Gunmage-Chapter 251: My good buddy Lugh

The aura Selaphiel radiated gave even Lugh pause. Something primal stirred in the air—pressure, fury, and an ancient sharpness that made the back of his neck prickle. He had to act before she killed him. She could. She very well could.

It wasn’t an obligation—Lugh wasn’t driven by that—but the Prince had acted only under Lugh’s guided hand. This display all stemmed from Lugh’s manipulation.

Wittman was just a prop, a victim of careful orchestration. And that was all there was to it.

He couldn’t allow him to die for that. However, recent revelations were inconvenient.

The Prince might have been part of the group. The group. The strange, elusive, deadly one that had nearly killed Lugh not long ago.

In that case, leaving the Prince to Selaphiel’s wrath would be no challenge. No guilt. No weight.

But there was still a margin of error.

Wittman could have been innocent. Misguided. A puppet manipulated by someone smarter, someone more hidden.

That possibility—that uncertainty—was why Lugh now found himself striding briskly across the open floor toward the elf with murder on her face.

Selaphiel was old. And with that age came wisdom, presumably. Lugh trusted her not to be entirely rash, but he couldn’t rely on that trust.

She was... fixated. There was something obsessive in the way she watched him, followed him, assessed him. She had her own goals, her own reasons—of that, Lugh was sure. But those weren’t the only concerns.

The real issue here was pride.

Elven pride.

As much a feature as it was a flaw, the pride of elves was legendary. A defining trait. And a dangerous one. A member of her family had just been attacked right in front of her.

In elven terms, that might as well have been a blood insult. Lugh wouldn’t be surprised if she decided to kill someone just to make a point.

And she had the political weight to do so.

He reached her at last, placing a hand lightly but deliberately on her shoulder.

She turned to him at once, sharply, her cold gaze cutting through the air. Her expression showed a flicker of surprise, then it thawed.

"What is it?"

She asked, voice measured.

Lugh merely shook his head in response. freeweɓnøvel~com

Selaphiel frowned, her disapproval barely restrained.

"He tried to kill you,"

She said with disdain.

"It’s not worth the effort,"

Lugh replied, his voice calm and even.

The silence that followed stretched thin across the space, tension ringing between their words as others nearby looked on with silent curiosity.

Finally, she let out a reluctant grumble.

"Fine."

She turned to Wittman then, her face a mask of restrained rage.

"Don’t think you’ll go unpunished for this."

The Prince scoffed and turned away, his nervous entourage hustling after him like shadows too afraid to speak.

Once they were out of earshot—though that was largely irrelevant to Selaphiel—she spoke again. Her voice reached only Lugh’s ears, though her lips barely moved.

"You’ve done a great job,"

She said quietly.

"That performance was sufficiently adequate."

She gave him a sidelong glance.

"They’ll have drawn their conclusions by now. No one will likely bother you. But just in case, I’ll have Jahira watching you around the clock. The day’s still long."

"Where are you going?"

Lugh asked, his voice reaching her in the same private manner.

She gave a vague shrug.

"I’m going to... do things."

"How is that an explanation?"

"Bye now!"

She said, flashing a mysterious smile—and vanished.

Lugh exhaled, long and slow.

Then, without delay, he turned and began walking toward someone else entirely—someone who had been on his mind.

His blind cousin. Enji.

The boy, despite his blindness, turned his head in Lugh’s direction well before he was within speaking distance.

But Lugh had barely taken another step forward before he was intercepted.

Mirelle.

She stepped directly in front of him, her posture both casual and firm.

"What do you want?"

He asked, without preamble.

"Well..."

he began hesitantly,

"Some people want me to introduce you to them."

"Then decline."

He moved to walk past her.

She grabbed his wrist.

"The thing is,"

She continued,

"These people have too much influence to be ignored."

Lugh gave her a flat, unamused look.

"I just had a fight with the Prince. Trust me, no one here has too much influence to be ignored."

"You’d be surprised,"

Came a new, distinctly feminine voice from beside them.

Mirelle groaned, visibly, as two girls her age approached. Haughty. Smiling with the performative brightness common in noble gatherings.

"Mr Von Heim,"

One said,

"Actually, Lugh is easier. Wait! May I call you L?"

"You may not."

Lugh replied flatly.

"Ouch."

The other girl nudged her companion with her elbow, grinning.

"Hello gorgeous. Let’s dispense with the formalities, shall we? I’m Anna."

"And I’m Drey,"

Added the other, with an impish smile.

Lugh glanced them over once, then said without inflection:

"I’m fifteen."

"Doesn’t stop you from killing people, though."

"Anna!"

Mirelle snapped.

"What?? He can handle a joke. You can handle a joke, can’t you, Lugh?"

"I heard someone say jokes. What’s up, people?"

A new voice cut in.

Male. Confident.

"What are you doing here, Robert?"

"I can be anywhere I want to be."

He slicked back his already neat hair.

"Stop hounding me, you creep,"

Drey said, though her voice was more amused than angry.

"Hmm. What an overinflated ego you have."

Robert tsked.

"I’m here to have a man-to-man discussion with my good buddy Lugh."

"Come to think of it,"

Mirelle added with a raised brow,

"I saw you yelling at the Prince earlier. What were you gonna do? Throw a shoe at him?"

The group burst into spontaneous laughter.

"That happened one time!"

Robert defended, adjusting his suit.

"I’ll have you know, my families are masters of the flame arts."

"I thought that was the Church?"

"...W-well we’re the other masters."

"Riiight. It’s not like you’re a cheap knockoff of the original."

"We’re not a knockoff!"

"What’s going on here?"

Another male voice joined.

"I can hear your voices from like... two meters away."

A new face entered the circle, approaching Lugh directly and extending a hand.

"I’m Cassius. A pleasure to meet you."

Lugh grasped the iron-hard palm in a firm shake.

"I’m Lugh."

He hadn’t failed to notice that these people—all of them—had introduced themselves using only their first names. No grand surnames. No lineage. Just first names. Casual. Informal and friendly.

"You’re a Warrant Officer, apparently,"

Cassius said.

"I’d love to hear stories from when you were fighting on the front lines."

"Ooh, I’d like that too,"

Drey added.

More new faces joined the circle, introducing themselves just as quickly, drawn by curiosity about the quiet, pale Von Heim who’d caused such a stir.

Then the crowd parted—sliced cleanly by the presence of an old man.

He leaned heavily on a walking stick of iron.

Every step was deliberate and grounded.

When only a few meters remained between them, he stopped and stared at Lugh for a long, heavy moment.

Then he spoke.

"You’re the spitting image of your father."

This chapter is updated by freew(e)bnovel.(c)om