Gunmage
Chapter 88: Lugh

Chapter 88: Chapter 88: Lugh

Lugh was doused with the water, the oversized military uniform he’d been given soaked from head to toe.

The priest and a few others stared at him with anticipation. Perhaps expecting him to shriek in pain?

Or for some black smoke to emerge from his body. Whatever the case, they were left disappointed.

The entity called Lugh just sat there for a while, his gaze fixed on something that wasn’t quite there.

Slowly, he rubbed the drops of the water between his fingers, as if searching for something within them.

After a long moment of stillness, he stood and began to walk away, water dripping from his clothes as he moved.

"Sir—sir, are you okay?"

Sister Marilyn reluctantly rushed to his side. She commanded those who were free.

"Bring a towel!"

In the same instant, a violent thud echoed through the cathedral as the ushers tackled the priest, binding him with ropes like a common criminal.

"Unhand me! Let me go!"

He shrieked, struggling against his restraints.

A commotion erupted at the cathedral doorway as a swarm of journalists wielding heavy cameras tried to breach the entrance.

"No pictures allowed!"

The staff fought back against them, shoving back the relentless wave of onlookers.

Everything had devolved into utter chaos. Those who had endured the journey from Drakensmar sat there, stunned speechless.

Marilyn felt her shame build, but there was nothing she could do.

Eventually, Lugh was attended to by the members of the church, and his soaked uniform was replaced with an elegant white and red tailored robe.

As this wasn’t the army, they at least had something in his size.

...

A pure white carriage emblazoned with the Von Heim crest rolled through the streets, its polished silver trimmings gleaming under the afternoon sun.

The wheels, reinforced with gilded steel, barely made a sound against the cobblestone roads. Two horses—one with mottled black fur, the other glistening white like freshly fallen snow—pulled it forward with a steady grace.

Inside, the matriarch Isolde, stepmother of Lugh, rode in luxury with her eldest daughter, Selaphiel.

They had arrived at the train station, intentionally late, of course. Noblewomen did not wait, others waited for them.

To their annoyance, however, Lugh was not among those who had remained behind.

According to the information they had received, he had gone along with the others to the holy cathedral.

That was where they were headed now.

The cathedral was close, but not too close. Considering that this place was a transport hub, building a serene place of worship right beside the constant bustle of trains and merchants would have been an unwise choice.

When they arrived, they remained seated in the carriage. Outside, lingering commotion hinted that something had recently transpired.

Instead of stepping out, one of the guards was sent to retrieve Lugh, who would not be riding with them but in a separate, less opulent carriage.

Some time passed before the man returned, scratching his head. He spoke hesitantly.

"The young lo—Lugh isn’t there."

Ignoring the slip of the tongue, Isolde raised an eyebrow.

"He isn’t there?"

The man nodded hastily.

She turned to her daughter.

"Selaphiel, go have a look."

"Yes, Mother."

Dressed in an exquisite gown of dark blue velvet embroidered with silver thread, she stepped out of the carriage.

The dress, refined but not flamboyant, clung to her figure in all the right ways, accentuating her nobility without veering into extravagance.

She moved with effortless grace as she entered the cathedral, her sharp gaze immediately taking in the signs of disturbance. The lingering scent of burnt wood, a fractured candlestick, traces of an accident.

She spoke with authority.

"Where is the head priest?"

The ushers stiffened at her bearing and attire. One of them hesitantly replied

"The priest is... indisposed at the moment."

"Then who am I to speak to?"

"That would be me."

Sister Marilyn emerged with a composed smile.

Selaphiel cast an assessing glance, her gaze lingering on Marilyn’s golden hair before speaking.

"I’m looking for a boy. Light blonde, red eyes."

Marilyn’s mind immediately darted to the young man who had left such a strong impression on her.

She was about to respond, but Selaphiel continued.

"Small, scrawny, mostly quiet. He was among the survivors of Drakensmar who arrived at this cathedral."

Now Marilyn wasn’t sure.

Small and scrawny wasn’t how she would describe the person of ethereal beauty she had seen.

Quiet? He had been the only one who spoke throughout the sermons.

Yes, his eyes were red, but they were a different kind of red, pupils like rubies, sclera stained black, an unnatural mutation that sent shivers down the spine of those who met his gaze.

She asked cautiously

"Around how old is the person you’re looking for?"

"Er... 14? Maybe 15."

Selaphiel answered uncertainly.

’That seems about right,’

Marilyn thought.

She spoke carefully.

"I’m not sure if I’ve met the person you’re talking about. However, there is someone who matches about half of those descriptions."

"Oh? And where is he now?"

Selaphiel asked patiently.

"I don’t know."

"...What?"

"What I mean to say is, he left before the sermons were completed. I really don’t know where he is now."

Selaphiel exhaled slowly.

"Thank you for your help."

Then, without another word, she turned on her heel and left.

Back in the carriage, her mother asked

"Well?"

Selaphiel pursed her lips.

"He’s no longer there."

A pause.

"I think he ran away... again."

...

The bartender’s hands shook as he poured the drink. He did not know why. He did not know him, not really. But something in the air had changed the moment Lugh entered.

The lights flickered. The glass cracked. The floor groaned, though no one had moved.

"Y-Your drink, sir."

He stammered while pushing the glass forward. Despite the holy robes draped over Lugh’s frame, there was something wrong about him.

A fundamental wrongness that filled the air with a palpable dread. The bartender didn’t even attempt to confirm his age. Didn’t dare ask why a priest would be drinking in the afternoon.

Lugh took a sip. It was bitter. He forced himself to continue.

The voices of the dead were never silent. A ceaseless chorus of regrets, unfulfilled desires, and dying whispers clawed at the edges of his mind, threading through his thoughts like parasitic roots burrowing deep.

He was no longer just Lugh. He was a vessel, a graveyard of souls, their sorrow and longing woven into the very fabric of his being. They had become him, and he had become them.

Their memories flickered behind his eyes, their burdens binding him like unseen chains. But from that torment, he had carved a purpose.

He would be their hands where they had none, their voice where they had been silenced. Until the last of their wishes was fulfilled, he would walk the path they could not.

He finished the drink and stood to leave. Midway, he paused.

"I... I lack money now. I will... pay you later."

And then he was gone.

The bartender finally relaxed, exhaling in quiet relief.

...

The day passed slowly. Evening crept upon the city, casting long shadows against the cobbled streets. The search for Lugh had turned exhaustive, yet fruitless.

Isolde had long since mobilized the local police and any necessary authorities, setting them to comb through market squares, train terminals, and every conceivable place he could have wandered into.

Yet, the boy remained elusive.

They had found their way to a dimly lit bar, where the bartender, still shaken, recounted his brief encounter with Lugh.

"He was here"

The man said, his hands gripping the counter as if still holding onto something unseen.

"Didn’t stay long. Had a drink, spoke strangely... then left."

Selaphiel studied the man, her sharp eyes catching the way he hesitated, as though something lingered in his mind that he couldn’t quite put into words.

Even now, the dim lanterns above them flickered slightly, the air still holding the faintest charge of something unnatural. She did not press further.

They had their answer. He had moved on.

After a long and tiring search, their path finally led them to a quiet park nestled between the grand stonework of the city. The air was still, as if the world itself held its breath.

There, beneath the sweeping branches of an ancient tree, they found him.

Lugh sat on a weathered bench, his posture relaxed yet upright, his gaze fixed towards the heavens as though he were deciphering some cosmic truth written in the sky.

The white and red of his priestly robes contrasted starkly against the deep green of the foliage, the fabric pooling around him in elegant folds.

He was utterly still, save for the occasional rise and fall of his chest, as if he were carved from something beyond mortal hands.

The last light of the setting sun broke through the canopy, its golden rays striking his figure at just the right angle.

It illuminated the silver-gold strands of his hair, setting them ablaze like woven threads of light, casting a soft radiance upon his pale skin.

His eyes—those unsettling, otherworldly eyes, red like embers with the abyssal black of his sclera—gleamed with an eerie brilliance.

Pigeons flitted around him, drawn to his stillness yet unwilling to come too close.

The people passing through the park seemed to share their hesitation. They did not walk through the area, but rather adjusted their paths without even realizing it, giving him a wide berth.

Some glanced his way, drawn by the sheer presence of him, their eyes lingering longer than intended before quickly looking away.

Others dared not even steal a glance, as though afraid they might see something they weren’t meant to.

Selaphiel found herself stopping mid-step. She held her breath.

Beautiful.

The thought slipped into her mind unbidden, and she knew at once she was not alone in it.

Her mother, seated regally within the carriage, had gone still, her eyes locked onto the scene with an unreadable expression.

It was not beauty in the conventional sense. It was something more. A presence. A force that demanded reverence yet instilled unease.

As though he did not fully belong to this world.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Isolde exhaled, her voice barely above a murmur.

"Is that... Lugh?"

End of "Volume 1: Lugh of Drakensmar"