst from the electricity shimmering around the iron cage.

The detonation was like a starting pistol.

Bertrand moved; he swung the Lantern Shield to block the policeman’s sword, freeing his right hand in an attempt to lock Arthur’s joint, intending to drag him to the ground, but he missed and instead, Arthur’s knee struck upwards, hitting him directly on the mask.

It was just that one blow, but Bertrand felt as if his head would shatter.

A large amount of blood surged from his mask, covering his entire face with its steady flow.

“Hasting!!!”

With a roar of pain, whether out of shame or anger, Bertrand raised his arm and slammed his elbow hard into Arthur’s shoulder joint.

There was a ripping sound as the fabric of Arthur’s dueling outfit was torn open by a large slash.

The two separated instantly, and Bertrand, with his blood-stained right hand, reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a flintlock pistol, aiming it at Arthur who was attempting to rise.

“I didn’t want to go this far!

But…

But why do you force my hand?

Hasting, you goddamn better be ready to bite the bullet!”

“Oh!

My God!”

“Incredible!

The Paris Sword Saint actually chooses such a despicable means to end the fight!”

“Drawing a gun!

This is a disgrace to the honor of a Swordsmanship Master!”

Outcries of dissatisfaction erupted among the audience.

Bertrand, seeing this, felt somewhat intimidated, but then he glanced at the suitcase left in the corner of the theatre.

The Paris Sword Saint shut his eyes, hardened his heart, and yelled at the audience, “British martial arts are nothing special!”

Immediately after, Bertrand forcefully pulled the trigger of the pistol that contained gunpowder but no bullet.

With a bang, black smoke burst from the barrel of the pistol.

Arthur’s shoulder jerked back with the sound of the gunfire; his right hand clutched his left shoulder, deftly bursting a red dye packet concealed within, and the Guy Fawkes mask slipped off his face due to the violent motion.

Thick, crimson liquid oozed from between his fingers, staining his entire shoulder with large patches of the chemical dye.

Realistic drops of blood flowed through his sleeve to the ground, settling into the crevices between the bricks like a babbling brook in spring.

Arthur’s body swayed, whether from exhaustion or from improvising on the spot.

“Oh!

My God!

Look at what this Frenchman has done!”

“Why does Scotland Yard enforce firearms control?

If it weren’t for that, I’d take this Frenchman out right now!”

In the midst of both pitying and cursing voices, Arthur staggered back to his feet.

His forehead, wet with perspiring beads, smiled as he raised his hand, holding a clutched Colt Revolver.

Bertrand’s mouth half-opened: “You…”

Arthur’s fingertip gently nudged, and the revolver’s barrel suddenly swung towards the sky.

Five consecutive shots rang out, and the small colorful flags hanging in the air fell to the ground one after another.

Amid a flurry of colorful flags, Arthur, dragging his heavy footsteps, advanced to Bertrand and kicked the Paris Sword Saint, who was at the end of his strength, toppling him to the ground.

The dark muzzle pointed at Bertrand’s head, and a deep, hoarse voice rose again, “Mr.

Bertrand, do you know what kind of pistol this is?”

“I don’t know, what…

what about it?”

Arthur lifted the pistol towards Bertrand, “This is a Colt revolver.”

“Ah…

so what, then…”

In the silence of the theater, there was the sound of a gunshot accompanied by several flashes of lightning, like the final sound of judgement.

The Paris Sword Saint fell as Arthur spoke, “I’m sorry to introduce the new product to you in this way.”

On the theater stage, thick fog spread once more, torches tumbled, lightning flashed, thunder rumbled.

Blood-soaked, Arthur’s face contrasted with the moonlight as he looked up into the sky.

Such a performance left the audience heartbroken, for even though Arthur triumphed in the end, such a victory could not bring them joy.

“Mr.

Hastings…”

“Where’s the doctor?!

Quick, bandage him up!”

“Oh!

God, have mercy on his plight, he is still so young, he can’t lose his arm.”

The doctors, who had been waiting for a long time, rushed onto the stage.

Some surrounded Bertrand, carrying him off the stage, while others approached Arthur, pleading, “Mr.

Hastings, you should go to the hospital for treatment first.

As for the piano piece, today…”

Arthur simply waved them off with a charming smile.

As the mist cleared, a piano had mysteriously appeared behind him.

“You, surely…”

Arthur just shook his head, took slow steps to the piano bench, and with a long, deep breath, his bloodied white glove finally touched the keys.

do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, ti…

Tuning complete.

Arthur nodded with a smile, and seeing this, the empathetic theater staff extinguished all the lights in the venue.

Astley Theatre was plunged into darkness, which, to the fans of Hastings, clearly signified something.

It was the piano master Mr.

Hastings’s habit to perform in the dark, a practice he had adopted since his first performance on stage.

According to him, it was to allow the audience to concentrate on the music without distraction from the chaos of the outside world.

Today, this darkness undoubtedly took on additional meaning.

Most of the audience was still immersed in the shock of the duel, while a few unknowing gentlemen were about to ask the reason for the darkness, only to be sternly chastised by the women sitting beside them before they could speak.

For a moment, everyone in Astley Theatre seemed to have made a pact to hold their breath in unison, ready to listen to what might be Hastings’s final piano performance.

The duration of the performance was the little life he had left…