Gunmage
Chapter 99: Inquisition

Chapter 99: Chapter 99: Inquisition

Lugh stepped forward and raised his hand. Time itself seemed to slow, but then—

Under the weeping sky, several incandescent orbs bloomed into existence, like stars igniting in the blackness. But these were no gentle lights. They grew, expanding steadily and ominously.

Lugh frowned.

Impact.

The first fireball tore through the air with a shriek and slammed into the earth ahead, vaporizing stone and soil in an instant.

A shockwave rippled outward, blowing rain and debris in every direction. Then came the rest. Tens of them, sleek and merciless. They rained down from the heavens like the wrath of gods.

The thunderous detonations shook the ground beneath their feet. Walls buckled and crumbled under the barrage.

Each explosion lit the night with blinding fury, forcing even seasoned fighters to squint as the rain reflected the fires blazing whites and hellish reds.

The downpour still fell, but it was no match for the flames, not at first. Tongues of fire rose upward before the rain drowned them, hissing and sputtering into thick steam.

In the aftermath, through the curtain of smoke and drifting ash, emerged twelve figures in black robes streaked with blood-red designs.

Isolde’s eyes widened

"Oh no"

She muttered.

The Church’s Inquisition. The Flame-Bearers.

The three groups faced one another in a volatile standoff, tension crackling in the air like the lightning overhead. Then a voice cut through the rain. It was gruff and authoritative.

"Are you responsible for this?"

Gunfire cracked in the distance. Screams. Bone snapping. Flesh tearing. The chaos played over and over again.

He addressed the mysterious ambushers. They offered no reply, only silence, before drawing weapons, summoning spells... and turning to flee.

"Get them"

The inquisitor ordered.

"Yes"

The response was unified and emotionless.

The black-robed hunters gave chase with surgical precision, their movements sharp and controlled, like dancers in a ritual of war.

Isolde did not move. Her soaked gown clung uncomfortably to her limbs. She did not trust the Church, far from it.

The Flame-Bearers were known for extinguishing more than just threats. With the right justification, she could be next.

She opened her mouth to speak, but the ground shook once more.

The air exploded in arcs of flame. A fleeing mage screamed as his body turned to charred bone.

A woman raised her arms and bent the metal from a nearby barricade, fashioning it into a barrage of spears. But a wall of sacred fire incinerated them mid-flight, swallowing her.

Another tried to call upon a storm, wind howling to his side, only for a crimson-robed inquisitor to appear behind him, dragging a burning brand through the air.

The wind collapsed. The mage fell, throat scorched and spell broken.

Still another placed their hands on the ground, transmuting cobblestone into jagged glass, but as soon as the shards erupted upward, they melted into molten slag, crawling back into the earth like rejected alchemy.

Spirits were summoned, ethereal, ghostly guardians, but they too withered beneath holy fire, purified the moment they took form.

Even the elemental fury of fire itself was consumed, cleansed by a purer, hungrier flame.

The Church had no tactics. No formation. No retreat.

They simply burned.

The ambushers realized too late that their retreat had been predicted. The Church had stationed their forces in a wide perimeter from the very beginning.

The circle now closing like a tightening noose.

Step by step, the mysterious attackers were herded, pushed and forced into the center.

But the Inquisition was not their only threat.

Isolde felt her own anxiety spike. She and her battered survivors were trapped as well, the church closing in around them.

Their indifferent judgment might not discriminate.

She looked down at her rain-soaked gown, cursing its weight. Without hesitation, she picked up a fallen soldier’s sword and cut away the excess fabric.

Her high-heeled shoes, heavy with mud and utterly useless, were kicked aside. Her bare feet sank into cold puddles, the chill biting.

A low wind howled through the alley, stinging her soaked skin. She shivered.

Escape was still possible, for her. Her magic specialized in it. The real problem was Lugh.

He wasn’t a fighter. He didn’t understand magic.

Whatever had happened in Drakensmar had changed him, yes, but it wouldn’t matter in a battle of this scale.

She couldn’t leave him behind.

Suddenly, the tide of battle shifted again.

Cornered and desperate, the mysterious mages shed their caution.

A woman tore open the ground with violent vines of blackened roots. Another summoned a sphere of mirrored glass, reflecting spells back at their casters.

One man split into three, flickering across the battlefield with blades in hand.

It was a harrowing, last-ditch spectacle, fighting with the strength of those who know they will die.

Just then, the rain stopped.

Not gradually. Not with the parting of clouds. The droplets simply froze, suspended midair like tiny glistening crystals. Silence followed. Not even the wind dared to move.

Through the haze and flickering flames, two figures appeared. Standing tall beneath the brooding sky, their white uniforms clean and pristine, untouched by grime or ash.

Lugh narrowed his eyes.

Isolde exhaled sharply. Relief mixed with dread.

The Royal Guards.

The battlefield lay in ruin. Bodies littered the streets. The last of the ambushers still stood, but only barely. Their limbs trembled. Their magic flickered.

A voice descended from above, soft and melodious, like a stream carving its way through stone.

"Your work is done. We need them alive for interrogation. Retreat."

It was a command directed at the Inquisition. A voice of reason.

But the Church were never known to be reasonable.

"I’m afraid we can’t do that"

The gruff man replied. His comrades remained still, like statues, silent even in the midst of battle. One would believe they were incapable of speech if they hadn’t heard them spell casting.

"What do you mean?"

The voice asked again, sharper this time.

"These people have committed a grave sin"

The inquisitor answered.

"They’ve plunged the city into chaos. Taken innocent lives. For that, they must be purged."

He didn’t stutter. His tone did not waver. His words were mechanical and perfect.

"I understand your concerns"

Came the reply, softer now but firm.

"They will be judged. But not before we extract the truth."

"Oh? And how can we trust that they’ll truly be punished?"

A pause.

"What are you trying to say?"

"I’m saying... I don’t trust you."

There was silence again.

Thick and suffocating.

Only the distant riot offered any sound.

The two factions stared each other down.

Lightning flashed across the sky, briefly illuminating the corpses, the blood-slick streets, and the frozen raindrops caught in midair.

It was the calm before another storm.