Gunmage
Chapter 307: A noble among vermin

Chapter 307: Chapter 307: A noble among vermin

Hello then, allow me to reintroduce myself.

The man said, leaning back in his seat.

Victor quietly observed his surroundings. The house was exactly as he had left it—frayed carpets, faded drapes, worn-out furniture.

The air was damp, and thick with dust. A recently ignited fireplace cackled nearby, just far enough away that he could gain no real relief from its warmth.

The tattooed lady was no longer present. In her place stood several vicious-looking men, each one staring at him with a glint of something unhinged in their eyes.

A bottle, a wooden stand, an axe.

Although the situation seemed bleak, Victor, out of instinct more than hope, began memorising the position of anything that could aid in his escape.

The tension in the air was unbearable, but he kept calm, eyes constantly shifting in subtle motion.

"So where were we? Ah yes, that’s right. I was about to reintroduce myself."

The man rose from his chair. There was a sudden shift in his posture—grace and poise manifesting out of thin air, as if his very essence had been replaced by someone else entirely.

He walked with purpose, slow and deliberate, before stopping just in front of Victor. He looked down at him with a cold, unreadable expression.

The contrast was staggering. The man Victor had spoken to earlier seemed like a completely different person—this one moved like a trained predator.

He tapped his chin, as though contemplating something trivial, then—

"Well... you can just call me Rat."

"Rat!"

Victor shouted, voice sharp with disbelief.

"What the hell do you think you’re doing?! How dare you assault and kidnap a noble!"

Silence followed—heavy and awkward.

Then, without warning, the entire room erupted into uproarious laughter.

The men howled and slapped their knees, their laughter echoing off the worn walls.

Victor, flushed with self-suppressed embarrassment, yelled again in indignation, but nothing came of it.

His words were ignored entirely, treated like the idle tantrum of a spoiled child.

He seemed done for. Except—he wasn’t.

All this time, he’d been performing a silent headcount and analysing the room’s layout.

There were eight of them. The absence of the tattooed lady left a nagging uncertainty, but it wouldn’t derail his plan. Not if he could buy himself a little more time.

His only immediate problem was the bindings.

They were too tight to slip out of now. He needed a distraction. Something.

Victor cleared his throat and spoke again, this time adopting the haughty tone of an arrogant noble.

He asked, carefully modulating his voice:

"Just who exactly are you? And what do you want?"

"Who we are doesn’t matter,"

Rat replied.

"As for what we want? That’s quite simple..."

"..."

"Money."

Victor frowned.

"Money?"

His thoughts raced, rifling through dozens of possibilities.

Most likely, they were mercenaries—sellswords, professionals.

But hired by who?

Was this Selaphiel’s doing? Trying to get rid of him early on?

No. That didn’t make sense.

It had to be a third party.

His gaze swept over his captors again, this time with renewed caution.

He didn’t know what kind of magic they employed.

A single rash move could end in disaster.

For now, he would wait. Watch and assess.

Suddenly, the clinking sound of metal filled the air.

A burly man at the corner of the room exclaimed:

"This guy is loaded! Can’t you see? All gold coins!"

Victor turned slightly, noting the cluster of men surrounding his coat—rummaging through it like wolves over a carcass.

For supposed professionals, they had a strange way of conducting themselves.

The leader—Rat—let out a low chuckle and turned back toward Victor.

"You heard them. Apparently, you’re very rich."

Then his voice shifted, dropping in pitch and warmth.

"Which is why I’ll need you to be telling us exactly which family you belong to."

Victor hesitated. He asked,

"Why?"

They all turned to him at once, clearly confused by the question.

"Why?? Are you stupid? It’s for the ransom, of course!"

Victor’s brain stalled for a moment. A horrible realisation crept over him.

He really hoped he wasn’t right.

He asked, carefully:

"Have any of you learned the basics of Force Control?"

The room went still.

They looked at each other.

Blank expressions.

"Huh?"

"Force Control? What’s that?"

Dear Lord.

Victor fought the urge to cover his face.

He had been correct.

These weren’t agents. These weren’t even trained mercenaries.

They were nothing more than common thugs—filthy criminals with no magical aptitude whatsoever.

He recalled the moment he’d lost consciousness from the blow to the head. His expression turned grim.

This wasn’t good.

He’d never hear the end of it if word got out that a group of two-copper lowlifes managed to kidnap him.

Victor let out a slow, steady sigh. He asked,

"Where is the coachman?"

He was, of course, referring to the private driver he’d hired earlier.

The men exchanged glances. Then one of them finally spoke:

"He tried to escape. We don’t want no one informing the authorities. So we took care of him."

"You killed him?"

Victor asked.

"Yes."

They responded bluntly.

A moment of silence.

Then Victor replied,

"Convenient."

That statement drew puzzled looks.

"Convenient? What do you mean, convenient?"

Rat, now clearly uneasy, asked the question with a frown.

A bad feeling coiled in his gut.

Victor responded in an almost casual tone:

"Oh, it’s nothing too serious. All you did was make what I’m about to do easier."

One of the goons—clearly irritated by Victor’s smugness—stepped forward in anger.

"Hey, what do you—"

He never finished his sentence.

From where it had rested carelessly in the corner, the dull axe suddenly shot through the air—spinning, humming with unnatural force.

It embedded itself squarely into the man’s skull with a sickening crunch.

Blood splattered across the wall. The man crumpled to the floor, dead before his knees hit the ground.

The others froze, stunned by the impossibility of what they’d just seen.

Victor, who had long since been weakening his mundane bindings with subtle applications of mana, flexed his arms—and with one explosive effort, snapped the restraints.

He rose to his feet.

By now, the rest were scrambling into motion.

But as they surged forward, they abruptly skidded to a halt, their eyes widening in horror.

Every object in the room—bottles, chairs, loose floorboards, scattered cutlery—began to levitate.

"Wha—what the hell is thi—!?"