Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Fencing Club (Please Support and Keep Reading)

The Xueluo Fencing Club is located in a basement in the 11th arrondissement of Paris. The owner, Frey, is originally from the provinces; having stumbled upon some stroke of good fortune, he managed to establish himself in Paris and open this fencing hall.

At this moment, York walked down the stairs and knocked politely on the door. Unsurprisingly, he heard the owner, Frey, bellowing like a thunderclap.

"My heavens, York! You are late again. Just as we agreed, for every time you are late, three francs will be deducted from your wages."

Frey swung open the glass door. York’s eyes swept over his "employer." He was a tall, heroic figure, his mustache curled into a magnificent arc that trembled with the movement of his lips. He was, by all accounts, a handsome man.

"I have no objections, Mr. Frey."

Being a newcomer, York had no intention of clashing with this "boss." It was merely a small amount of money; in the eyes of a player, game currency was the least valuable thing of all.

"Of course you should have no objections, because you have kept Miss Laurina waiting for nearly an hour! A young lady’s time is worth more than gold!"

Frey’s voice grew louder and louder, echoing throughout the spacious basement fencing hall so that all the ladies and gentlemen practicing could hear—though, most importantly, he wanted Miss Laurina to hear.

Laurina was currently sitting on a long bench. Her profile looked exceptionally elegant; with her knees tilted to one side and her calves to the other, she maintained her poise without slipping—a fundamental skill for the ladies of this era.

As Frey’s booming voice reached her, she rose gracefully. Lifting the hem of her skirt, she walked demurely toward Frey and York, looking at York with bright eyes before offering a slight curtsy.

"Look at her, how beautiful. I often hear Parisians say: if a girl waits five minutes for you, she is patient; if she waits half an hour, she must be in love with you... York, you are an hour late; you owe her a double portion of love!"

Frey whispered into York’s ear before giving him a slight nudge. There was no real force behind it, but it was enough to make him take a step forward.

Laurina naturally saw this, but she made no move, simply extending her hand, which was covered by a white silk glove.

York understood the gesture. He bowed his head and lightly kissed the scented hand—a brief, discreet gesture that left no room for accusations of impropriety.

"Now, Mr. York, may we begin today’s lesson?"

Laurina’s voice was light and ethereal, harmonizing with the sickly pallor of her complexion, giving York the impression of a Western Lin Daiyu.

"Of course. Where did we leave off last time? No, you should go change first, and I shall do the same. You see, I just returned from the Café des Américains, and I am drenched in sweat."

"The fencing jacket? That thing is not easy to put on, especially the vest. If someone could lend me a hand, that would be wonderful."

Laurina’s words always carried a hint of suggestion. Fencing vests of this era were difficult to don, and the buttons on the back often required assistance to fasten.

"There are maids in the changing room to assist you, Miss Laurina. Let us begin quickly, or else Madame Walter will think me an incompetent instructor."

"Oh, Mr. York, has anyone ever told you that you are a handsome friend, but completely lacking in romantic sensibilities?"

Laurina glanced at York with a hint of reproach before gathering her skirts and turning toward the changing room.

York shrugged and entered the men’s changing room, unbothered. A white fencing suit was locked away in his locker. He did not rush to put it on, but instead walked to the mirror to examine his own reflection.

The face was still his own, though modified slightly to fit the local aesthetic. The heroic spirit between his brows could not be concealed, and his high bridge of the nose gave his face a sharp definition—just as Laurina had said, he was a handsome friend from a foreign land.

After stroking his fine mustache in the mirror, York turned his attention to the fencing suit.

However, he soon frowned. The lock on the locker had been smashed. When he pulled out the suit, it looked clean on the surface, but the inside was stained with black and yellow blotches and emitted an unpleasant odor.

Just then, a loud crash came from the entrance of the changing room. A burly man squeezed inside, carrying a fencing suit he had just taken off. Seeing York staring at the locker, he looked at him with undisguised contempt.

"Oh, little York, I accidentally dirtied your clothes... pray don’t mind it. Those marks were left by Madame Anna. Hahaha, she really is quite the stunner."

Hearing this, York expressionlessly threw the fencing suit to the ground and looked at the brute, Iverson.

Iverson was a head taller than him and much broader. He was an Italian with rumored Mafia connections, having come to Paris to make a living after running into trouble back home.

Paris was a place that never lacked for unsatisfied wealthy wives, and Iverson had stumbled into success here. The "Anna" he mentioned was one of those conquered by his massive frame and rugged looks.

However, since York had arrived, Iverson’s "revenue" had dropped significantly. York was more handsome and possessed a mysterious, exotic charm—exactly the kind of diversion the ladies of Paris craved.

Because of this, York had inexplicably drawn Iverson’s hostility. Iverson went out of his way to make things difficult, and because York had been a stranger to this world, he had repeatedly backed down, leading the ladies in the club to label him "the cowardly York."

But now that York had arrived, the cowardly version was gone forever. The man who had stepped onto the scene was York the Hardened!

"Can you fight?" York asked Toji Fushiguro within him.

"I could take ten of these hollow, posturing fops," Toji replied with disdain.

"Then I leave it to you." York nodded. He actually carried a flintlock, but in this setting, a gun would be overkill.

Five minutes later, the door to the men’s changing room opened. York strode out, his head held high. The blood on his knuckles had been washed away, and he was still not wearing a fencing suit.

It was not that he didn't want to, but Iverson’s suit was oversized and foul-smelling; the Italian’s body odor was even worse than the stains left by Madame Anna.

The ladies outside the changing room stared at York, unmoving. The changing rooms of this era had poor soundproofing, and they had all heard the sounds of the fight—first the dull thuds of punches, then a man’s cry of pain, and finally, quiet pleas for mercy.

They had expected York to be bullied again, but to their surprise, he had shown a newfound toughness.

"Are you alright, Mr. York?" Laurina, now in her white fencing suit, asked in a muffled voice as she stood before him.

York said nothing, simply walking to the long mat reserved for the instructor, drawing his foil, and assuming a forward-pointing stance.

"Let us begin today’s lesson."