Gunmage
Chapter 175: One bullet, one truth

Chapter 175: Chapter 175: One bullet, one truth

Lugh felt the weight of the gun in his hands—cold, solid, reliable. Then he turned to the elf, Lance.

"Why did you attack me with wind?"

Silence.

The question made no sense. And after suffering at Lugh’s hands, the elf wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about cooperating.

Lugh shook his head.

"Allow me to rephrase."

He turned to face all the elves in the room.

"Why do you all use wind magic as an offensive spell?"

Selaphiel knew he was getting somewhere, but the incessant questions were becoming tiresome.

"Get to the point"

She stated impatiently.

He didn’t flinch.

"No, I’m really curious. Rather than going through the effort and consuming more energy than necessary to manifest wind—a natural element—why don’t you just blast your opponents with pure magic? Like Force Control?"

Jahira sighed, the sound laced with contempt.

"That should be obvious."

She paused, then smirked.

"Or maybe it’s not so obvious to humans. Your kind aren’t really known for being good with magic."

Had she said that earlier, it might’ve meant something. But after Lugh had wiped the floor with an elf in seconds, it came off as hollow compensation.

Noticing the shift in the room, she hurriedly added, flustered:

"I mean—humans aren’t really knowledgeable about magic. Not like elves. And even you have elven blood, so it means nothing, you hear? Nothing!"

Isolde stared in confusion, while Selaphiel sighed in slight embarrassment.

Lugh stared at Jahira, expression blank.

"You haven’t answered my question."

"Question? What question?"

Selaphiel cut in before Jahira could embarrass herself further.

"Jahira, that’s enough."

Then she turned to Lugh.

"As for your question—blasting someone with pure magic won’t work. Unless the opponent has no knowledge of the arcane. Even then, the effects are greatly limited."

"Explain,"

Lugh said flatly.

Selaphiel tapped her thumb against her forehead, searching for the right words.

"Well, it’s quite simple. An attack made of raw mana is easy to block with any low-level magical barrier. That’s why offensive spells have evolved to use more physical manifestations—to penetrate magic defenses."

She gestured with her hand, conjuring a gentle breeze that twisted like a ribbon between her fingers.

"The wind might be mystically induced and require mana to sustain, but it’s still wind in the end. It has mass, it exerts force. It’ll do more damage than raw arcane energy."

"Hmmm,"

Lugh hummed.

"So you’re saying—the closer a spell is to the physical, the harder it is to block?"

He already knew this, of course. He had inherited centuries of magical theory from Emrys.

But he needed them to say it aloud. People were more receptive to truths spoken in their own voice.

"Yes,"

Selaphiel confirmed.

"That’s why elves invented bows and arrows. Humans just adopted them later. Projectiles like those can’t be blocked with a magic shield."

Lugh raised an eyebrow.

"So elves use bows and arrows, yet they don’t care for firearms?"

"Like I said,"

She replied,

"Most of us don’t know what firearms are. And even if we did, we wouldn’t care. Our methods suit us just fine."

He smiled, finally understanding.

It wasn’t about efficiency. It was about pride. The stuck-up elves refused to accept reality—unwilling to acknowledge what humans had developed.

That arrogance would come back to bite them. Lugh was sure of it.

"So... I’ve explained it to you. Where are you going with this?"

"Ah. Right."

Lugh snapped out of his thoughts and raised the revolver for all to see.

"This is a gun."

The elves stared at him, unimpressed.

He added,

"Specifically, this is a revolver. A weapon that produces a thousand joules of raw kinetic force. Pure energy, no magic involved. Do you get what I’m saying?"

A flicker of understanding emerged in Isolde’s eyes.

But the others?

They still didn’t get it.

He continued.

"By comparison, your hunting bows produce—what—one hundred joules max?"

"Stop exaggerating,"

Selaphiel said, surprisingly sharp.

Lugh let out a small sigh. Then, without warning, he pointed the gun at her.

"Block this."

BANG!

The ignition began deep within the chamber—a snap of the hammer, striking the primer, igniting the powder.

A burst of flame and pressure exploded behind the bullet, forcing it down the barrel. Smoke curled from the muzzle as fire trailed its path.

The bullet tore from its casing with a sharp crack, cutting through air, slicing a path straight toward Selaphiel.

It all happened in an instant.

From Lugh’s words alone, Selaphiel reacted, centuries of instinct sharpening into action. A magical barrier shimmered into existence, a dome brimming with arcane energy.

It didn’t matter.

The bullet struck the barrier—and it shattered like glass, unable to slow the projectile even for a moment.

The round slammed into her shoulder with a crack, and the room thundered with the sound of the shot a heartbeat later.

Selaphiel jerked back, violently thrown across the room. Her pristine robes bloomed red as blood sprayed across the floor and walls.

She crashed through a broken table, shards of wood and glass exploding in all directions.

The elves reacted immediately. Jahira and Lance lunged toward Lugh, weapons drawn. The last elf hesitated, taking a shaky step back, unsure.

"Stop!"

It was Selaphiel’s ragged and pained voice that halted them.

Now that she’d felt it, she finally understood the message Lugh was trying to convey. You could know the theory.

You could even believe it.

But unless you experienced it personally, it was hard to grasp how grave the situation really was.

Lugh had learned that lesson the hard way, during the gunpowder explosion.

His magical shield hadn’t lasted an instant. Even with Emrys’ healing arts, he would have died—had Selaphiel and Isolde not been there to find him.

Any other elf, put in the same situation, would’ve been obliterated, because unlike him, they wouldn’t have recognized the danger of gunpowder.

They wouldn’t have run. They would’ve stood their ground, confident in their spells, and been shredded by steel and fire.

It seemed Selaphiel had just come to the same realization.

"Lugh! What are you doing?"

Isolde cried, horrified.

"Leave him be,"

Selaphiel ordered.

The floor was strewn with splinters and shards—broken furniture, shattered glass. Blood dripped steadily from her arm, soaking into the grain of the wood.

She tried to stand, but the pain made her wince. It stung badly.

If weapons like this were mass-produced...

The thought made her stomach turn.