Gunmage
Chapter 98: Ambush

Chapter 98: Chapter 98: Ambush

Each movement carried weight. He stopped a few paces from her, looming like a silent verdict.

His voice, when he spoke again, was heavy with restrained fury.

"What have they done?"

The moment he said they, Gloria knew. The magicians. Her expression twisted.

Her pupils narrowed, her dainty frame trembling as a dense bloodlust radiated outward. Though it vanished in a breath, it was too late.

Every robed figure in the cathedral had already turned their eyes on her.

Even Draque’sill was no exception. His eyes gleamed, something primal sharpening their edge.

"Do you want power?"

It was a whisper soaked in temptation, like a devil making offerings in the house of God.

Gloria hesitated only for a moment before nodding.

"Yes!"

Draque’sill opened his mouth to speak again, but froze mid-syllable. His head turned slightly, nostrils flaring, eyes narrowing.

None around him understood. Then, the distant echoes of panic reached them.

Thousands of voices. Screaming. Clashing. Chanting.

Outside, in the heart of the capital, chaos unfurled.

A riot had begun, not with slogans or organized marches, but with steel. Dockworkers armed with spears and salvaged blades stormed the gates.

A man rammed into a guardsman screaming

"TAX CUTS FOR DOCK WORKERS!"

Another hurled a bottle aflame

"LEGALISE BROTHELS!"

A third, with blood on his lips, bellowed

"AFFORDABLE HOUSING IN THE HIGHRISE!"

None of the rioters shared a cause. Their demands contradicted. Their reasoning were fragmented and erratic.

Yet they moved with fevered unity, like dreamers fighting for what they believed was truth. Each swing of their weapons more passionate than the last.

The guards responded with discipline. Or tried to.

The first shot came from a panicked recruit. The bullet tore through a man’s thigh, spinning him to the mud. Others followed suit, aiming to disable, not kill.

But fear makes poor marksmen.

A bullet pierced a chest. A woman dropped dead.

That was the signal.

What followed was no longer a riot. It was slaughter.

Civilians surged in madness ripping apart those in their way, and the guards, abandoning restraint, met them with steel and fire. Screams melted into the rain.

Back in the cathedral, Draque’sill’s voice broke through again. Deeper now.

"What... have they done?"

With a subtle nod, the black-robed figures moved. Swift and silent. Leaving the cathedral like shadows cast by dying light.

...

The Von Heim guards reacted like a single organism. Swords were drawn. A tight circle formed. Their boots dug into wet cobblestone.

But before they could act, a sound unlike any other roared overhead. A chanted phrase, deep and unfamiliar, echoed from the attackers.

Then, a shriek of flame tore across the sky.

The fireball hit Isolde’s carriage with the wrath of a vengeful god.

A blooming explosion swallowed it whole, searing the air. Splinters and debris rained around them as heat scorched through the rainfall.

But when the smoke thinned, only a blackened husk remained, no bodies. No blood.

Isolde had switched carriages minutes before, a gut instinct she no longer questioned. She emerged from an alley, Lugh at her side.

Her thoughts reeled.

A fireball?

The Church...?

No. It didn’t make sense. The Church had nothing to gain. And to leave behind traces this obvious?

It had to be a setup.

She barely finished the thought when the sky fell.

Attackers descended in organized chaos, blades gleaming, faces obscured, all aiming for a swift, brutal victory.

"Lugh, behind me!"

Isolde barked, pulling out a leather-bound tome

She whispered ancient syllables. Wind burst outward like a beast awakened, hurling the attackers back with violent force. Mud and stone kicked into the air. Rain twisted mid-fall.

Her shadows struck.

Like ghosts rising from woodwork, they slithered from hidden recesses. Silent and surgical. Throats opened in ribbons as their blades flashed, and they vanished again just as fast.

Still, the battlefield was chaos. And her loyal guards—those not gifted in subtlety—faced death.

One guard turned just in time to see a stream of flame erupt from a palm. He screamed once before being engulfed, the fire dancing like hungry serpents over his armor.

Another raised his sword to parry, only for it to shatter on impact. The fragments swerved through the air, shards embedding in his chest.

He collapsed, choking on blood and disbelief.

Water from the rain slicked the stones, until one opponent snapped his fingers and turned it to jagged ice, impaling a guard mid-step. Others created bursts of steam that blinded and disoriented.

A Von Heim knight screamed as scalding vapor melted through plate.

Every school of magic was present. But subtly used. Hints of secret techniques. Adapted, tactical and purposeful.

It was not just an ambush. It was a massacre.

Isolde’s gaze flicked to her remaining forces, nearly all were down.

The rest fought like cornered lions, but they were no match for this level of preparation.

The flames of the church, metal of house D’aramitz, transmutation of the Mornveil’s, even the spirit of the cross family.

Ancient arts, passed down in bloodlines. Each one a closely guarded secret.

How did they get them?

It didn’t matter. The message was clear. Whoever orchestrated this wanted her silenced. And from the myriad of abilities used, she couldn’t trace down who was responsible for the ambush.

Her final guards fell. The attackers turned to her, moving with eerie synchronization.

She was soaked in cold water. But the chill she felt was deeper.

Only her shadows remained now, forever disguised as common servants. Top class assassins, but weak in direct combat.

She snapped her fingers.

A woman appeared beside her in an instant.

"Yes, my lady?"

Even now, her voice held no tremor or fear. It was as emotionless as it had always been.

"Take Lugh and run, all of you. Protect him. At all costs."

The woman hesitated. A flicker of something passed across her stoic face.

"What about you, Madame?"

"I’ll stay. It’s me they want."

"Madame, please—"

"Don’t make me repeat myself."

Her tone was like iron.

"Against this sort of threat, your sacrifice will change nothing."

The woman bit her lip. Then nodded.

She turned to Lugh.

"Let’s go, young lord."

Her thoughts raced.

The poor kid was probably seeing magic for the first time, only for this to happen.

Lugh glanced at her curiously. The rain soaked his hair and clothes, making the veil stick uncomfortably to his face.

Come to think of it, it had also been raining like this when he was first put under an illusion.

Lugh was sure this wasn’t an illusion though, the mawglass was still perfectly functional, the spells their attackers used were all real.

He exhaled sharply, ignoring the unknown lady completely, he stepped forward.

The Ring of Nyx glimmering ominously on his finger.

It didn’t matter if they were real or not, in the face of overwhelming power, all would crumble.

He raised his hand...