Gunmage
Chapter 78: A dance of blades

Chapter 78: Chapter 78: A dance of blades

Fighting an elf in melee was a death sentence.

A human swordsman could dedicate his entire life to the blade, mastering its every nuance, refining his technique until he stood among the greatest.

A warrior with fifty years of unbroken discipline and battlefield experience was the stuff of legend. How terrifyingly skilled he must be, he would be acknowledged and respected by all.

Even against a master of thirty years, one would hesitate before issuing a challenge, regardless of if the challenger was similarly skilled.

But what were fifty years to an elf?

Most elves devoted themselves to magic, yet even those who barely considered martial combat still accumulated a century of experience. And in most cases, far more.

A ’casual’ swordsman among elves had likely spent a hundred years merely ’brushing’ over the art, wielding a blade with an ever-youthful body that never dulled and never slowed.

Such warriors surpassed even the most gifted of humankind. Even those with no interest in combat would, by sheer cultural inertia, have at least thirty years of proficiency with a chosen weapon.

And those who took it seriously? Those who dedicated five centuries to the way of the sword?

That was how Ophris had once fallen, how human empires were colonised and reduced to footnotes in history. Every race understood the unspoken rule:

Do not challenge an elf in a battle of skill.

But Lugh had no choice.

Even against their martial prowess, an elf’s true strength was magic. And that, he knew, was something no mortal blade could match.

Lugh greatly disagreed with that saying. It should have been:

Do not challenge an elf. Ever.

And yet, here he was.

Lugh lunged at the disoriented Emrys, fingers tightening around the hilt of his invisible blade. It was a straight thrust, direct and unassuming, designed to conceal the weapon’s nature until it was too late.

It didn’t work.

An iron grip caught his wrist mid-strike.

His puppet reacted instantly, hurling the enchanted dagger Dain toward their locked hands.

The spinning blade cut through the air, on course to sever their connection, the elf would either have to let go or risk getting injured.

Emrys did not let go.

Instead, with flawless precision he backstepped, yanking Lugh into the dagger’s path. A sudden flick of the wrist, and Lugh barely diverted the blade in time, but the maneuver cost him.

His wrist buckled under Emrys’s grip, bones grinding as pain shot through his arm.

Gritting his teeth, Lugh swung his injured left hand at the elf’s temple.

It was a desperate move, one that would likely hurt him more than his opponent, but he knew Emrys wouldn’t allow it to land.

The elf ducked.

Before Emrys could follow up, Lugh’s puppet was already in motion, bringing the enchanted blade down with lethal force.

Emrys released his grip and both combatants leaped backward in tandem.

A heartbeat later, a blade of pure ice manifested in the elf’s hand.

Lugh hesitated.

Emrys had been reluctant to use magic this entire time. If he had his full arsenal, this fight would have already been over.

Was he suffering backlash from an earlier spell? Or had he simply run out of mana?

Lugh considered the alternative.

’He doesn’t know how to restore his reserves’

The technique was something he had learned in those six months within the eldritch horror.

Mages relied on mana, but very few knew how to supplement their reserves with the energy of the dead. It was a lost art, a secret, forbidden knowledge imparted by the Priestess.

And even if Emrys had known about it, it would still be useless in this situation.

Xhi had already siphoned every ounce of lingering energy from this battlefield.

Lugh exhaled slowly, eyes locking onto his opponent.

Both wielded daggers. One with centuries of experience, the other with a mere six months of personal training.

But personal experience wasn’t everything, especially if the person was Lugh.

Most of his skills didn’t belong to him. He had inherited the lifetimes of an experienced lieutenant and a legendary spy.

Their knowledge flowed through his movements and their instincts guiding his hands.

That wasn’t all.

His weapons were legendary, imbued with enchantments that transcended steel, while Emrys wielded conjured blades forged from magic alone.

And most importantly—

He wasn’t alone.

Shared perception, inhuman coordination. One body could see a few moments into the future, the other had superhuman strength and was unable to feel pain.

Emrys had one arm left.

Lugh had three.

The odds were even. This battle would end in an instant.

He charged, simultaneously. Two bodies from two different angles.

Emrys shifted his stance and Lugh read the future projections. No strike yet.

He lunged. A strike was coming. An attack. No, several, all varied and everchanging, adapting to his own movements.

Shit.

Disoriented, he adjusted, choosing the best possible option. His blade cut forward.

Emrys moved, with a grace that couldn’t be understated, he shifted his weight and brought his dagger down.

Pain erupted through Lugh’s palm. The ice dagger buried itself deep, spreading frost through the torn flesh.

The invisible blade clattered to the ground and his knees buckled, giving way for his puppet who vaulted over his faltering body and brought the blade down, aiming for the kill.

Emrys was faster though.

His arm abandoned the blade in Lughs palm and his body spun a complete 360 degrees, another blade manifested in his hand aimed at the neck of the puppet.

His movements flowed like water, his form was perfection.

The dagger lodged in the throat but the puppet did not stop.

Unfeeling and unrelenting, it grasped Emrys’s arm in an unbreakable grip.

Now!

Lyra glitched into existence.

Her longsword shimmered with enchantment, slicing through space itself as she materialized behind them.

She swung.

The blade passed effortlessly through Lugh’s puppet, bisecting it in a single stroke.

With his view obstructed Emrys hadn’t noticed the lethal change.

But the sword kept going.

Through flesh.

Through bone.

Through him.

For the first time, Emrys hesitated.

He was a fraction of a second too late.