Gunmage-Chapter 12: For Glory! For Heieg

At the rear of the ship, Lugh and his two unlikely comrades crouched behind a makeshift wooden platform. Tens of meters ahead, at the engine room entrance, every single one of those abominations wielded a bolt-action rifle with chilling discipline.

The situation had shifted dramatically. Their initial plan—a forceful push with superior firepower, perhaps even a chance to eliminate them all—was now complicated by the fact that the creatures were armed.

"So what if they have guns?"

The brown-haired man began, his voice low but edged with confidence.

"Wielding a gun and knowing how to properly use it are two very different things."

He pulled out a grenade and exchanged a look with Captain Veyland.

"This will be the signal. Once this thing blows, we flank them."

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He glanced at Lugh.

"Kid, you stay here and provide cover fire. No need to be precise, just shoot in their general direction."

Lugh gave a shallow nod. If their plan failed, he would still be here.

The man used considerable strength to hurl the grenade at the cluster of inhuman soldiers.

It wasn't even halfway there when a gunshot cracked through the air—precise, mechanical. A bullet struck the grenade mid-flight.

The explosion tore through the space between them, fiery shrapnel dissipating harmlessly before it could reach the enemy.

"HOLY F***!!"

Veyland's partner exclaimed, his previous determination now twisted into shock. A tense silence followed before he spoke again, quieter this time.

"Veyland, what are your chances of making that shot?"

"Twelve percent," the captain answered, his normally detached expression marred by a slight scowl.

"Yeah... We're leaving."

They started retracing their steps. The transformed soldiers, for whatever reason, did not pursue.

"Any other ideas?" the brown-haired man muttered as they moved, eyes flicking to the whirlpool's growing pull.

They were still on the fringes for now, but the ship wouldn't stay afloat much longer.

Veyland tilted his head slightly. "Perhaps we can make a shield of corpses."

His voice remained utterly flat, as if discussing supplies rather than human remains.

Lugh turned his gaze toward the surrounding waters. The fleet's formation had shattered. Most battleships had already broken free, but others, like theirs, were still trapped.

His gray eyes traced the nearest drifting vessel. Then, he asked the most logical question.

"Why don't we just board another ship?"

The brown-haired spy stared at him. Veyland blinked.

Then—

"That's a brilliant idea!" the spy exclaimed.

They would need grappling hooks, a spyglass, and whatever else could ensure success. Time was limited.

The trio moved quickly through the desolate ship, always together, never straying too far from each other.

The ship creaked and groaned under the strain of the whirlpool's relentless pressure, but the three of them—Lugh, Veyland, and the brown-haired spy—pressed on, gathering whatever they needed for the desperate plan ahead.

The brown-haired man spoke first, his voice low, wary.

"This doesn't make any damn sense."

Veyland, who had been peering through a spyglass, lowered it slightly.

"Elaborate."

The spy gestured vaguely at their surroundings.

"Everyone who was here, everyone on this ship... they're either dead or—"

his voice caught for a second, but he forced himself to continue,

"—or turned into those things. So, why are we still here? Still thinking? Still us?"

Veyland didn't answer immediately. Instead, he adjusted his grip on the spyglass, focusing on the nearest ship.

"Process of elimination perhaps? Or maybe—"

The answer hung in the air between them.

Lugh, standing slightly apart from the other two, glanced at them from beneath his dark lashes.

"...You think it's me."

The spy exhaled sharply.

"I know it's you! Are you perhaps, the bastard child of some legendary magician, imbued with divine resistance?"

Lugh dismissed the idea outright.

"Both my parents were human."

His voice held no hesitation. Only absolute certainty.

And as they all knew—humans could not use magic. That was common sense.

The brown-haired man let out a humorless chuckle.

"Figures. No offense kid, but you don't exactly look like some divine miracle."

Lugh met his eyes, face unreadable.

"That's because I'm not."

The spy raised an eyebrow.

"Oh? Then what are you?"

Lugh's answer came without hesitation.

"Human."

A pause. Then—

"...Right." The man rubbed at his temples.

"Sure. A completely normal human who just so happens to be catnip for monsters. Yeah. That makes perfect sense."

Veyland finally looked away from the spyglass, turning his cold gray eyes on Lugh.

"If that is really the case, then separation could possibly mean death."

The words weren't dramatic, weren't coated in desperation or fear. They were simply fact.

Lugh blinked slowly, unreadable.

"Why?"

Veyland was already stepping past him, checking supplies, movements measured.

"If you're the reason we haven't turned, then that means your presence is keeping something at bay. Distance ourselves too much, and we risk crossing a threshold we can't return from."

They could still feel the unfathomable gaze of the being above, pressing down on them all this while. Through the ever-changing trials and scenarios, it was the only constant.

The spy crossed his arms. "And if that happens? Best case, we get a few minutes before losing our minds completely. Worst case? It's instant."

The silence was thicker this time.

Lugh let out a quiet breath, eyes flicking toward the red, swirling waters beyond the deck.

"That's... inconvenient."

The spy let out a strangled laugh, half-disbelieving.

"Inconvenient? That's what you're calling it?"

Lugh tilted his head slightly, regarding him with that same eerie detachment.

"Am I incorrect?"

The man opened his mouth, then shut it, exasperated.

Veyland ignored the exchange entirely. His gaze was back on the spyglass, scanning, calculating.

A ship drifted idly in the current. No one was at the helm. Veyland scanned the deck. Empty. No bodies. Just uniforms scattered across the wood, as though the crew had simply vanished, leaving only their clothing behind.

The other alternative wasn't much better. On that ship, over a hundred soldiers stood in a perfect formation, their lifeless eyes staring directly at him.

The Captain let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair. He gave a half-smirk, but there was no real humor behind it.

"Hope you don't mind being our lucky charm, kid."

Lugh glanced at him, then back at the horizon.

"... I don't believe in luck"

The plan was set.

One person would steer their ship closer while the other two boarded. The pilot was, of course, doomed. They all knew it. Accepted it.

The brown-haired spy exhaled before volunteering. "I'll steer the ship."

They said nothing. A pointless argument would only waste time.

The ship began drifting closer to its target.

Almost there,

Closer,

Then—

"Go!" the spy yelled.

Lugh and Veyland sprinted to the edge of the ship in record time. The captain, despite his calm detachment, moved with terrifying efficiency. His grapple hooked onto the railings in one swift motion.

Seeing this, Veyland's partner immediately abandoned the steering wheel and started a mad dash to where Lugh and the captain were.

They had accomplished their objective, and he still hadn't felt any changes, he could still make it, there was still time.

BANG!

The spy staggered forward. He looked down. A dark red stain was spreading across his torso. Behind him was the sound of shuffling feet, the inhuman soldiers were coming.

He exhaled sharply, glancing at Lugh and Veyland. Only 10 meters between them—so close, yet impossibly far.

With a sad smile, he spoke

"Sorry guys, but this is where I tap out."

Turning around, he raised his sidearm and began firing, dragging down as many as he could.

Behind him, Lugh and Veyland had already swung onto the other ship.

Gunfire rang through the night.

Then—

"For Glory!" the spy roared, voice defiant.

From the other vessel, Veyland's voice carried through the darkness.

"For Heieg."

The brown-haired spy exhaled. His body, riddled with wounds, refused to hold. He slumped forward.

Unmoving.

Unbreathing.