Gunmage
Chapter 122: The taste of poison

Chapter 122: Chapter 122: The taste of poison

Victor took a step back when the two eerie maids approached him.

"W-what?"

He asked, his voice croaking.

They leaned in, silently frisking his body.

?!

He had no idea what was happening, but under Isolde’s withering glare, he was forced to stand still.

Not long after, one of the maids spoke.

"There are no weapons on him."

Ah.

So they were searching for weapons. He let out a sigh of relief, laced with a twinge of disappointment.

Isolde’s steady voice rang out.

"What do you want?"

’So blunt’

Victor couldn’t help but think. No greetings, no pleasantries. Just a plain, flat question.

"Well... I’m here because I want to talk to you."

"You want to talk... to me?"

"N-no, I mean—yes."

Then he drew in a breath, his expression growing grim.

"I have an offer to make."

Isolde remained silent. Then, she glanced around the high, echoing room.

"This place is too stuffy. Let’s talk somewhere more... free."

Victor Aelhurst glanced at the soaring ceilings, the towering white pillars, the tasteful touches of potted greenery.

Stuffy, huh?

He didn’t dare voice the thought. But he did make a request.

"I need my guards with me. And my servants."

She paused. He quickly added

"They’re the ones carrying the gifts I brought."

"I see."

Then she spoke—to no one in particular.

"Tell them to join us at the gardens."

Isolde turned and walked away. The two maids followed her in perfect synchronicity.

Victor wasn’t sure who her words were meant for, but he knew with certainty they’d been received.

The haunting feeling he had just managed to shrug off came back in full force.

He cursed under his breath and followed.

A small mouse, hidden behind a pedestal, also followed, keeping a cautious distance.

They walked out into a grand garden. At its center stood a gazebo roofed with red tiles.

Drinks and refreshments had already been prepared. Two chairs faced each other across a sculpted white stone table, adorned with trays of delicate pastries.

Victor’s entourage was already waiting. His five guards stood behind his chair in a tight formation, chins raised, determined not to be outshone by the Von Heim’s splendor.

Isolde glanced at them with amused indifference. Her guards mirrored the formation, aligning behind her with quiet discipline.

She sat gracefully, the two maids taking up position beside her once more, every motion unnervingly synchronized.

"Now—"

She began under the strangely intelligent gazes of crows, sparrows and other birds in the garden.

"—what did you want to talk about?"

Meanwhile...

Mike stared at the red velvet carpets beneath his feet.

Nobles, he thought. Really something else.

A single carpet in the waiting room of a "simple office" could feed a small family for an entire year. It was utterly ridiculous.

Finally, a valet opened the door, ushering him in.

"About time,"

He grumbled, stepping forward to meet his employer.

The meeting had brought Mike far from the capital, an unnecessary inconvenience. But he wasn’t complaining.

The resources they would gain from this single commission were mind-blowing.

He stepped into a small, sparsely furnished study.

There was only a desk, a chair, and a few shelves.

The man behind the desk did not rise.

Mike remained standing. No chair had been provided.

He stared at the figure. Balding black hair, glassy eyes, an expensive vest over a white shirt, and skin so pale it looked powdered.

Like someone who had never walked under the sun.

Something was off.

Very off.

It took him a moment, but he finally realized—

He was staring at a corpse.

The man across from him wasn’t alive. At least, not in the way most people were.

But Mike knew better than to show it.

The corpse spoke.

"How did the attack go?"

He probably already knew everything. With his network, it would be impossible not to.

Still, Mike answered truthfully.

"All the wolves died."

"...All of them?"

"Yes. They were wiped out by the Church."

"I see. Better they’re dead than captured."

A pause.

"Did you complete the main objective?"

"Yes."

"Well done. What about the second one?"

"No."

"Expected"

The corpse mumbled.

"And the third?"

Mike hesitated.

"We weren’t able to complete that."

The man stiffened, his glassy eyes twitching, the first sign of what might be emotion.

"How is that possible?"

"Lady Isolde was cautious"

Mike said carefully.

"She only used a pre-recorded wind spell from a grimoire. We couldn’t get a read on her actual strength."

"Tch."

The corpse clicked its tongue. The sound was dry.

Mike almost chuckled. Most people would’ve been completely fooled.

Then the man leaned forward.

"The second phase of the plan—"

Mike cut him off.

"No need to worry about that. My men are already in place. It’ll go smoothly."

A tense silence.

"And if it doesn’t?"

"We have a backup plan."

"And if that fails?"

"...We have a trump card."

"I see."

Back in the garden...

Of all the proposals she could have anticipated, a marriage alliance was not one of them.

Isolde narrowed her eyes.

The Aelhurst family was influential, yes—but not nearly equal to the Von Heims.

And yet he had the gall to not only suggest a marriage, but to offer her critically injured daughter, Lirienne, as the bride.

It was clear they meant to fish in troubled waters.

The air thickened. Tension rippled like a static charge.

She could see his guards sweating, despite the cool outdoor breeze.

Victor himself was trembling. It was obvious he wasn’t acting on his own will. Someone had put him up to this.

That alone was the reason she hadn’t already had him thrown out. But even that mercy had its limits.

In a desperate bid to lighten the mood, Victor beckoned to his servants.

"Lady Isolde,"

He spoke, this time without stuttering

"I brought a gift we could enjoy together."

A pause for dramatic effect. Then,

"It’s a hundred-year-old blood wine."

The reveal did not have the intended effect.

Her gaze remained cold.

Still, she snapped her fingers.

The two maids surged forward, one producing wine cups, the other pouring the thick, red liquid.

The wine filled the crystal glasses in perfect balance, the exact same quantity in both cups. Inhuman precision.

Isolde lifted hers to her lips, them she paused, and set it back down.

"Mr. Aelhurst"

She said coolly.

"Why don’t you drink first?"

"M-me?"

"Yes. You."

"B-but—"

"Is there a reason you can’t drink it?"

Her eyes narrowed.

"N-no. I-I..."

"Drink."

It wasn’t a request.

’Shit. Shit!’

Victor cursed inwardly, his back drenched in cold sweat.

Slowly, he raised the cup to his lips...