Gunmage-Chapter 247: A loaded gun

"Then one of us would die."

The method of delivery was haunting. The words were so cold, so unflinchingly direct, that Wittman involuntarily took a step back.

A full step. In an open confrontation like this, especially one being watched by so many eyes, that was a point lost. And he knew it.

The Prince’s face twitched as he realized what he’d done, his composure momentarily cracked.

He steadied himself, forcing his feet into stillness. His spine straightened. He doubled down, clinging to pride, trying to drag his confidence back by force of will alone.

His voice returned, steadier now—measured and regal.

He spoke.

"Can you kill a prince, though?"

Lugh’s response was immediate.

"Do you want to find out?"

Another step back. Another point lost.

Still, there was no release of aura. No flare of obvious power. Yet the Prince felt it.

Intimidation—pure and undeniable. It seeped through the air like pressure before a storm. A chilling thought crossed his mind.

What if it really is him?

They had been told only to confirm his identity. Confirm. That implied there was a chance the person before him could genuinely be Lugh Von Heim. The real one. The dangerous one. The one they whispered about in briefings.

He tried to shake it off, digging deeper into bluster.

"You’re bluffing,"

The Prince said, pushing forward with his voice, though his body remained rooted.

Lugh didn’t reply. He simply stood there, silent—still—his eyes cold and unfathomable. That quiet unnerved more than any threat.

The Prince tried again, voice firmer.

"How would you explain an untimely demise?"

This time, Lugh shrugged.

"Well... accidents happen."

It was that last part—accidents—that dug under the Prince’s skin. There was something sinister in the tone.

Wittman replayed the word in his mind, hearing it over and over. He kept himself from gulping by sheer effort. His jaw clenched.

He already knew the truth. He was a Prince, yes—but one of many. A piece on a board filled with other heirs, other options. Lugh, however, was the only male heir of the Von Heim family.

Their weight was not the same. The scales tilted in Lugh’s favor, and both of them knew it.

He took another step back, this one without fear or shock. It was calculated. Voluntary.

"Alright then,"

He said with forced levity,

"I believe a tactical retreat is in order."

Lugh watched him in silence for a long, frozen moment. Then, with equal grace and indifference, he turned to walk away.

But what kind of arrogant person would he be if he didn’t have the last word?

His voice cut through the air—crisp, cold, and final.

"Do not confuse retreat for cowardice, dear Prince."

Wittman’s face immediately turned ugly. Red. Flushed with rage. The words hit a sour, sensitive place within him, cracking the carefully molded mask of nobility. Pulverizing it to dust.

He didn’t have the chance to respond, however. Because in the next moment, a new voice rang out across the hall.

"For your grave and continuous insult to the Prince of Ophris, Lugh Von Heim, I challenge you to a duel! I have no problem with one of us dying. I am no coward!"

The crowd rippled again. Another noble youth stepped forward—male, sharp-featured, younger than the Prince, likely not even twenty.

His expression radiated righteous indignation, a fury so refined it bordered on theatrical. He seemed furious at Lugh’s disrespect.

But that was the point. He seemed.

Lugh already knew what this was. Another probe. Another act. This one braver than Wittman Valter, yes—but still a pawn.

The Mawglass didn’t just reveal lies in words; it shattered deception and illusions. Magical or mundane, it didn’t matter.

This one had been sent to provoke him.

Lugh turned to the new challenger with glacial calm.

"Who are you?"

The man blinked. Thrown off momentarily.

He collected himself quickly, remembering the briefing—how Lugh Von Heim was said to be a strange boy, poorly socialized, a noble who did not understand the court’s customs or hierarchy.

He raised his voice.

"My name is—"

Lugh cut in, uninterested.

"Are you a member of the Royal Family?"

"No."

"House D’Aramitz?" freewёbn૦νeɭ.com

"No."

"The Mornveils?"

The youth shook his head, growing uneasy.

"House Cross?"

Another shake.

He was getting confused now.

Lugh sighed. Then, flatly:

"Are you a member of any of the major noble houses?"

The young man puffed his chest.

"I come from House Varcus. We—"

"Never heard of it."

Lugh didn’t let him finish.

"And since I haven’t heard of it, it means you aren’t worth knowing."

His voice had no cruelty—just certainty.

"You might as well be a peasant for all I care."

Gasps spread through the crowd like sparks catching dry grass.

"P–peasant?!"

The young man flared with outrage, but Lugh’s voice returned—different now. No longer distant or cold. It had force. Command. It dragged attention toward it like gravity.

"Where does an unimportant, insignificant wretch like you, from a backwater family, get the nerve to challenge me?"

The youth stared at him wide-eyed.

"H–how dare you—"

"How dare I?"

Lugh stepped forward, his voice ice cold.

"How dare you?"

His approach was slow. Deliberate. Magic began to leak into the air, subtle and fine like mist—but undeniable. There was no visible aura, no threatening flash of color or power. But the effect was real.

People moved.

They stepped away from him, even before they realized they were doing it. The memory of what Lugh had done to the beastkin still lingered in their collective mind—whether seen firsthand or heard whispered.

The echo of violence clung to him like a shadow.

A loaded gun is more dangerous when it isn’t fired.

Right now, Lugh was the gun.

And no one wanted to find out if he was loaded.

Still he advanced, and now his rage—initially feigned—was hardening. Becoming real.

"House Varcus,"

He spat with disdain.

"The only thing of quality from that family was a lieutenant by the name of Dain Varcus."

The challenger froze. Visibly. His eyes widened.

"A fine man,"

Lugh continued,

"Unrecognized by the short-sighted people he called family."

The air thickened.

His tone grew more threatening. The pressure of his presence, once implied, now began to weigh.

Above them all, on a balcony overlooking the hall, three elves watched in silence.

Jahira frowned.

"He’s about to kill someone. We should stop him."

"Wait,"

Selaphiel held her back, her golden eyes glinting with curiosity.

"He hasn’t passed the threshold yet."

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