Gunmage
Chapter 102: Six circles to die

Chapter 102: Chapter 102: Six circles to die

The air rippled

Six magic circles burst into existence around Lugh, their formation instantaneous and violent.

His body seized. Magic circuits flared beneath his skin like molten veins. He grit his teeth. Five was the limit for this body. Six was suicudal

His fingertips numbed as untamed energy pulsed through him. The circles trembled. One cracked.

His mind, desperate to focus, flicked back to Emrys—the green-robed monster of a man who could conjure hundreds of circles simultaneously, each one woven with spells potent enough to devastate entire formations.

Compared to the royal guard that had dared to challenge him, Emrys had stood in a class of his own. A terrifying outlier even among elves. And Lugh was reminded, yet again, of the gulf that separated them.

He clenched his fist. One circle shattered. He dismissed it before the backlash fried his circuits entirely.

The remaining five glowed brighter, fueled with compressed, unstable energy.

A high-pitched screech shattered the silence.

Dozens of lightning bolts lanced out from the remaining circles, white-hot arcs slicing through the downpour, searing paths into the misty gloom.

The bolts struck hard, but met resistance. A heavy dome of magic ignited on impact. Thick, opaque, and unnaturally still. The shield flickered under the assault, but held.

Lugh cursed under his breath. Long-range attacks weren’t working.

He switched tactics. Two curved daggers of ice formed in his palms with a hiss, the blades exuding a cold that dulled even the nearby rain.

Wind wrapped around his legs. With a burst of force, he propelled himself forward. A single step closed the gap between him and his target.

His daggers flashed out—

And then—

Nothing.

A sudden weightlessness overtook him, like gravity had tilted sideways. In the next instant, his vision spun wildly. He found himself staring at his own body from an unnatural angle. His arms twitched, his knees bent—

Then his head hit the ground with a soft thud.

He was dead.

—

In a narrow alleyway several blocks away, Lugh’s real body gasped.

That was... unexpected.

He slumped against the cold stone wall, droplets of rain rolling off his soaked cloak. The phantom pain of the decapitation still lingered.

He hadn’t even seen the strike coming. Just silver hair and a flicker of black fabric.

Silver hair... Come to think of it, he did know someone with silver hair.

Vaelith.

Had she survived?

"Where were you?"

Lugh’s head snapped up. Isolde stood at the mouth of the alley, rain dripping off her shawl. Her clothes were torn, hair disheveled, and her expression unreadable.

"You know what? Never mind"

She said, striding forward and grabbing his arm.

"We have to go. Now."

Behind her, two of her retainers flanked the entrance, their cloaks soaked and hands twitching toward their concealed weapons.

Lugh allowed himself to be pulled up. His legs ached as he began to move, his boots squelching with each step.

They emerged from the alley into the warzone that used to be a quiet district. Fires crackled in the distance.

Ash and rain mingled into a slurry on the cobblestones. Debris littered the streets, overturned carts, broken glass, torn flags.

The windows of nearby homes flickered with candlelight, but not a single soul emerged.

Everyone who could hide had hidden.

They stuck to the side roads, moving fast but careful, cutting across alleys and darting under awnings.

Every now and then, a figure would dash across the main roads, but no one dared to approach them, not with the way Isolde walked, head high, fury radiating from her every step.

The rain hadn’t let up. It hammered down, drenching them all over again, and the wind howled like a chorus of whispers.

Using the Mawglass, Lugh caught a peculiar sight. Up on a distant rooftop, a figure watched them from beneath a jet-black parasol.

A gothic dress clung to her frame, soaked but elegant, and her silver hair shimmered faintly under the grey moonlight.

Her gaze locked onto them. It was intense, cold and curious.

She raised a hand and whispered a single word.

In the next moment—

The city went silent.

Every rioting soul in the capital fell unconscious. No screams. No clashes. Just the hush of rain.

Lugh turned away.

—

It took another fifteen minutes to reach the mansion gates. The iron wrought archway swung open only after Isolde’s voice cut through the reinforced steel.

The estate flared to life the moment they crossed the threshold. Footsteps thundered across marble floors.

Dozens of staff poured out, most in various stages of dress, clutching towels, cloaks, and healing tonics.

"Madame? You’re hurt—!"

"Are you all right?!"

Isolde ignored them. Her eyes scanned the crowd.

"Where are my daughters?"

A young steward saluted awkwardly.

"Lady Aveline is in her chambers. So is Lirienne. Selaphiel is... still in the training hall."

She nodded sharply. Then paused.

"And Mirelle?"

The room fell quiet.

A servant gulped.

"She... snuck out, madame. Said something about a gathering."

Isolde’s scowl was immediate and vicious. She turned away without another word, her soaked feet leaving muddy imprints on the pristine white tiles.

"Find her"

She stated with a sharp voice

"Now."

The order lingered like a thunderclap.

Lugh, largely ignored by the gathered staff, trudged behind. No one looked too hard at him.

Just another dirty, cloaked figure in the storm. His presence remained a secret for now, Isolde would see to that.

As for why? He could only guess.

The halls glowed warmly compared to the streets outside, but the tension clung to every wall like mold. Even the paintings seemed uneasy.

He was given a small room to change, a dry towel, and some food he didn’t touch.

Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed, eyes fixed on the flickering lantern above.

His mind drifted again. Not to the battle, but to the memory he’d stolen. From the mercenary he had fought.

Their real objective was something far more precise. A goal buried under misdirection, fire, and panic.

And they were succeeding.

Lugh ran a hand through his damp hair.

They were still in the early stages of the plan.

But he could stop them.

The only question left was—why?