Gunmage
Chapter 182: Mortars and myths

Chapter 182: Chapter 182: Mortars and myths

Deep in the Von Heim estate, on the third floor of the absolutely massive manor, five figures sat together in a grand room, their expressions a mixture of disbelief and apprehension as Lugh recounted his tale.

The sunlight streaming through the stained glass drowned the room in colours, adding a strange atmosphere to his words.

Someone finally broke the heavy silence.

"So you’re telling me that Auren—Hero of the Sylphs, previous wielder of the Ring of Nyx, an overlord of magic—was killed in a... in a—"

"Mortar strike,"

Lugh finished calmly, his tone devoid of flourish.

"His corpse was completely unrecognizable. Otherwise, someone would have known who he was."

That someone had been Vaelith, a member of the Royal Guard. But Lugh saw no reason to mention her.

Although he had begun sharing his tale, it was laced with deliberate gaps—50 percent truth, 50 percent lies. Not lies, exactly. Just withheld truths.

He was careful and calculated. Speaking with the precision of someone used to navigating traps.

Lugh refused to name the members of the Black Powder Task Force outright, though he knew it was only a matter of time before their identities surfaced.

Vaelith might be uncovered through Selaphiel’s strange connection with the Queen.

Lyra’s identity, on the other hand, would come to light tomorrow when she crushed the patriarch of the Cross family in a public duel—there’d be no hiding her then.

As for Xhi... Lugh almost smirked. If they figured out who she was, he’d be genuinely impressed. No family ties. No place of birth. No documented magical affinities.

She was an enigma carved out of mist—an identity so thoroughly erased she seemed summoned from thin air.

He continued narrating the events of the operation initiated by Third Prince Lovainne.

He had not failed to mention the horrifying experiments Emrys and his circle conducted beneath Drakensmar, backed by Heieg soldiers and—undoubtedly—by their upper brass.

That particular detail made Selaphiel go unnervingly still, her gaze deepening like a volcano threatening to rupture.

The mages of Ophris had long been nonchalant about the war. Detached, as though the conflict were a stage play and not a growing inferno threatening to consume them.

That was precisely why Lugh had chosen to speak. They needed to understand the true stakes.

Yes, Ophris held a magical advantage, bolstered by their colonial relationship with Jazeer, the Elven Kingdom.

That edge had allowed them to remain smug. But now... Lugh had unveiled the truth. Their enemies not only wielded superior weapons—firearms, tanks, mechanized warfare—but were backed by a powerful, ancient, outlawed magical organization.

Ophris was in danger. He had known it for a while now. Now it was time for the others to see it too.

"He died without resistance,"

Lugh said quietly.

"And I took the ring from his mangled corpse. That is all. No grand battle. No final duel. No heroic last stand."

"Unbelievable..."

Jahira muttered under her breath, shaking her head. Her voice was laced with a subtle dread. She seemed to struggle with the reality of it.

That a wielder of the Ring of Nyx could perish so obscurely, so thoroughly, without a fight. If such a mage had fallen like that... what chance did she stand?

But Lugh didn’t dwell on her discomfort. His mind drifted—Captain Renshaw. Had that drunkard survived?

It was hard to tell. The battle had been chaotic. Messy. He hoped the man had made it, but he wasn’t certain.

He recounted how they had hijacked a tank, and later, an armored vehicle, skimming over details of their magical techniques.

Instead, he leaned into the drama—narrating the high-speed chase with all the gusto of a seasoned storyteller.

His tone shifted, animated and theatrical, his words painting vivid scenes. The five listeners hung on every word, their postures leaning forward, as if watching a high-stakes opera unfold.

"And what happened next?"

Zephyr asked, his voice filled with excitement. Among them all, he seemed the most enthralled.

"We continued pushing forward with the resistance forces toward the storage depot,"

Lugh said.

"Occasionally, we received precision artillery and mortar support from the Major General... But that was when Emrys arrived."

"Emrys?"

The name detonated like a grenade. All the elves in the room spoke out simultaneously, shock stark on their faces.

"Huh?"

Lugh blinked, momentarily caught off guard. Then he realized, this was the first time he had mentioned Emrys’s name out loud.

Selaphiel’s brows furrowed in concentration. She recalled Lugh’s impossible healing feats, and pieces of a jigsaw started assembling in her mind.

But rather than gaining clarity, the picture became murkier—like solving one part of a puzzle only for twenty more to spill from the box.

"You know Emrys?"

Lugh asked, his voice sharper than intended.

"Of course,"

Lance said, his voice rising with tension.

"He’s a terrifying prodigy, even among the elves. His research has led to millenias worth of breakthroughs in healing arts."

"Oh?"

Lugh narrowed his eyes.

"So he’s a... good guy?"

"Nope. Not at all,"

Selaphiel cut in flatly.

She leaned forward, her tone grave.

"He’s one of the most wanted criminals in elven society. Has been for centuries. His research is unethical, his experiments grotesque.

He spreads forbidden magic like wildfire. He’s a high-priority target for good reason."

Lugh didn’t respond right away. Instead, his frown deepened.

He had not known any of this. And that was a huge problem.

He had lived inside the mind of Emrys. He had absorbed his knowledge, seen through his eyes. And yet... this?

A creeping unease took root.

How is this possible?

Is the Mawglass broken? Or... is it me?

Emrys had been the first—and only—elf he had ever taken over. Thousands of memories had crashed into his consciousness at once.

Had that done something? Was this a side effect? Or something worse?

"Lugh? Hello? Lugh!"

Jahira’s voice snapped him out of his spiraling thoughts.

He turned slowly.

"Hmm?"

"You were saying—what happened after Emrys appeared?"

"Oh. Right."

He blinked again.

"Emrys appeared."

The others exchanged glances. He seemed shaken—unusual for him.

"Are you alright?"

Isolde asked softly, her voice laced with genuine concern.

Lugh looked at her. For a brief moment, a flicker of memory crossed his face. Lyra had always been the first to ask him that.

"Yes. I’m fine,"

He answered, the words sounding almost mechanical.

Then he turned to Selaphiel, his expression hardening into something unreadable.

He had an important question.

"If you were to fight Emrys,"

He asked slowly,

"Who would win?"