SGB Chapter 294

## Chapter 294: Clash of Eras (5K6)

Amidst the clamor of excited chatter and laughter from the audience, the lights in the Astor Theatre suddenly plunged into darkness.

The patrons in the theatre bar, who were previously clinking glasses and savoring the finest culinary delights from across Britain, froze in their tracks. They peered through the glass windows, gazing down at the stage below, but found themselves met with an impenetrable veil of blackness.

Under the silent expanse of the night sky, the only thing left for the tens of thousands of spectators packed within the Astor Theatre was the twinkling spectacle of the stars above.

The weather was favorable, with no clouds or drizzle. Although a chilly wind swept through the air, the moon still shone with alluring brilliance.

Within the Royal VIP box on the third floor, King William IV, who was engaged in an animated conversation with the Duke of Wellington, couldn’t help but pause.

He stared blankly for a moment before finally remembering the presence of the war hero who, for Britain, held the same stature as Horatio Nelson.

“What’s happening?” King William IV asked, his voice laced with curiosity. “It’s been a while since I last attended a play. Is this some new form of performance?”

The Duke of Wellington simply chuckled heartily, pulling his friend Talleyrand closer. He raised his glass to the King, “Your Majesty, don’t overthink the reasons behind it. Simply enjoy the surprise. When it comes to delivering surprises, this lad from Scotland Yard surpasses even your highest expectations.”

Talleyrand, with one hand holding his wine glass and the other resting behind his back, countered, “While I generally dislike disagreeing with others, in this instance, I must object to the Duke’s assessment. This lad doesn’t always bring good news. Whenever I’m around him, my mood invariably takes a turn for the worse.”

Lionel, who stood nearby, discreetly attending to the needs of these distinguished individuals, seized the opportunity to interject with a smile. “Your Excellency, Arthur isn’t that bad, is he? After all, I recall our last golfing outing was quite enjoyable.”

Talleyrand shook his finger playfully. “No, young man, golf is entertaining, but I’m referring to the events that transpired en route to the golf course.”

King William IV, intrigued, inquired, “Has this Arthur fellow offended you?”

“Your Majesty, you are very close, but there’s a slight deviation.”

“So, what exactly happened?”

Talleyrand swirled his wine glass, sighing with a hint of resignation. “That rascal won another ten pounds from me on the way here. If I’m not mistaken, this marks the seventh time. In my entire life, I’ve never encountered a card player who consistently outmaneuvers me. The sense of defeat he inflicts is truly unbearable.”

King William IV burst into laughter, “Well, that’s a surprise. Even you, Talleyrand-Périgord, have your vulnerabilities.”

The Duke of Wellington chimed in with a playful remark, “Come now, it’s only ten pounds. I heard you recently received a small gift from the Dutch. Surely, that’s enough to compensate for your minor losses at the card table?”

Talleyrand, instead of directly addressing the Duke’s comment, took a sip of champagne and then scrutinized the sparkling liquid in his glass, shaking his head and nodding in approval. “Excellent wine! I can tell with a single taste. This is Hennessy brandy, isn’t it? Ten years old, I’d say. The flavor is rich and full-bodied.”

Lionel, standing nearby, responded with a smile, “You truly have an impeccable palate, Your Excellency. Indeed, this brandy was specially procured for us from the Hennessy winery in Cognac, France.”

Talleyrand smirked and chuckled softly, “Detecting Hennessy isn’t much of an accomplishment. The vanilla, clove, and cinnamon flavors are immediately apparent, even to a novice. It’s no surprise that I, a connoisseur, can discern them.”

The Red Devil, seated on the sofa behind them, holding a wine glass, nodded in agreement. “You’re right, Hennessy is nothing special. Remember to bring some Dronk next time, let me try that.”

King William IV, for his part, didn’t seem particularly concerned about the specific type of wine. While he enjoyed a good drink, he wasn’t overly picky about brands or varieties. After all, he had spent his younger years aboard Royal Navy ships, and even the finest wines couldn’t compare to the taste of shipboard ale, which held the intoxicating scent of his youthful passions.

Instead of the wine, the King was more curious about the gift the Dutch had given to Talleyrand.

King William IV couldn’t help but ask, “Would you mind disclosing what the Dutch presented you with? Why haven’t I received any gifts?”

Talleyrand simply smiled politely, “Your Majesty, they were merely trinkets, nothing worthy of your attention. If the Dutch were to offer you fifteen thousand pounds on a silver platter before your throne, they would taint Windsor Castle with the stench of copper. It would be a sacrilege, an insult to your majesty.”

Upon hearing this, King William IV understood the situation.

Talleyrand’s personality was well-known. Besides being a renowned European diplomat, he was also notorious for his penchant for embezzlement and bribery. The Dutch had likely offered fifteen thousand pounds with the intention of securing Talleyrand’s services for some task.

However, Talleyrand’s greedy hands were always itching for more, and that wasn’t something the British King should be concerned about. This was a matter for the French King, Louis-Philippe, to worry about.

Just as the occupants of the room had adapted to the darkness of the theatre and were about to shift their conversation to other topics, they suddenly noticed a multitude of torches emerging from the two backstage entrances on either side of the Astor Theatre’s circular stage.

From their vantage point on the upper floor, the torches resembled a marching column of ants, moving in unison and with impeccable rhythm. As they progressed, the torches gradually formed a regular circle around the center of the stage.

King William IV couldn’t help but murmur, “What is that?”

Lionel, standing beside him, replied with a smile, “As the Duke just said, Your Majesty, the surprise has arrived.”

As if on cue, the torches, as if guided by an invisible hand, swung down in sequence from the outer ring to the inner ring.

The darkness receded like a tide, replaced by a resurgence of light upon the stage.

The audience gasped in unison, finally able to discern the scenery surrounding the stage. It was a series of torch pillars standing on the outer edge of the stage, their fiery glow, a mix of red and yellow, danced and swirled in the biting autumn wind, as if attempting to coalesce into a fiery ball that would engulf the entire theatre.

Illuminated by these flames, the spectators finally saw the individuals carrying the torches. They were none other than the Astor Theatre’s golden sign—the Astor Circus’s equestrian performers.

However, today, the riders were dressed neither in their usual flamboyant attire nor in the streamlined, practical garments they donned for their fire-jumping stunts.

Since the Astor Theatre’s founder, Mr. Astor, was a retired Sergeant Major from the cavalry, the Astor Circus’s equestrian performers were almost exclusively recruited from retired cavalrymen.

And today, the riders were clad in their old military uniforms, even their steeds were carefully chosen to match the colors of their old regiments.

The lead rider, astride a white horse emblazoned with the emblem of his old regiment, stood tall and proud. His deep red coat, blue-gray close-fitting waistcoat, yellow and white stripes on his belt, and black and gold helmet with the crimson tassel fluttering in the wind, all spoke volumes of his status as a distinguished knight, a veteran of the 1st Royal Dragoon Guards. The eagle flag he held high perfectly symbolized the regiment’s glorious history and nickname—the Birdcatchers. Capturing the Imperial Eagle flag of France at the Battle of Waterloo was the regiment’s most shining moment.

Following closely behind were two bearded knights riding gray horses. One had a standard Scottish broadsword strapped to his waist, while the other sported a lavish red saddle, a towering bear-skin hat, gray breeches, and a red-striped coat. This was a veteran of the 2nd Royal Dragoon Guards, the ‘Scottish Grey’ regiment.

Trailing them were several riders with white-feathered helmets and peculiar equipment. While their blue leather coats with gold tassels, sable cloaks, and intricately crafted pistols tucked into their belts were also eye-catching, everyone’s attention was drawn to the leather holsters hanging on either side of their saddles, which held four long, unfamiliar weapons.

The knowledgeable gentlemen in the audience, however, recognized their identity.

They whispered amongst themselves, “They’re from the Royal Horse Artillery. Those four long rods are rocket launchers. One spark and they can launch a 12-pound rocket warhead.”

Bringing up the rear of the entire procession, serving as the rearguard, was a rider radiating an aura of authority and nobility.

His gold-trimmed helmet shimmered under the flames, and the dark tassels danced in the wind. The dazzling St. Edward’s Crown emblem embedded in the center of the golden helmet illuminated the faces of the astonished spectators. His saddle, crafted from golden thread and embroidered with two yellow daffodils, his deep red coat with golden stripes and green trim, his gray breeches with green edging, his long boots adorned with hexagonal silver spurs, and his iconic 1796 British heavy cavalry sword—his identity was undeniable.

Simply by the name of his regiment, he could rightfully claim the highest status among all the equestrian performers present. He belonged to the cavalry regiment that held all the prestigious titles: ‘Guards,’ ‘Royal,’ and ‘Princess Charlotte of Wales’s Dragoon Guards’, the 5th Royal Guards Dragoon Guards, the ‘Green Dragons’.

Seeing so many retired cavalrymen who had witnessed the cannons of Waterloo, the Duke of Wellington couldn’t help but feel a surge of emotion. However, with the King present, he had to restrain himself.

Unexpectedly, before he could speak, the King drew him close, “Wellington.”

The Duke of Wellington bowed slightly, “Your Majesty?”

“Come here.”

The King, with a hearty laugh, invited him to the small balcony of the box.

Lionel, noticing this, quickly ordered the attendants to light all the lamps in the box.

The bright lights illuminated the box, and the equestrian performers, who were maneuvering their horses on the edge of the stage, commanding their mounts to walk with a gentle trot, noticed the King and the Duke of Wellington on the balcony.

They drew their sabers and saluted the balcony, and the audience’s gazes followed suit.

William IV asked with a smile, “Wellington, how did you issue the order for the general attack at Waterloo?”

The Duke of Wellington, upon hearing this, simply chuckled softly. The old Duke cleared his throat, and even his slightly stooped back seemed to straighten.

He surveyed the cavalrymen on the stage below, then abruptly extended his white glove forward, his booming voice, filled with piercing power, reverberated through the ears of every individual present.

“Stand up! Guards! Immediately, charge again!!!”

His words struck like thunder. Almost simultaneously with the Duke’s command, the riders raised their whips and cracked them down. Then, the horses, in perfect unison, let out a series of whinnies. And then, the riders began to gallop unrestrained around the circular stage in the center.

Dust swirled through the theatre, and the riders’ passionate performance instantly unleashed the emotions of the spectators. They cheered and applauded, the gentlemen tossed their hats into the air, and even the usually demure and quiet ladies clutched their chests, as if they were about to be suffocated by the exhilarating atmosphere.

Amidst the swirling dust, the announcer, skipping the steps, leapt onto the stage, a platform that typically required two hands to climb.

He, too, was swept up in the wave of revelry. His face flushed red, and his announcing voice seemed to tremble.

“Gentlemen, ladies, focus your attention on the stage east!!!”

As the announcer’s voice echoed through the theatre, two torches on the eastern stage entrance ignited instantly. Perhaps due to the angle of the light, the silhouette cast upon the tiles was elongated and slender, like an unspeakable shadow stretching towards the center of the stage.

“Allow me to introduce, with the utmost reverence, the one who has brought the glory of British swordsmanship to shame, who has left the London Swordsmanship Association in utter disgrace, the legendary swordsman from Paris, the French Rapier Master—François-Joseph Bertrand!!!”

The announcer’s words concluded, and crisp, clear footsteps rang out from the passageway. From the darkness, a muscular man clad in a blue cloak gradually emerged. With measured steps, he walked out of the passageway.

The man’s face was concealed by the shadows of his cloak, rendering his features invisible. The only thing the audience could see was the iconic slender French rapier slung at his waist.

Bertrand ascended the stage, step by step, his arms outstretched like the crucified Christ. The attendants standing nearby, noticing this, quickly stepped forward to remove the cloak draped over him.

The shadow covering his face vanished, revealing a black mask that covered the upper half of his face. It was a classic French style, a stroke of inspiration from Arthur. In Arthur’s opinion, European swordsmen should wear such a mask, just like Zorro.

Bertrand placed one hand on his waist, and the entire audience held their breath. Suddenly, he drew his rapier, flashing a Z-shaped mark in the air with lightning speed. Before the audience could exhale, he had already sheathed his sword.

Bertrand stood with his arms crossed, looking down at the audience. He let out a soft hum, then spat on the ground.

“British swordsmanship, nothing more than that!”

As soon as these words left his lips, the French expatriates in the audience erupted in thunderous applause and cheers. Even Talleyrand, standing beside King William IV, stood up with a smile and clapped along.

Talleyrand, clapping while nodding towards the King and the Duke of Wellington, remarked, “Forgive my outburst.”

Before Talleyrand could finish his sentence, the announcer’s booming voice once again filled the theatre. “As everyone knows, nearly half a century ago, another swordsman from France swept through the entire London swordsmanship scene. Although it has been a long time since that event, we still remember the name of that great swordsman, the European Sword Master from the land of the Fleur-de-lis—Dion de Beaumont!

Despite his passing, we still don’t know for sure if this gender-ambiguous European Sword Master was a man or not! But one thing is certain, Dion defeated London’s strongest swordsman, Saint George, at the age of 59! My grandfather said he witnessed that match with his own eyes. Back then, Dion, with one hand struggling to hold his skirt, delivered a swift seven-strike attack that sent Saint George reeling.

As we all know, losing to a French man is absolutely unacceptable. But if Mr. Dion was a woman, I’m sure the audience here would feel better. After all, it’s not the first time Britain has lost to a French woman!”

At this point, the audience burst into laughter.

“If it’s a French man, even Napoleon wouldn’t stand a chance against us. But if it’s a woman, all we need is a French peasant woman to take them down.”

“So, does that mean we have no reason to lose today?”

“The French didn’t even send a peasant woman, and the London Swordsmanship Association couldn’t handle it. In my opinion, this kind of flashy association should just be disbanded!”

The announcer, sensing that the atmosphere was sufficiently heated, quickly cut off the conversation and directed the audience’s gaze towards the west.

“The challenger from the west! A figure who walks the shadowy corners of London, his hands stained with sin, yet his heart always yearns for justice. The outlaws shun him, the Barbary pirates bow before him, his fingertips spark with electricity, he understands the secrets of magnetic energy, a shining star that illuminates Scotland Yard. Tonight, he will play a waltz of judgment in the Astor Theatre! Please welcome, Arthur Hastings!!!!!”

As the announcer’s words concluded, a well-prepared Whetstone immediately commanded his young assistants, “Electrify the damn thing!”

At Whetstone’s command, the iron pillars arranged in a line before the western passageway exploded into action. Before the eyes of the audience, a series of blue and purple lightning bolts danced and intertwined on the iron pillars, finally exploding and bursting into brilliance at the top of each pillar.

The night wind blew, carrying Arthur’s black cloak into a wave.

Arthur’s steps were slow but rhythmic.

He ascended the steps, one step at a time, until he reached the center of the stage. His white glove rested on the hood of his cloak, and with a gentle push of two fingers, his face was revealed to the audience.

He, too, wore a mask, covering his entire face. His pale complexion was like that of a lady who had applied arsenic-laced face cream. But upon this ghastly pale visage, there was a terrifying grin, two long, upward-curving whiskers, and deep, cold, dark eyes.

Just like Bertrand’s Zorro mask, Arthur’s mask also had a name, a name familiar to all Britons, though this type of mask had never been seen in 19th-century Britain.

It was named after Guy Fawkes, the mastermind behind the Gunpowder Plot in Britain. But in later generations, fans gave its wearer a unique and special name—V for Vendetta.

Arthur’s spotless white glove rested against his chest, and he bowed slightly to the audience members who had graced the occasion with their presence.

He straightened slowly, then turned to Bertrand, who stood not far from him. “Mr. Bertrand, my hearing isn’t very good. Could you repeat what you just said?”

Bertrand, upon hearing this, simply placed his hands on his hips, threw his head back, and burst into laughter. Then, he glared at Arthur, “Repeat? Did you just send a deaf mute to fight me? Fine! I’ll say it again! British swordsmanship, nothing more than that! Mr. Hastings, you can’t even understand such simple words. What exactly are you here for?”

Arthur, upon hearing these words, abruptly pulled the collar of his cloak, revealing the deep-black swordsmanship uniform hidden beneath.

He drew his 48-inch English short sword, stepped forward half a step, assumed a fighting stance, and spoke, his voice not particularly loud, but resonant enough to echo through the silent atmosphere.

“My purpose here? I simply want to prove you wrong.”

(End of Chapter)