Gunmage
Chapter 151: Ten seconds of judgement

Chapter 151: Chapter 151: Ten seconds of judgement

There are five tiers in the human magic system.

It starts with a single spark—a flicker of potential. Over time, that spark grows.

With cultivation, it transforms into a stream, flowing steady and smooth. From there, it is fed with power until it becomes a surge—a wild, blistering torrent of mana.

A burst of energy, irrational, powerful, and yet uncontrolled. Those at this rank could be liabilities in battle, more dangerous to allies than enemies. Their magic flares erratically, and the risk of catastrophic overload is ever present.

To progress further, a stabilizing force is required—something to weigh down the chaotic surge. That force is the anchor.

The Anchor Rank brings balance. With it comes precision, reliability, and the ability to wield mana as an extension of will, not whim.

And beyond Anchor lies the Crown. The apex. The throne of human magical achievement. True to its name, the Crown reigns over all other tiers.

Here, magic ceases to be a tool, it becomes artistry. Control is absolute, and feats once considered impossible become mere exercises in technique.

Such are the human tiers of magic.

But in truth, they are nothing more than crutches, glorified steps carved out to comfort the mediocre. Labels to keep the weak dreaming.

Spells of "A-Rank," "B-Rank," "C-Rank" These are tools of vanity, gilded chains for the self-satisfied humans.

The truly strong do not rely on such delusions.

Lugh’s voice echoed across the ballroom like a thunderclap.

"Anyone who dares challenge me for this position, step forward!"

His gaze didn’t stop at faces. It pierced past them, toward something unseen. Toward judgment.

Sela, firstborn of Isolde, stirred. Enji stepped forward, the loud and reckless youth did the same, pride igniting in his eyes.

Others followed in a slow trickle, emboldened by the trailblazers. In moments, the front was crowded with young faces, some defiant, others gleaming with ambition, and many simply eager to resist him for the sake of it.

Nearly the entire Von Heim younger generation had stepped forward.

Even Mirelle, Isolde’s second daughter stood among them.

One figure remained still, Lirienne. To the world, she was a fragile thing, still thought incapable of magic. But appearances deceived. The truth was sharper.

Lugh had taught her magic in secret. He had also reversed the life-altering injuries that once crippled her, restored her potential, and entrusted her with knowledge no one else possessed, not even her mother.

She understood one thing better than any in the room: none of them could oppose him.

But the others did not know this.

And unfortunately, Lugh had used a dangerous word, "Dare"

In a world of pride and etiquette, a word like that was provocation incarnate. Even the spineless had mustered rebellion just to spite his arrogance.

This, ironically, was the boldest rebuke they could muster in return, to not shrink from his challenge, but to flood the front with defiance.

It would cost them.

Lugh’s expression didn’t change. But his voice turned cold.

"I don’t ask much of you"

He said, stepping forward.

"Those who can remain standing after ten seconds... are the only ones I’ll recognize."

Then, he turned his head. Eyes locking with Selaphiel the elf.

"Do not interfere."

A pause.

"Beware of the humans."

His final words hung like an omen.

Then the air... broke.

At first, it was subtle. A sharp drop in pressure. The tingling of static. Then came the wave.

It began as a rumble in the marble floor, but it bloomed into a tsunami of raw, unfiltered magic—crushing, choking, and utterly suffocating.

The ballroom shook.

The chandeliers above swung wildly, their chains screaming under the pressure. Great stained-glass windows shattered inward, raining jagged color of a million pieces.

Tables flipped, chairs splintered. The floor cracked underfoot as if the building itself were recoiling from him.

A thousand voices cried out.

Guests collapsed in waves. Some fell to their knees, others were flung backward like leaves in a storm. Their faces twisted in fear. Eyes wide. Teeth chattering from the weight of the mana pressing down on them.

Some tried to resist, only to find their limbs betraying them.

At the center of it all, Lugh stood unmoved.

Unshaken. Arms loose at his sides, the folds of his robe snapping in the storm like war banners.

He was an omen, a harbinger, the eye of his own tempest.

His aura pulsed again, another wave. Stronger, more precise. It wasn’t just magic. It was intent. His rage, his frustration, all condensed, focused, and magnified.

And when even that wasn’t enough, he drew on the sorrow and anger of the myriad souls lying dormant within him, channeling their ancient griefs.

He released everything at once.

The Queen gasped, visibly shocked. The royal guards instinctively stepped forward, weapons half-drawn, their postures rigid with survival instinct.

Draque’sill, too, was rattled. He had likely suspected Lugh’s power, but the sheer weight of it still forced his eyes wide.

Even Selaphiel’s confident smile cracked.

The aura kept pressing down. Not a constant flow, but in waves. Relentless, pulsing like a heartbeat of doom.

All around the room, the best of the human world had fallen. Only a sparse handful remained standing, legs wobbling, sweat trailing down their brows. They weren’t calm, they were surviving.

And then—

There was one other group.

The beastkin.

They stood as well. Not by choice, but by nature. They looked confused, wary, casting nervous glances at the collapsed nobles around them.

Their faces were drenched in sweat as they withstood the suffocation pressure. But that was the issue, they withstood it.

In doing so, they were recognised. Not just by Lugh, but by everyone in the ballroom.

Lugh raised his hand.

A glint of silver flashed from above. His other body’s blade, thrown from the second floor balcony.

With effortless grace, he caught it mid-air.

Then, with a quiet swish, he brought the blade down.

The effect was instant.

The crushing aura snapped, severed as if cleaved by the weapon itself. The mana dispersed like smoke on the wind. Sound returned, and the pressure in the room lifted.

Silence reigned.

The room was a wreck, cracked stone, shattered glass, overturned furniture. Nobles still writhed on the floor or lay gasping for breath.

Lugh’s gaze turned downward, toward the fallen.

His cousins. The proud heirs of Von Heim.

Not a single one remained standing.

He stared at them, not with scorn, or triumph. Just cold, impartial judgment.

"You failed."

Then—

He moved.