Gunmage
Chapter 139: An invitation to ruin

Chapter 139: Chapter 139: An invitation to ruin

"What are you doing, invading my party uninvited?"

Draque’sill took a step forward, his withered voice slicing cleanly through the uneasy quiet.

"I apologize for the intrusion"

He said, his tone almost polite.

Everyone tensed, the air growing thick as they waited for his next words.

"But"

He continued, his voice now laced with contempt.

"I don’t need an invite to raid a gathering of evil."

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

"Who do you think you are?"

Selaphiel’s voice had turned cold, blatantly hostile.

"Yeah! Who do you think you are!"

Another shouted, emboldened by the rising tension.

Spurred on by the elf behind them, the shadowy figures in the crowd erupted into a small riot of voices.

Their united uproar almost drowned out the live orchestra, which—remarkably—hadn’t ceased playing, the musicians casting worried glances at the commotion while still dutifully following their conductor’s baton.

Guests edged back instinctively, the younger generation, children and adolescents, were being swiftly corralled to one side of the room, ready for evacuation should the situation turn violent.

"Kindly escort yourselves out before I resort to using force"

Selaphiel said coolly.

The High Cardinal turned his head slightly, the heavy weight of his gaze crushing the noise into silence. A twinge of disappointment—or was it curiosity?—flickered across his aged features.

He spoke again.

"I’ll admit, I haven’t yet found the particular person I’m looking for. However—"

"I don’t care for your drivel"

Selaphiel snapped, cutting him off sharply.

"Escort yourselves out before I make you."

Her words rang out like steel striking stone, leaving no room for negotiation.

"You’ll make me?"

Draque’sill repeated, almost amused.

With a lazy wave of his hand, the inquisitors fanned out behind him in a disciplined line. Their black and red robes hung like grim flags of war, and the white masks they wore were eerily blank—hollow faces in the dimly lit ballroom.

Isolde took a firm step forward, her shoes clicking against the polished marble. The older members of the Von Heim family followed suit, their expressions grim with resolve.

Edrin watched them out of the corner of his eye, a detached curiosity simmering beneath his calm facade.

If the High Cardinal willed it, his betrayal would fall heavier than an anvil, sharper than a dagger.

The only thing he needed to watch out for was that strange boy, Lugh.

The healing magic the boy had displayed was staggeringly advanced.

If his force control matched that level, then they had a serious problem.

More guests, those who harbored no love for the Church, began stepping forward as well.

Considering that these were the elites of human magicians, a full-scale brawl here would have disastrous physical, social, and political consequences.

The High Cardinal didn’t seem to care.

Beneath the mask of one of the Inquisition members, Gloria could feel herself sweating despite the ballroom’s cool draft.

What is this crazy old man planning?!

She thought, heart pounding.

This was anything but the simple field test she had been promised.

She had craved power, and he had given it to her. A dizzying amount of it. But that gift clearly came at a price, though she had yet to fully realize what.

All she knew now was that she was an unwillingly enlisted member of the Inquisition, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with her newly assigned squadmates, spaced evenly to her left and right—equally clueless, equally trapped.

Then Draque’sill spoke again, a soft chuckle rumbling beneath his words.

"You’ll make me?"

He repeated.

"I’d love to see you try."

The tension in the ballroom snapped taut like a drawn bowstring.

Selaphiel, veiled and statuesque, stared down Draque’sill. He, in turn, returned her gaze unflinchingly.

From his quiet corner, Lugh observed everything, calculating.

That was when a figure suddenly puffed into being before him. Thick, white smoke swirling into the shape of a bird.

He took a sharp step back, his instincts screaming. A puppet? A familiar? Something stranger?

The bird opened its beak, and Selaphiel’s voice echoed from within.

"Lugh"

She said urgently

"I’ll need your help if we’re to get through this."

He blinked.

Not what I was expecting.

"You need... my help?"

He asked aloud, glancing around to ensure no one was close enough to overhear.

"What for?"

"To fight"

She replied simply.

Lugh’s lips quirked ever so slightly at the absurdity.

Don’t play dumb, I know you’re strong

Selaphiel added, her voice firm.

Being asked for help in battle—by an elf, no less—stirred something unexpected inside him. Pride? Amusement? He couldn’t quite tell.

Still, it presented an opportunity.

There were questions he needed answered. If he helped her, she would owe him.

"Alright"

He said softly.

"How many Inquisition members do I have to kill?"

Even as he spoke, his clone was already on the move, carrying the wrapped figure of Lyras’ enchanted sword toward the ballroom.

But Selaphiel’s next words gave him pause.

"No need to worry about the Inquisition"

She said.

"The others will handle them."

"Then—?"

Lugh prompted.

"What I need"

Selaphiel said gravely,

"Is your help in pushing back that old monster."

"...The High Cardinal?"

"Yes. Draque’sill."

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Lugh’s expression twisted into genuine surprise.

She had called him "old", and that fact hadn’t slipped past Lugh.

That had to mean something, considering that she was an elf.

He glanced again at Draque’sill.

No elongated ears, no transformed features, no illusions, the Mawglass would have torn right through any such disguise.

His shadow, his presence—Undeniably human.

Then what is it?

What could make an elf so wary of a man?

Perhaps an exceptionally high-level enchanted artifact, something on the level of the Ring of Nyx?

It was possible.

Still, a clash seemed inevitable, and suddenly, Lugh wasn’t so sure the odds favored them.

Then, before anyone could act, the announcer’s shaky voice blared through the tension:

"I—Introducing... the members of the Royal Guard!"

’Of course this had to happen’

Lugh mused as he glanced at the announcer

’At least he still has the strength to shout’

The double doors swung wide. Ten figures entered in formation, dressed in dazzling royal garb—silver trims, gold accents, black and white cloaks, complemented with polished boots.

Two in each row, their synchronized steps echoing ominously. The space between them was wide enough for three men to march side by side.

Then, without warning, the guards halted sharply.

Lugh scanned them carefully.

Their faces were obscured by masks layered with heavy illusions, their features hazy and shifting, like heatwaves rising from stone.

But not to Lugh.

The Mawglass cut straight through the layers of magic, peeling back the illusions, the masks, the lies.

Silver hair.

Rows of violet, gleaming eyes.

Long, elegant ears.

Elves. All ten of them.

And among their number, Lugh spotted a face he had never expected to see again.

Vaelith.