Gunmage
Chapter 181: Cracks in the mask

Chapter 181: Chapter 181: Cracks in the mask

Once Victor was gone, Isolde turned to Lady Selaphiel.

"So what was that all about?"

"Hmm?"

"The whole resurrection thing."

"Ah, that."

The elf began slowly, adjusting the cuff of her robe with deliberate grace.

"Well, it’s just a normal plan. Victor is definitely not working alone, and I need to find out who his collaborators are before I make a move on him."

"Wouldn’t it have been better to just... forcefully question him?"

"You mean torture?"

Isolde nodded, her expression unreadable.

Then Selaphiel spoke again, this time with a raised brow.

"Do you really think torture methods will work on a man like that?"

"I do,"

Isolde responded simply, her tone firm and without hesitation.

"Oh right,"

Selaphiel said with a small, humorless chuckle.

"I forgot you were originally from House Caldreth. Never mind that—torture methods would surely not get us all the information we seek. And even then, Victor would have ’collaborators’ that even he is unaware of."

"I see,"

Isolde stated, though her tone was neutral. Then she added,

"What are your thoughts on Victor?"

Selaphiel contemplated for a moment, her gaze drifting toward a faintly glowing tapestry stitched with arcane runes.

"Sharp. Wiry. A problem if left to fester."

Isolde seemed surprised by the bluntness.

"Really?"

"Yes,"

Selaphiel confirmed, turning back toward her.

"All the information you’ve gathered about him is most likely an intentional act. He’s leading you... somewhere."

They both remained silent for a while, the quiet tension in the air broken only by their rhythmic breathing.

Then Isolde raised a finger into the air, and two shadows detached from the edges of the grand hall—fluid and silent—vanishing through the corridors to complete their mission.

Selaphiel stretched in her seat, arms high above her head before lifting herself to her feet.

"Well, now that we’re done with that nuisance, come. We have a story to finish."

"Right,"

Isolde replied, her voice returning to a calm steadiness.

They both exited the opulently furnished room, its heavy velvet drapes rustling faintly behind them.

The servants who had observed the entire meeting without a word dissolved into the background like ghosts, vanishing without sound or trace.

. . .

In a dark underground training hall, illuminated by a massive ring of candles, a fierce battle was underway.

The wax circle formed a ritualistic border, casting flickering shadows that danced across the old stone walls like specters.

Two opponents clashed in the center, trading blows with brutal precision. Their movements mirrored each other—systematic and razor-sharp.

One was tall with long limbs and a reach that dictated distance. The other was smaller, quick-footed and agile, moving with the practiced grace of someone used to being on the losing end and fighting uphill.

Both wore standard crimson training uniforms, their faces obscured by featureless lacquered masks.

The smaller fighter, Gloria, was clearly on the back foot. Every jab, kick, and strike she launched was deftly parried or redirected as though she were a child sparring with a master.

Frustrated, Gloria changed tactics. She crouched low like a predator, pouncing with explosive speed, desperate to deny her opponent breathing room.

The taller figure responded immediately, there was a sharp swoosh through the air.

She barely reacted in time.

Tilting her body at the last possible moment, she narrowly avoided a side kick that would have folded her like parchment.

Using the stolen momentum, she dove in, her fist aimed toward his liver.

The opponent absorbed it with grace, blocking with a dipped elbow and countering with a swift, crushing knee strike.

Gloria brought her arms down to brace for it, but the sheer force staggered her.

She skidded back, her boots scraping against the old stone floor. Her opponent didn’t hesitate—he took a lightning-quick backstep and steadied his stance again, relaxed and ready, like this was a mere warm-up.

Gloria didn’t let up. Gritting her teeth, she lunged again, determined not to waste the narrow window she’d fought for.

Her opponent shifted weight subtly, like a coiled spring about to launch.

’A right jab’

Her mind screamed.

She moved instinctively. And not a second too soon.

The punch wasn’t thrown—it blurred, cleaving through the air faster than a blink.

A perfect, textbook jab meant to end things in a single motion. Had she hesitated, the match would’ve been over.

She couldn’t afford to lose. Not yet. Not like this.

With a grunt, Gloria pushed forward, driving her elbow toward the midsection. It landed. Her opponent recoiled, clutching his abdomen.

A chance.

She lunged again, but just as she gained ground, his right leg whipped toward her ribs.

What—?

At the last second, the leg twisted midair, swerving upward.

It connected cleanly with her face.

Crack.

Gloria’s head snapped sideways. Her mask splintered as she hit the ground hard, skidding on the cold stone.

"Ooof."

The figures watching from the edge of the arena all winced in unison, as though they had been struck.

"Well, I guess the match is over."

"...Wait."

"Hm?"

Gloria blinked, her vision swimming. One eye clouded with red.

Blood? Must’ve been mask fragments.

’Ah. Why am I even doing this?’

Images of a cold, bloodied science lab flashed through her mind—screaming steel, shattered glass, twisted silhouettes on operating tables.

She groaned, pushing herself up. Her body throbbed with pain. Even breathing felt painful.

She looked barely able to stand. But nobody stopped the match. They never did. That was the way things worked here.

She gritted her teeth. Her hands began to glow with a red, hazy mist. Then a spark—and it transformed into a raging fire.

The room filled with light and heat, casting shadows across the countless unfeeling masks watching the battle.

"...Is this okay?"

A voice asked from the shadows.

"Why not?"

Came the calm reply.

Gloria moved both hands forward, and two searing bursts of flame shot forth.

Her opponent moved like a dancer, his arms sweeping in fluid arcs. The twin fireballs veered slightly off course, missing him by inches.

But then they pivoted midair. The flames curved unnaturally, like hunting hounds catching a scent.

"What—"

Boom!

The explosion thundered through the arena, the smoke it released rolling out like a living thing.

Sight was drowned in gray and red.

Gloria didn’t wait. She dived into the smoke, body low, sprinting headlong toward her target.

Her opponent did the same. They collided in the center.

His clothes were singed. His mask blackened and cracked. But his stance was still firm.

Their palms glowed, crimson light radiating through the thick smoke like a beacon.

"Ignia!"

They both shouted.

The result was instantaneous.

The explosion shook the very bones of the cathedral.

Candles flared violently, flames whipping like banners in a storm. Wax sprayed like molten snow, splashing the stone floors in molten globs.

The heat warped the air itself.

When the dust settled, Gloria lay unconscious in the center of the arena.

Her mask shattered. Her body smoking.

"This match is over!"