Gunmage-Chapter 242: The Jade palace

Solitary footsteps echoed through the gilded halls as Mike marched forward.

He had never stepped foot inside the Jade Palace before, but it was every bit as glamorous as people fantasized.

Below him lay marble of the highest quality, perhaps the finest he had ever seen. It was polished to such a radiant sheen that it reflected like a mirror.

Each step he took felt like desecrating a masterpiece, his boots sullying a canvas of pure elegance.

Art adorned every corner of the corridor, leaving even the battle-hardened mercenary momentarily speechless.

Sculptures were most common—regal figures of past monarchs, divine beasts, abstract forms too complex to categorize—but the paintings lining the walls were no less exquisite.

They captured moments of history in surreal strokes, draped in vibrant colors and masterful brushwork.

The overall design leaned heavily into Pyrellis’s trademark alabaster palette—walls, ceilings, floors, even the furniture carried hues of soft white.

Yet surrounded by so much brilliance, Mike’s heart was clouded by darkness. A quiet storm of emotions swirled within his chest.

As he walked, his mind sharpened. He ran through a mental list of recent clients. Many were prominent, influential figures—as one would expect from those hiring a top-tier mercenary unit.

But none, absolutely none, had the reach to arrange a meeting here in the Jade Palace. This had to be the work of a hidden contractor. Perhaps someone who used a noble as a proxy.

Given all he knew of the current political landscape of Ophris, and considering who might have gained from their services recently, a clear possibility emerged.

It had to be one of the princes.

Which one, exactly, he couldn’t tell. But that was what he was here to find out.

The silent messenger who had guided him to the palace hadn’t followed. Instead, he’d merely pointed Mike down a long corridor and disappeared.

Along the way, Mike noticed something unsettling: the complete absence of life. No butlers. No maids. None of the usual staff one would expect in a place of such prestige. It was eerie.

He couldn’t decide if this was intentional staging—an attempt to unnerve him—or if this was how the palace normally operated.

A performance, perhaps. Or maybe even a test.

Eventually, after what felt like a long, ceremonial walk, Mike stopped before a wooden door.

Though plain in material, white-painted symbols had been etched carefully into its surface. He knocked once. There was no reply.

Moments later, the door creaked open on its own, slowly swinging inward.

Mike stepped in. Behind him, the door creaked again—shutting firmly. He turned instinctively and finally saw another human. A servant. The first one since he’d entered this place.

The man didn’t speak. He merely bowed slightly and moved with practiced grace, retreating backwards into his original position.

Spine straight, hands clasped, face blank—he became just another piece of decor, another statue of flesh.

Mike shifted his gaze to the room.

It was vast and quiet, sunlight pouring in through wide, open windows, illuminating the white marble with a heavenly glow.

The scent of jasmine and old incense drifted lightly through the air, hinting at both peace and tension.

At the far end of the room, a figure sat cross-legged atop a raised cushion. His robe shimmered faintly, threaded with white and lined with elegant patterns of gold.

His posture was perfectly upright. His eyes fixed unblinking on Mike.

Mike walked forward—one step, two steps, measured and unhurried. Just as he reached the center of the hall, the man’s hand rose, palm outward.

Mike halted immediately.

Now close enough to observe him clearly, Mike studied the figure. An aged man. Grey hair cropped short, skin etched with wrinkles like folded parchment.

Yet his eyes were piercing, razor-sharp with intelligence and authority. His movements, though slow, were fluid—each action exuding calm control.

Recognition dawned. fгeewёbnoѵel_cσm

Mike’s eyes widened slightly.

The man didn’t smile. His expression remained cold, composed.

He spoke, his voice powerful and commanding—unexpectedly strong for someone of such a frail build.

"Do you know who I am?"

Mike inhaled once, then replied.

"Of course... Your Majesty."

"And yet you do not bow."

A moment of silence passed. Mike stiffened, only now realizing his oversight. He lowered his head, beginning to bend into a bow when the voice halted him again.

"Stop."

It wasn’t a shout, but it hit with the weight of authority. Mike froze instantly.

"It doesn’t matter,"

The man said.

"I already know how your kind is."

"My kind?"

Mike echoed the words in his head, eyes narrowing faintly.

He straightened, the tension in his posture returning. Their eyes met squarely in the silence that followed.

Mike spoke again, voice low but clear.

"Why have you summoned me?"

The man waited a breath, then replied.

"You’re a threat. One I need to eliminate. It doesn’t get simpler than that."

Mike scoffed.

"Oh? And why would the King of Ophris personally come to eliminate... a threat?"

"Call it a whim."

Mike flexed his fingers, the gesture subtle—until his nails extended suddenly, claws clicking into place.

"Can you?"

He’d already assessed the situation. If they needed him alive for some purpose, they wouldn’t have sent the king himself.

This wasn’t a warning, nor was it a negotiation. It was theatre.

Such arrogance would cost them.

In response to his growing hostility, the king didn’t move. He merely tilted his head slightly.

From behind pillars and statues, from shadows and unseen corners of the room, figures emerged.

Silent and coordinated.

They hadn’t made a sound. Mike hadn’t smelled them. That fact disturbed him more than their presence.

He growled.

"It won’t end with just me."

"Oh, I’m quite aware,"

The king replied calmly.

"No. 12 Saint Rue Street, Eastern District. The abandoned warehouse at Terassora Docks."

The names hit like bullets.

"There are many more,"

The king added.

"But those are the most likely places they’ll hole up in."

Mike’s eyes widened.

His mind flashed to his teammates.

And in the very next second, without hesitation, he launched forward—inhuman speed cracking through the air, claws drawn, aimed straight at the king’s throat.

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