Gunmage
Chapter 128: Healed wounds, broken truths

Chapter 128: Chapter 128: Healed wounds, broken truths

The following events were incomprehensible—not just to the onlookers, but even to the person fighting him.

It turned out Lugh had been holding back. Badly.

Her first attack was met with a deft parry, which fluidly transitioned into a rising slash.

Blood spurted like a fountain. The beastkin winced, staggering—but Lugh was already there.

She swung again, but her retaliation was weak and unfocused. He blocked with his left arm and drove his right leg into the side of her knee. She stumbled.

Still unwilling to surrender, she slashed out with her free hand. Lugh’s blade flashed. The tendons in her wrist severed cleanly.

She barely had time to react before the pommel of his sword crushed into her temple. Her back hit the garden floor with a thud.

He reversed his grip and raised the blade high over his head.

"Wait, please—stop!"

The blade came down, impaling both shoulders, pinning her to the earth like a specimen on display.

She let out a sharp grunt of pain, tears streaking down her cheeks.

Lugh paused. Confused.

Was she... crying?

So a person could inflict unimaginable suffering upon others, yet cry when the same was done to them?

How utterly ridiculous.

He crouched over her, hand steady on the hilt. The beastkin’s free arm twitched, but she wouldn’t be causing any more trouble—he’d already severed the tendons there.

She was immobilized.

Then something unexpected happened.

A surge of green energy pulsed from Lugh’s palm, flooding her body. Her wounds shimmered, knitting themselves shut.

Torn flesh reformed. Frayed nerves reconnected. Bones aligned.

What... is he doing?

She barely managed the thought before her vision was seized by his.

That inhuman gaze bored into her soul. One eye white and red, the other black and red. Both emotionless and ancient.

The kind of gaze that made monsters retreat into their caves.

Her muscles relaxed involuntarily. Her mind went slack.

When Lugh finally stood and pulled the sword free, everyone in the garden stared in open confusion.

As the steel left her shoulders, the remaining green energy flooded the open wounds. Tissues knit, muscles rethreaded—until she was whole again.

Lugh sifted through the new memories he had claimed. An exiled beastkin, recruited by an elusive group of mercenaries operating on human soil.

The Canines.

More importantly, he had discovered the name of the man orchestrating the entire attack.

Mike, was it?

Hmm.

He would deal with all of that later.

The beastkin’s combat experience was underwhelming, she had relied too heavily on her monstrous physique instead of skill.

Still, there were fragments worth salvaging.

What intrigued him more was her understanding of transformation magic.

From his perspective, her use of it had been crude and inefficient. But now—now it was in his hands.

And with Emrys’ advanced comprehension layered atop his own, it would become something else entirely.

The beastkin stirred, rising slowly from the floor.

Her eyes were vacant. No malice. No fear. Just blank obedience.

Gasps echoed around the courtyard as she began to transform.

Her tail retracted. Furred arms and legs smoothed into skin. Her entire figure shrank. Facial features shifted. Bone structures rearranged beneath the skin like clay under a sculptor’s touch.

Her long hair shortened and bleached into flaxen gold.

Slowly, she began to look... human. But not just any human.

Lugh’s breathing destabilised. Through his eyes, he now saw a face—familiar, sharp, narrow-eyed. Cold and hungry.

It was him, or at least, the him that had walked the world before the Devil Sea.

The puppet had become his mental image of himself.

He reached up and touched his real face. It was different. Wrong. Alien.

The real Lugh was taller now, features more refined—etched with some unknowable depth.

And those eyes. One red, one black. They weren’t his. Not the ones he remembered. Not the ones he thought with.

A spike of pain lanced through his skull as his two images—what he was and what he thought he was—crashed together and failed to align.

He staggered slightly, hand to his forehead, mind swirling.

So this is what they see when they look at me.

He looked at the puppet again. The pre-Devil Sea version of Lugh. Sharper, smaller, still monstrous—but comprehensible.

Survivable.

Human.

It finally made sense why others stared at him the way they did. Why fear always preceded conversation.

They didn’t see a boy.

They saw what he had become.

’This... body... it doesn’t even feel like mine anymore’

He closed his eyes and took a breath.

The transformed double adjusted, shifting height, molding features further. A black and red eye formed, and his current form, angular and severe, solidified.

Now, two Lugh’s stood in the courtyard. Identical in every way... except one wore a bloodied maid’s outfit.

Isolde had once hoped to witness his magic.

But never, even in her nightmares, had she imagined something so haunting.

Lugh approached her with even steps. Her shadows immediately flinched, curling around her like protective serpents.

They could not stop him, but they still tried.

Seeing their apprehension, Lugh drove the longsword into the soil. A quiet clink. A small gesture of peace.

They hesitated, then slowly receded.

He placed a palm on Isolde’s arm. Emerald light flowed into her veins, knitting the minor wounds she had sustained.

Then, he spoke. His voice low and even.

"This was an assassination attempt. And you were always the target."

Isolde looked confused.

He continued without pause.

"Their plan was to kill as many of the Von Heim guards as possible. During the restocking process, their operatives would infiltrate disguised as replacements."

He paused.

"Do you know what that means?"

Isolde snapped out of her trance, piecing together the implications within moments.

"They must have had contact with the restocking officers"

She murmured.

"The ones responsible for arms logistics and personnel assignments..."

Her eyes widened.

"That’s the third branch. Of the Von Heim family."

The weight of the realization settling in.

Her own family had sent the assassins. And they would have succeeded, if not for Lugh.

Still, there were more pressing questions.

"How do you know that, how did you do that? Is she still—"

Her thoughts whirled too fast to form sentences.

His calm voice interrupted.

"That’s not important right now."

Then another voice followed. Soft, cultured, almost musical, but with the unmistakable timbre of command.

"No. It is important."

All eyes turned.

Standing near the hedges was a young woman in travel-stained clothes, a rucksack slung across one shoulder.

Her hair, flaxen like sunlight on water, fell in waves. Her diamond-like eyes gleamed with curiosity.

Long ears peeked through her hair—undeniably elven.

Of course.

Lugh tensed, eyes narrowing, posture tightening into a battle stance.

But before he could act, Isolde had already dashed forward.

She dropped to her knees, head respectfully lowered.

"It’s good to see you again"

She said softly.

"Mother-in-law..."