Gunmage-Chapter 266: Blood serpent, cross steel

Shock was an emotion the crowd believed they had grown used to. Yet none of them could help but gawk at the scene before them: a broken patriarch on his knees, and standing defiantly in front of him—his prodigious daughter, Lyra Cross.

High above, in an exclusive viewing platform draped with enchantments and private wards, Selaphiel watched with cold, narrowed eyes.

"She’s going to win,"

She said flatly.

"Wait,"

Came the calm reply from Zhou, seated beside her.

There was a third figure in the balcony—Jahira, whose mere presence acted as the smoothening balm between the two opposing elves.

"Wait?"

Selaphiel echoed, clearly puzzled.

Zhou’s gaze never left the arena floor.

"He’s the patriarch for a reason."

Down in the stands, Lirienne spoke under her breath.

"That’s a lot of blood."

Sela responded grimly,

"That’s too much blood."

The sentiment seemed to echo throughout the gathering. What had initially seemed like a noble’s injuries now appeared something much worse.

The patriarch continued to spit out blood, and it had formed into a glistening pool—one that only continued to spread.

Lord Vaire muttered to himself.

"Don’t tell me..."

Around him, other senior members of the various houses—who had been quietly cataloging the abilities of the Cross family for future leverage—now frowned, eyes widening.

"A hidden technique?"

One spectator, unable to resist the urge, quickly raised a bulky camera to capture the unfolding events. The device didn’t last long.

A maid—one of the Cross family’s own—appeared without warning, so silent that none had sensed her approach.

With a sharp glare, she brought the camera crashing down and spoke with chilling sternness:

"No photographs."

Meanwhile, the pool of blood had grown far beyond normal. It had become a pond, a grotesque, unnatural mass that defied all sense.

The blood kept pouring from the man’s mouth, far more than what any human body should be able to contain.

Then he stood.

His back straightened once more, and he turned to Lyra with a gaze full of unreadable depth.

"Did he... heal?"

Lugh muttered to himself from the stands.

Lyra, too, was skeptical. The patriarch looked significantly better than he had mere moments ago.

His skin remained pale and his wounds hadn’t fully closed, but compared to the near-death state he had been in, it was obvious—something had pulled him back from the brink.

The patriarch murmured softly under his breath:

"Roen is unusable... which only leaves... Hachi."

Lyra frowned in confusion, but she didn’t have long to contemplate. Her expression shifted to pure apprehension as the enormous pool of blood began to bubble.

It twisted and writhed, swirling together in reverse as though time itself were unraveling.

The liquid mass slowly reshaped itself—fleshless, oily, and red—until it took the form of a massive serpent of truly epic proportions.

It was not solid. It had no bones. It was liquid. Living blood.

The entire arena stared in awe and horror as the malevolent creature locked its wicked, predatory gaze onto Lyra.

Lugh could feel the distress ripple through members of the Cross family, but he still refrained from interfering, watching as the pieces played themselves out.

From the patriarch’s body, a blue wraith suddenly floated free, leaving him visibly weakened. It vanished—and was immediately replaced by another summoned spirit, which sank silently back into him.

He stilled.

Then raised his head again.

His grip shifted—the dagger now held in reverse—his body coiled low, adopting a stance more akin to that of a beastkin warrior than a human noble.

Both father and daughter locked eyes one final time.

And then—

An explosion of motion.

Man and beast charged, unrelenting, at Lyra. She met them with the forest of auburn hair, her primary weapon surging to intercept.

They clashed in the center.

The serpent dissolved into a red tide, its liquid mass soaking into and restricting her hair, while its conjurer closed the distance to fight up close.

Lyra took a one-armed stance, blocking and striking with her sword as her father met her blow for blow. Her attention split between two battlefronts—her writhing hair above, and the dueling swords below.

She called on her mana, sending it rippling through every strand, targeting the parts soaked in cursed blood.

The response was instant: an explosion of blood mist shook the chamber, and yet, the serpent reformed just as quickly, resuming its relentless assault.

The battle had become two-fold.

Her father’s skill remained unfathomably high, but now, Lyra had her sword. Its potent enchantments—Rift Edge—gave her just enough leverage to barely hold her own.

But the truth was clear: as much as she hated to admit it, she was losing ground.

Above, the serpent writhed, clashing against her defenses. Letting the beast soak into her hair was too costly—mana-wise and tactically.

She changed tactics.

Instead of letting her hair surge outward like a flood, she transformed it into massive, devastating whips.

They cracked through the air like lightning, smashing into the serpent with bone-rattling impact. The marble floor below was scored with deep grooves as the monster was bisected again and again and again.

The serpent reformed every time, slightly smaller, but still deadly.

Lyra did not relent. The whip-cracks echoed throughout the chamber like thunder, even as her body began to falter. While she fought the serpent above, she was also being overwhelmed below.

Her father adapted with each passing moment—dodging, twisting, punishing. His movements combined precise counterattacks with beastlike agility. Every strike was calculated. Every dodge, intentional.

Both combatants were now littered with injuries. Lyra’s face was bloodied, her limbs slowing. Still, she endured.

She jumped back, opening her mouth to unleash a scream—but her father was faster.

A crushing upward palm strike to her chin snapped her jaw shut, nearly making her bite off her tongue.

Pain exploded across her face, but she didn’t hesitate.

She retaliated with a brutal kick, planting both feet into his chest and using the momentum to spring them apart.

Lyra landed with a roll. Blood dripped from her chin. Her body was barely holding together.

She raised her sword, inverted it—

And plunged it into the ground.

High above, Selaphiel’s eyes widened in pure shock as the floor began to glow.

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