Gunmage
Chapter 190: Third floor assassins

Chapter 190: Chapter 190: Third floor assassins

Cute? What a strange and bizarre question.

She shook her head, brows furrowed in confusion.

"No, not really. Except for my father."

Her countenance shifted, quickly overtaken by melancholy and bitterness.

The atmosphere thickened, weighed down by the heaviness of her words. Marin and his sister, Marilyn, sensed it instantly and tactfully kept quiet.

The silence stretched, deep and uncomfortable.

After a while, Gloria seemed to collect herself, brushing off the gloom like dust from her shoulders.

"Alright, enough talk. Is there anything that can help me regain my strength quicker? Some herbs? Maybe even a blessing?"

Marin shook his head, not out of outright denial, but as more of a subtle expression—hesitation, perhaps.

He spoke, measured and calm.

"Well, I do have some potions I brought with me."

"Then—"

"But I’m really wondering if I should give them to you."

His eyes narrowed with deliberate intent.

Gloria coughed awkwardly, then forced a smile as she spoke.

"You know what? I’ve been doing some thinking, and your name doesn’t sound too bad. Marin. Marilyn was probably derived from it. Yes. That’s the case. It’s definitely not the other way around!"

...

Pyrellis, nestled in the high-altitude districts perched north of the Royal Palace, shimmered in twilight.

A grand and majestic villa of white polished stone loomed there—the Von Heim Manor.

Selaphiel, firstborn of Isolde and often known simply as Sela to her younger sisters, strode with purpose through its long, echoing corridors.

She was growing curious. Exceedingly so.

The current state of the household was anything but normal.

The third floor—where her mother’s room lay—had always been restricted. She and her siblings had naturally respected that rule, never daring to cross it.

That was until recently, when magic-trained guards were suddenly stationed to patrol it’s corridors, standing sentinel day and night.

Nothing was more alluring than the forbidden.

And now, Sela’s curiosity was well and truly piqued.

She’d already tried multiple times to sneak past, only to be stopped cold by those elite guards.

They were clearly highly trained, far too advanced for any direct confrontation.

She would need skill—more than before—and patience.

After all, there were no serious consequences to being caught.

As for the root of this sudden rise in security?

Only one word was necessary:

Lugh.

It hadn’t escaped her that the room so thoroughly destroyed was his. It had clearly been an assassination attempt.

What did he expect, parading around and showing off so much at the ball?

If anything, she was even pleased someone had knocked him down a few pegs.

She allowed herself that thought because she knew he wasn’t dead. That part was easy to infer.

If he truly was, then both her mother and grandmother would have already razed entire bloodlines before the first rays of dawn.

She wasn’t the only one who’d realized this.

Lirienne seemed troubled lately, her brows always pinched with worry. Mirelle still acted carefree as usual, though it was always hard to tell what was really running through her mind.

But Sela knew her younger sister wasn’t stupid.

Then there was Aveline, the little devil, who had taken to gathering information from her agemates with disturbing efficiency.

Sela wasn’t entirely sure what to think of her.

Sometimes she was just thankful to have been born seven or eight years earlier.

Their mother’s restriction on the branch family remained firm. Their grandmother Selaphiel’s order—barring anyone from leaving—was still in place.

Sela had her theories. And if she could guess why, so could others.

The manor’s atmosphere had soured—turned toxic, even.

More often than not, she found herself actively avoiding her cousins and aunts.

Okay, no one is there this time.

With a breath, she wrapped a black cloak tight around her frame and used wind magic to muffle her footsteps. Like a whisper in the dark, she ascended the stairs.

This time, she wouldn’t make the same mistake.

The moment she stepped into the corridor of the third floor, she slipped into the nearest room. It didn’t matter which one, as long as it offered cover.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Her eyes adjusted.

A cloaked figure—also shrouded in black—stood mere meters away.

Her pupils dilated in alarm. Her body tensed.

An assassin!

Magic crackled at her fingertips. A stool flew at the stranger like a cannonball.

The figure reacted instantly, sending a blade of wind arcing in two directions. The first cleaved the stool in half. The second curved in a horizontal arc, heading straight for her.

Wind magic?

Sela raised a barrier just in time. It shattered on impact, but it had served its purpose—buying her precious seconds.

She ducked, rolled forward, and launched herself toward her foe.

Close combat was her forte.

Though she lacked a sword, it didn’t really matter.

Her opponent must have noticed that too— leaping back with another gust of wind to gain distance.

But the moment the assassin’s feet touched the ground, Sela yanked the rug beneath with force control, causing her opponent to stumble.

She seized the opening. Utilising the skill she had relentlessly practiced, she channeled wind magic beneath her feet, and launched herself forward, clearing several meters in the blink of an eye.

Her fist struck the figure’s abdomen with a sharp, solid thud.

The person let out a pained yelp—the voice was unmistakably feminine.

Huh?

Sela’s thoughts spun, but before she could say anything, searing pain shot through her arm as the assailants teeth sank into her flesh.

She grunted, trying to stifle the involuntary sound. Her free hand shot forward, gripping the figure’s hood.

She pulled.

The cloak fell away.

"Let go of my hand, you fool!"

She hissed through clenched teeth.

"Hmmm?"

The figure blinked.

Recognition dawned in her eyes.

"Ah!"

Her jaws relaxed.

"It’s you."

She hastily wiped her mouth, embarrassment flushing her cheeks.

"What are you doing here?"

"Is that all you have to say after nearly ripping off my skin? What are you, a dog?"

"Hmph!"

Mirelle huffed.

"If I’m a dog, then you’re an orc!"

"O–Orc?"

"Who punches someone with that much force?"

She groaned, rubbing her abdomen. Her face contorted in a grimace.

"I thought you were—"