Gunmage-Chapter 245: Wittmann Valtér

"Mr. Von Heim. A pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise,"

Lugh replied, his voice calm and uninflected, eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he took in the figure before him.

The man standing a few paces away possessed the kind of appearance expected from someone born into one of the great houses.

His lush, raven-black hair was immaculately combed, falling just short of his shoulders.

His frame was tall and slender, clothed in an understated uniform that suggested pedigree without flaunting it.

His features were refined—sharp cheekbones, high brow, a mouth perpetually half-curved into a polite smile. He looked the part of nobility.

Yet, there was something amiss. Unlike the majority of bluebloods Lugh had encountered, this one spoke softly.

The tone reminded him of Major General Lovainne. Still, the similarities ended there.

Where Lovainne’s gaze burned with iron-willed determination and unshakable command, this man’s eyes gleamed with a perpetual wariness, like a gambler calculating odds at every breath.

The man, appearing to be somewhere around Lyra’s age, held out one of the drinks in his hand toward Lugh.

Lugh declined with a polite nod.

"Why not?"

The man asked with genuine curiosity.

"It’s alcohol,"

Lugh replied flatly.

The man blinked.

"Ah. I see."

Technically, Lugh was underage. But his refusal had little to do with the law.

In truth, he abstained for a simple reason: alcohol dulled judgment.

And he needed every ounce of clarity intact if he was to execute the plan he had set in motion—a plan that demanded arrogance and a hint of cultivated suspicion.

"Say, Mr. Von Heim,"

The man continued, swirling the amber liquid in his glass,

"Do you know who I am?"

"No, I do not,"

Lugh replied, tone devoid of curiosity.

The man chuckled awkwardly. Lugh, on the other hand, pressed forward with cold indifference.

"Are you relevant enough for me to know you?"

That hit its mark. The man turned his head slightly, glancing toward the nearby onlookers.

Though they seemed to be immersed in their own conversations, it was evident they were all keenly listening in.

Their eyes occasionally flicked toward Lugh, alert, watchful.

"No more relevant than the quality of the people here, I suppose,"

He replied eventually, recovering his composure. He extended a hand.

"Wittmann. Wittmann Valtér."

"Valtér?"

Lugh repeated.

And with that, the final piece clicked into place.

He suddenly understood why the surrounding nobles had maintained their distance—why none had dared interrupt their conversation.

Lugh’s eyes sharpened with recognition as he spoke.

"Ah, I see now... So you’re Major General Lovainne’s younger brother."

A subtle shift crossed Wittmann’s face. His features tensed, and his brows pulled together ever so slightly.

"Half-brother,"

He corrected tersely.

"But a brother nonetheless,"

Lugh interjected without missing a beat.

The twitch in Wittmann’s jaw betrayed his struggle to remain composed.

He could feel the provocation in Lugh’s words—a subtle but deliberate jab. And he knew better than to rise to it.

He was older. More experienced. A prince, even. He had long ago taken the theatre of politics to bed while this boy was only just now lifting the veil.

And yet...

He found himself being pulled into Lugh’s rhythm. The scornful precision. The calm cruelty. Every word was deliberate. Every glance calculated.

The rivalry within the royal family—the unspoken yet very public jockeying for the throne—was no secret.

That Lugh not only identified him as Lovainne’s half-brother, but had referred to Lovainne by his military title instead of his royal rank, was a calculated insult. Everyone present understood this.

Still, Wittmann kept his posture relaxed, lifting his glass for a slow sip.

"Rumors of your arrogance precede you,"

He said.

"And it seems they weren’t just rumors after all."

Lugh answered in kind, voice level and eyes narrowed slightly.

"Likewise. The rumors of your inconspicuousness appear to have been built on solid ground."

"Inconspicuousness?"

Wittmann echoed, his tone questioning.

"That’s right,"

Lugh replied evenly.

"Which is to say, there aren’t any rumors at all."

There was a beat of silence.

"In this setting, ’inconspicuous’ is interchangeable with ’unimportant.’"

The words hung in the air like a guillotine.

Wittmann’s expression froze, and several of the onlookers mirrored the tension that now radiated from him.

Conversations around the room quieted as subtle tension rippled through the air.

"Lugh, do you know who I am?"

Wittmann asked finally.

He had dropped all formalities now, pointedly referring to Lugh by his first name—a deliberate breach of etiquette, an unmistakable sign of disrespect.

"Mr. Valtér, do you know who I am?"

Lugh returned, voice cool and unflinching.

The reversal was pointed. In using Wittmann’s surname—and nothing else—Lugh not only acknowledged the prince’s royal bloodline, but refused him even the most basic honorific.

Not "His Highness," not "Your Grace," not even "Prince." Just Mr. Valtér. The audacity of it was staggering. The sting was worse than outright ignorance.

He’d recognized Wittmann’s station, and deliberately treated it as irrelevant.

The room’s perception of Lugh shifted once more. Words like "ruthless" and "dangerous" began rewriting their impressions of him in real time.

Suddenly Wittmann’s serious expression cracked, and he erupted into uproarious laughter.

"Well played, Mr. Von Heim. I’m impressed, really. Contrary to what you might think, this was a necessary test. And you’ve proven yourself quite nicely."

Lugh said nothing, his grey eyes fixed on Wittmann with quiet intensity.

The prince gestured toward the rest of the room.

"Now that that’s over,"

He said with renewed levity,

"Shall we? I believe introductions are in order, don’t you agree?"

Lugh inhaled slightly before answering.

"I’ll have to decline your offer."

Wittmann blinked, his expression tightening.

"Why not?"

"I’m quite cautious around those patient types,"

Lugh replied immediately.

"The ones who lower defenses only to stab you in the back."

The room bristled with tension.

Wittmann’s smile faltered.

"What are you talking about?"

The mask hadn’t slipped, but Lugh could see through it regardless. The mawglass hung obscured beneath his hairline, hidden from view, but still functional.

It allowed him to discern the veiled truths and subtle lies.

He spoke plainly.

"You know how the saying goes—’A snake may shed its skin, but its true nature remains.’"

A thick silence fell over the hall.

Even those at the edge of the room—once murmuring quietly—now instinctively held their tongues.

All eyes were on them. The duel of words had drawn the entire room in.

The prince’s eyes locked with Lugh’s. He wasn’t smiling anymore, but neither was he scowling.

He looked... analytical. As though reassessing everything he thought he knew.

"Are you calling me a snake?"

He asked.

Lugh waved him off with a lazy flick of the wrist, already turning to walk away.

"If that was the meaning you got from my words, then it might as well be."

He had taken no more than two steps before the voice came, sharp and resonant, echoing across the chamber like a declaration.

"Lugh Von Heim,"

Wittmann said loudly,

"I challenge you to a duel."

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