Gunmage-Chapter 210: A head for a house

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Chapter 210: Chapter 210: A head for a house

Lance walked in unceremoniously, exuding arrogance with every step. His arrival did not come with pleasantries—no greetings, no acknowledgments.

He simply strode forward with singular purpose, eyes fixed on the trolley Isolde had wheeled into the room.

Without so much as a moment’s hesitation, he reached it and yanked away the dark black tarp covering the silver device beneath.

A collective gasp surged through the room.

Some guests raised their hands to cover their noses, others looked visibly nauseated, and a few narrowed their eyes, not in horror, but in cold calculation.

Regardless of their individual reactions, every gaze remained locked on the grotesque object now unveiled.

A detached human head.

It wasn’t as if this was something utterly foreign to them. These were nobles—Von Heim nobles, no less.

They had all, in one form or another, been acquainted with violence. Yet this was different. It wasn’t just the brutality—it was the message. It was the setting.

But not everyone reacted with noble detachment.

One woman’s knees buckled slightly as she swayed, barely keeping herself upright. Her teeth chattered and her arms trembled uncontrollably.

"No... no. This can’t be real,"

She muttered, voice cracking under the weight of fear.

"How could this be?"

The words tumbled from her lips in the form of half-mumbled questions, incoherent to everyone but herself.

Isolde and Lance exchanged a glance. They had noticed her instantly.

Lance turned to the crowd, addressing them in a cold, clear voice.

"This person,"

He began, gesturing to the trembling woman,

"was a servant to someone in this room. Would the master kindly reveal himself or herself?"

He added the last part with intentional care. It wouldn’t do to make false accusations, and he had no interest in convicting the wrong person.

He was giving them a chance—a civil gesture. If no one claimed responsibility, well... his next methods wouldn’t be nearly so diplomatic.

The woman raised her trembling hand.

"That’s James,"

She said quietly.

"He’s my servant."

"Oh?"

Lance’s gaze sharpened as he studied her.

"Did you know,"

He continued, voice clipped and deliberate,

"that James was an assassin? Sent to eliminate a very important figure within this manor?"

A ripple of murmurs surged through the assembled crowd.

Some shifted uncomfortably; others exchanged glances laced with suspicion. The woman—Marquess Julian—looked around in mounting terror, realization slowly dawning upon her.

She cleared her throat, swallowing hard.

"I didn’t know anything of the sort. The James I knew... he was kind. Gentle. He wouldn’t hurt a fly."

Her voice was soft, delicate even. But it hardened the moment her eyes flicked toward the severed head. Her indignation, which had initially surged with righteous fury, was now eclipsed by fear.

"Oh,"

Lance echoed, unimpressed.

"He was gentle, you say?"

"Y-yes,"

She stammered, still struggling to maintain composure.

"And how would you know this?"

Lance pressed, tone flat.

Her eyes flickered with hesitation. Her voice faltered, but she pushed through.

"J-James was..."

She paused, searching for words that wouldn’t damn her, then finally admitted,

"James was my lover."

A hush swept the room, followed by a few scattered gasps—some from those who were genuinely surprised, others from those who had simply pretended not to know.

Isolde observed the marquess closely, her expression unreadable. It appeared the woman had chosen survival over discretion. A bold move—but strategic.

Better to confess everything now than have it exposed later through investigation, where it would cast an even darker suspicion.

Lance, undeterred, continued.

"And how long have you known this... person?"

"About two years,"

She answered quickly.

"He was a personal guard assigned to me by the third branch family."

The statement landed like a stone in the hall.

Though her tone remained deferential, her words pointed unmistakably in one direction.

All eyes turned toward Lord Emeric—the Grand Duke, the man who held the title of branch leader, yet was just another piece in the Von Heim puzzle.

Emeric stepped forward, his face impassive.

"I have no idea why James would do something like this,"

He said smoothly.

"His background was thoroughly vetted, just like every other operative before and after him. Still, it is our responsibility to take accountability for the actions of those we deploy."

He gave a slight bow.

It was a flawless display of decorum. Polished. Measured. Beyond reproach.

But Isolde’s eyes narrowed.

She didn’t believe him.

She didn’t believe most of her in-laws, truth be told—but Emeric was in a league of his own. He was, after all, her prime suspect in her own attempted assassination.

The collapsing buildings, the ambush on the streets, the so-called ’scramble for manpower’ that conveniently allowed killers to infiltrate her household under the guise of servants.

The third branch handled staffing.

And as its head, Emeric would’ve known everything.

Lance seemed to understand this too. Without another word, he pulled the tarp back over the severed head.

"I don’t care for your petty squabbles or human conflicts,"

He said flatly.

"All I want you to know is one thing: confirmed directly by Lady Selaphiel herself, the next leader of the Von Heim family has already been decided."

He let the words hang in the air like a blade.

"No amount of scheming or power plays will overturn this decision."

A chill swept through the room. Some nobles looked stunned. Others barely concealed their frustration.

"Right now, we have external threats to deal with,"

Lance continued.

"We cannot afford internal strife. Do you understand what I’m saying?"

There was some murmuring. A few nods—reluctant, subdued.

"Good,"

Lance said.

"But be warned: anyone caught disrupting the peace will be ruthlessly and mercilessly eliminated. Their family will be stripped of titles and cast out of the Von Heim lineage entirely."

"What?!"

Someone exclaimed.

The outburst was echoed in their collective expressions—bewilderment, disbelief, indignation.

The punishment was excessive, terrifying even. But one look at the cold, impassive face of the elf silenced any thoughts of protest.

Lance was not one to negotiate. He had not come for diplomacy.

Some among them began reevaluating their strategies. A few resolved to rally support and lodge complaints with Selaphiel upon her return. And others... remained indifferent, waiting for the next move like predators in tall grass.

Isolde exhaled silently. The most tedious part was over.

But this wasn’t the end.

There was still the matter of the never before seen toxin used by the assassin and it’s elusive origin

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