Gunmage
Chapter 191: The real assassin

Chapter 191: Chapter 191: The real assassin

Sela pursed her lips, arms crossed, as she stared at Mirelle explaining herself.

"I thought you were an intruder."

Mirelle, still kneading her bruised stomach, shot her a hateful glare. Then she straightened—just barely—before snapping back.

"I thought the same."

A silence settled over them, taut as a drawn bowstring.

Then—

"What are you doing here?"

Sela repeated her initial question.

"Same as you,"

Mirelle replied coolly, brushing dust off her tunic.

"I’m here to see what condition Lugh is really in. Seems you’re worried about him too."

Sela flinched.

"Who’s worried about that—I’m not worried about him."

She caught herself, taking a breath to steady her tone.

"I’m just curious, that’s all."

Mirelle gave her a side glance full of disbelief.

"Uh-huh. Yeah. Whatever you say."

Just then, the door creaked open, and a robed figure stepped inside, face obscured by a black hood. It closed the door behind it with a soft click—then suddenly froze.

Both girls snapped to attention.

"You don’t think—"

Mirelle whispered.

"No. That’s impossible,"

Selaphiel answered, though her voice betrayed her uncertainty.

The figure didn’t hesitate. A blade gleamed in the moonlight that filtered through the windows, and the assassin sprang forward, deadly intent in every step.

"Oh my god—it’s the real assassin!"

Mirelle shouted, extending both palms.

A howling gust erupted from her hands—razor-sharp wind blades tearing toward the intruder.

They sliced across the room with a shriek, curtains whipping violently in their wake.

Shards of air slashed forward, aimed to maim or drive back.

Selaphiel followed suit, twin arcs of cutting wind flaring from her outstretched fingers, howling in tandem with her sister’s strike.

Their opponent didn’t retreat.

He moved with terrifying precision, sword bristling with arcane light. He cleaved through one of the incoming wind attacks like it was made of paper and sidestepped the other with a casual, almost lazy motion.

Then he advanced—slowly, deliberately. It was the stride of someone confident, someone who had already decided they weren’t a threat.

Mirelle gulped audibly.

"S-Sela... what do we do?"

Selaphiel stepped forward, shielding her sister with her body. Her eyes flicked around the room, calculating. They locked on the window.

Third floor. Not ideal, but easily survivable.

She whispered,

"Get ready to jump."

An unnatural calm settled over them, the quiet before the next clash.

Then—motion.

The assassin lunged again, blade flashing.

Selaphiel reacted fast. She tore at the rug beneath the attacker’s feet, disrupting his balance.

"Now!"

She shouted.

Both girls darted for the window.

But before they could reach it, the gas lamp by the wall flicked on with a click.

The room flooded with warm yellow light. At the foot of the grand bed stood a man.

He was tall, refined, and handsome. With flaxen hair tied neatly into a bun, long sharp ears unmistakable in the glow.

An elf.

Sela and Mirelle echoed the thought aloud in a breathless whisper.

"An elf...?"

Then, a crushing weight descended—air thickened into pressure, raw wind compressed into an invisible force that pinned them all, including the assassin, to the ground.

They struggled, gasping, their limbs stuck as if chained.

A voice murmured from the bedside.

"The intentional gaps in security worked like a charm."

The elf stood calmly and strode toward the assassin, his boots tapping gently against the wood. He kicked the sword away and pulled the mask off the man’s face.

A human male, late thirties. Refined, elegant—yet strangely serene even now.

"Who do you work for?"

The elf asked. His voice echoed through the tense room.

No answer.

"Not talking, are you?"

He said softly.

"Don’t worry. There are... ways."

Arcane energy crackled along his fingertips—blue-white and wicked. The promise of pain was clear.

But before he could act, the assassin began to convulse, froth bubbling from his mouth. His eyes rolled back, and within seconds, his body went still.

Dead.

The elf—Lance—frowned.

"Damn,"

He muttered, brushing his hand over the corpse’s eyes.

"He just went and died."

He lingered a moment, then slowly turned to face the two girls.

"As for you two..."

"We’ll talk!!"

Mirelle blurted, voice high.

"What my sister means to say is—we’re not bad people,"

Selaphiel cut in.

"Not bad people?"

Lance repeated, tone flat.

"Then how do you explain why you’re here? This floor is restricted, is it not?"

Both girls felt a chill crawl down their spines.

"D-Do you even know who we are?"

Mirelle stammered.

"No,"

He said with perfect calm.

"I don’t."

He raised his arms slightly.

"Eeep!"

They both flinched instinctively—but then a voice echoed through the chamber, rich and authoritative.

"That’s enough, Lance. You can let them through."

"...Understood,"

Lance responded, lowering his arms.

The pressure vanished.

The sisters scrambled upright, panting.

Lance’s gaze hadn’t moved.

He addressed them with cold detachment.

"Continue straight down. Near the end of the corridor, turn left into a large hall. Cross through it—but do not touch anything. At the far end, take the corridor until you reach a fountain. Turn right there. The room you seek is just ahead."

"Uh... thank you, Mister—"

"Lance,"

Selaphiel finished for her sister.

The elf said nothing. He stood perfectly still—more statue than man—eyes watching.

"Uh... we’re leaving now."

Still no response.

They edged toward the door, glancing back one last time.

He hadn’t moved. But his eyes followed them.

A chill ran down their spines. Was that how he had watched them all along, hidden in the dark?

Unwilling to linger, they slipped out and hurried down the corridor, steps light and quick.

Once they’d gone, Lance let out a quiet sigh. His attention returned to the assassin’s body.

"Another uncomfortable job,"

He murmured.

He lifted the corpse with effortless ease, the weight of death familiar in his arms. Exiting the room, he made his way down the corridor—past antiques and heavy furniture that reeked of history.

Reaching a tall, dark-wood shelf, he pulled with his free hand. The massive frame rolled aside silently, revealing a narrow passage and a flight of stone steps leading downward.

Without hesitation, he descended—his footsteps fading into the dark beneath the earth.