Gunmage
Chapter 146: The weight of Ash and Honor

Chapter 146: Chapter 146: The weight of Ash and Honor

"Cut the bullshit, Jeane. Is Isolde responsible for my mother’s death?"

His voice held an unfathomable weight.

The maid blinked.

"No, young master."

A tense silence settled between them.

Then—

"You’re lying."

The words struck like thunder.

The Mawglass cut through all lies and illusions. This was the first lie Jeane had spoken throughout the night.

Lugh stood up abruptly.

"You can leave now."

"Wait—young master!"

Without waiting for her to speak, he turned on his heel and left.

Jeane and the other maids moved to go after him, but his words stopped them cold.

"Don’t make this worse than it already is."

It wasn’t the words themselves, but the presence behind them. Something unnatural weighed down on their hearts. They all felt a chill seep into their bones.

Lugh followed the person sent to escort him to the ballroom in utter silence. The carpeted steps swallowed his footfalls, the tension behind each step rising.

It wasn’t long before he reached the upper floors of the grand ballroom.

Looking down at the swarm of painted masks and plastic smiles, his face was unreadable—but something simmered beneath the surface.

Everyone’s gaze was fixed on the large entrance doors, waiting for his arrival. Yet the moment he appeared silently atop the stairwell behind them, they knew.

The room turned, as though compelled by some invisible thread.

All heads swiveled to behold his figure.

He stood tall, graceful, and eerily composed.

Flaxen hair shimmered like molten gold under the chandelier light, falling in gentle waves.

His robes were priestly in design, white with blood-red accents, hemmed in golden thread that caught the light with every movement.

His face was inhumanly perfect, symmetrical to the point of unease, the kind of beauty that shouldn’t belong in the waking world.

His eyes—white sclera with red pupils—were otherworldly, a crushing gaze used to staring at the ruined and condemned.

For all his celestial beauty, his very presence evoked dread. A quiet panic swept through the hall as several guests instinctively took a step back.

The High Cardinal smiled.

Yes. He remembered this feeling very well.

"Is that a human?"

Someone whispered nearby.

Selaphiel turned, catching a glimpse of a veiled figure in black—undoubtedly the Queen. Though her face was hidden, the elf was sure she wore a frown.

"He is"

She replied softly.

Hopefully.

The last part remained unspoken.

As Lugh watched the sea of eyes fixed on him, something gnawed at his chest. A flicker. A frustration that had no outlet.

His heart burned.

His eyes scanned the crowd, and there she was.

Isolde.

She had slipped in, surrounded by stern faces who could only be members of House Caldreth, her maiden family.

They were questioning her with barely concealed tension.

Lugh’s gaze turned dark.

He began to descend.

Step by step, the orchestra faltered, the atmosphere thickening with each motion.

Once he reached the ground floor and everyone saw him clearly, it was undeniable, he was of the Von Heim bloodline. But the nervousness and expected fear was nowhere to be found.

If anything, he seemed... displeased.

Lugh walked.

No smiles.

No greetings.

No pleasantries.

He cut through the crowd like a blade, swift and unyielding.

Lord Cedric gulped as the boy neared.

He had wanted confirmation with his own eyes. Now there was no doubt. This child was his blood. His grandson.

Yet everything about him defied expectation.

He was too calm. Too poised. Too quiet.

Too dangerous.

Cedric felt a chill.

Fear?

Why should he fear him?

Cedric straightened. He was the elder. The patriarch. The boy was a bastard. He must not forget his place.

But before he could speak—

Lugh walked right past him. As though he didn’t exist.

What the—?

Cedric turned sharply, only to see Lugh standing before the Third Prince, Lovainne.

"You called for me?"

His voice was like falling snow, soft, crisp and cold.

"Ah—yes!"

Lovainne straightened with the help of his cane, his deep voice clashing with his delicate frame.

He looked at Lugh again, momentarily stunned.

What the hell happened to him?

Others might have missed the difference, but Lovainne had seen Lugh before the transformation.

He knew.

But now was not the time to ask.

Before the gathered nobility and foreign dignitaries, Lovainne adopted the voice of a general of the Ashborn Corps.

He declared:

"Lugh Von Heim, for extraordinary service to the military of Ophris, you are hereby awarded the rank of Chief Warrant Officer."

Gasps spread through the crowd like wildfire.

He opened the parcel in his hand.

A tailored officer’s uniform, dark gray with crimson accents and insignia marked in silver thread. He handed it to Lugh with a short nod.

Then came the medals.

One by one, he presented them under the rapt gaze of everyone present.

The first: a medal of black silver, engraved with the seal of a sunken ship.

"The Medal of the Drowned Legion"

Lovainne intoned. His voice rang out like a bell.

"As one of the few survivors of the Devil Sea, who stood against the horrors that lie beneath, you have earned this honor with blood and fire."

A ripple of shock ran through the room.

The Devil Sea.

The name alone drew gasps and murmurs.

But Lovainne wasn’t done.

He pulled out another.

A circular badge resembling a roaring brazier, ringed with sacred runes.

"The Embermark of Devotion"

He declared.

"For your irreplaceable contribution during the division’s encampment on the Northern Coast, you are recognized with this Embermark"

This time, the reaction was thunderous.

The Embermark was no ceremonial trinket.

It was a legendary commendation, rarely awarded even to seasoned commanders. And now it was being pinned on a person they were just hearing about today.

Journalists were drowning in euphoria, scribbling at their pages furiously, a hint of madness in their eyes.

Lovainne wasn’t finished.

He raised the final medal—a flaming sun split by a sword, engraved in gold and obsidian.

"For surviving and serving in the Siege of Drakensmar, and standing resolute in one of our darkest hours, I bestow upon you the Flameheart Crest."

Eyes widened.

Mouths parted.

Disbelief washed over the crowd like a wave.

Lugh stood still, unblinking, as Lovainne spoke clearly, firmly:

"Let it be known, the military of Ophris welcomes former stowaway Lugh with open arms, should you ever choose to join our ranks."

Then, from a velvet case, Lovainne revealed the last item.

A revolver.

Not standard issue—custom-made.

Gold-barreled, silver-bodied, finely engraved with sigils along the chamber and handle. A symbol of both prestige and menace.

He placed it in Lugh’s hand.

The boy held it.

Weighed it.

Felt it.

His chest burned.