The Versatile Master Artist

”Hmm, give another hug. This is the reward I can give you.” Koizumi Katsuko stretched out her arms, stood on tiptoe, and pulled Gu Weijing’s body forcefully into her graceful and undulating embrace.

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Bang!

Bang!

The continuous sound of two gunshots startled a large flock of birds into flight.

The woman, dressed in a blue gauze dress with a wool sunhat, sat on a chair, skillfully breaking open the 1899 model ”Delakang” double-barreled antique hunting gun, adorned with a walnut grip and silver-plated crown double-headed eagle.

With fingers wrapped in silk gloves, she extracted two warm copper-clad steel shell casings from the dark barrel, letting them bounce onto the lawn below, then pushed two new bullets into the chamber.

She locked the barrel, broke open the firing lever, and rested the ivory-embedded shoulder plate against her shoulder.

The woman gently inhaled, aimed, exhaled.

At the instant her long breath reached its end, she pulled the trigger.

Dozens of steel pellets, propelled by gunpowder gases, sliced through the air at a speed surpassing the gunshot, causing leaves to fly chaotically in the woods dozens of meters away.

A chubby quail, dumbly standing on a low branch, unaware of the ongoing gunshots, was flipped midair by the shot pellets.

In a burst of feathers, it fell swiftly to the ground without even a call.

”Bravo!”

The butler, holding a silver tray, placed a coffee cup and waffles on the small table beside the woman.

Having witnessed the precise shot, the butler, a quarter Italian by blood, couldn’t help but applaud in admiration, in the manner of an Italian.

”Quail is so cute! You don’t eat it, so why shoot it?”

The female secretary beside her wasn’t in such a good mood.

She glanced at the ruined body of the chubby quail, retrieved by hunting dogs, and shook her head in slight regret.

The quail hit by the No. 12 buckshot—obviously there’s no point in eating it if you don’t want to chip your tooth on the steel pellets embedded in the bones and meat.

”Eliot, do you know the difference between Catherine and Anne Boleyn?”

Shaking off the shell casings, the woman reached out to pat August, the triumphant August’s big dog head, as encouragement, then turned her head to look at the secretary, asking calmly.

”Uh? Different countries.”

Hearing Miss’s question.

The female secretary Eliot was momentarily bewildered.

Catherine was the Empress of Peter III, Tsar of Russia.

Anne Boleyn was the Empress of Henry VIII, Lord of England.

Both empresses were famous as superpowers in historical palace struggles in Europe, likely figures akin to Wu Zetian in Dongxia.

”Their habits and personalities differ. Catherine liked horseback riding, hunting, and according to historical records, she enjoyed galloping with guards chasing black bears on the ranch, which the Empress Mother believed prevented her from bearing princes. Anne Boleyn liked gems, upper-class salons, and painting art. Thus, Catherine the Great became the eighth emperor in Russian history, while Anne Boleyn was beheaded.”

”I’m a cripple, unable to gallop on horseback, coincidentally art is my passion. So my aunt always told me, besides holding a paintbrush, I must be able to wield a gun when necessary.”

Anna tilted her head and fired again.

The other unfired barrel of the double-barreled shotgun spat out bright flames, the gunshot echoing between the clouds and lake of Yilena Manor.

Eliot sank into silent deep thought.

Only August wagged his tail excitedly, making a rumbling noise in his throat.

After all, the Springer Spaniel’s main job is as a hunting dog.

”This gun was a 60th Christmas gift from the Habsburg Royal Family’s royal gunsmith to Princess Sisi. The designer spent three years crafting it, beautifully decorated with ivory, gold, silver, and natural walnut, and it’s one of the earliest modern-shell buckshot hunting rifles. 1899 marks the year it was completed. But just before its departure from the gunsmith’s hands, Princess Sisi was assassinated during a trip to Geneva. Later, it became my father’s cherished collection.”

”When my aunt handed me this gun, I was only nine years old; it was my first hunt.”

”Nine years old?”

Eliot turned her gaze to the weapon in Anna’s hand, imagining herself at age 9, suspiciously saying.

”Yes.”

Anna casually said, ”Rather than hunting, it was crying and shooting wildly. Because even with special reduced charge rounds loaded with only one-third gunpowder, I couldn’t operate such a ’huge’ weapon.”

”To the point of needing a firearms instructor to physically support my shoulder to prevent me from being knocked over by the significant recoil. My aunt said I couldn’t go home without firing 30 bullets.”

Eliot imagined the muscular instructor forcing a calm little girl in a wheelchair to shoot, controlling the scenario.

”Miss, although hunting is not illegal in Austria, if this story spreads, your aunt might be implicated in a serious child abuse charge, leading to over 10 years in jail without parole...”

The secretary’s mouth drew a sharp twitch.

”Not only that, my aunt even ordered a footman to lead an enraged bull to charge at me. Can you imagine sitting in a wheelchair, watching helplessly as a half-crazy bull charges at 25 miles per hour toward you? Though I knew there were guards with military rifles nearby, I was almost terrified to madness.”

”What happened later?”

Alright, apparently this is not a simple matter of over 10 years.

Eliot gave up calculating the eternal imprisonment for the buried noblewoman.

What deep hatred is this!

”Before I fainted from hysteria, I succeeded in hitting its head,” Anna chuckled softly, the emotions in her gaze, seemingly more nostalgic than fearful.

”To this day, I still don’t like hunting. But I remember what my aunt used to say. Hunting is not for enjoying the fun of killing, but for constantly reminding myself that even as a girl, I must remember the determination and courage to pull the trigger on lions, brown bears, or mad bulls when necessary.”

”In past courts, a pretty woman who could only play piano and paint was merely a man’s amusement in bed. As cunning as Anne Boleyn, once the King’s novelty wore off, he’d send her to the guillotine. Whether one likes it or not, a girl who can hunt lions with a gun commands respect. At least before the husband tires of me and seeks a lover, he must consider the risk of getting shot from behind.”

”More importantly, once the first gunshot rings out, no one would treat me as a child anymore.”

Bang!

After finishing the last bullet in her hand.

Anna began disassembling the double-barreled shotgun, using gunpowder residue solvent to clean the chamber.

The skin on her arms was tender like the Pea Princess, yet her actions were skilled like a seasoned hunter.

Miss Elina meticulously maintained the hunting rifle, the polishing cloth gliding over the silver double-headed eagle emblem on the grip.

Every part of this old hunting rifle was handcrafted and tuned at the time of production, its smoothbore barrel having no rifling wear risk, resulting in a very long lifespan, so even today in 2017, it’s as dangerous and lethal as it was when first made.

Anna was sensitive and emotional by nature.

But she was not one to shed tears over an injured lamb or burst into a steakhouse waving a vegan banner.

Her wheelchair-bound presence was as devastating as Princess Helen, who stirred Sparta and Troy’s men into a decade-long war, nearly driving brains to the brink.

Yet when she wielded the hunting rifle, she exuded a commanding aura.

Eliot vaguely felt the wheelchair-bound Princess Helen transform into Athena riding a lion chariot.

No matter who her future husband is, any man who dares treat Anna as a mere distraction is sure to face a grim fate.

”Understood, that Detective Cat is the gun, and the Little Prince is the bullet you fired. Meanwhile, Sir Brown and the painting management are the quails in the forest flustered after hearing the gunshot.”

The female secretary, having realized something, slowly spoke.