Gunmage-Chapter 262: Equal risks

Lugh was left staring, wide-eyed.

Not because of the magic itself—but because of the potential it held.

It answered a question that had long troubled him, one that had lingered in the quiet corners of his mind without resolution.

Until now, he had found it difficult to identify a branch of magic that truly aligned with his needs.

Sure, a firebolt or a wind blade spell might be impressive in isolation, flashy even, but he viewed them as shallow in purpose—hardly practical in a large-scale, modern war.

Their utility was minimal.

Only techniques like Selaphiel’s peculiar manipulation of sound had ever struck him as genuinely useful—and she was an elf.

Now, however, he had seen something different.

A spell rooted not in spectacle, but in strategy. It went beyond mere elemental manipulation—it was practical, flexible, and more importantly, scalable.

It was exactly the kind of magic that could evolve alongside the modernization of warfare, something that could make a real difference on the battlefield.

The applications were immediate and obvious.

Pit traps, foxholes, and more crucially—instantaneous, mobile trenches.

It was a major boon, no matter which angle he looked at it from. For the first time, the last elusive pieces of a long-standing puzzle finally clicked into place in Lugh’s mind.

He wouldn’t settle for merely making the mages aware of the threats posed by firearms anymore. That goal was far too narrow.

No—his ambitions had grown.

He had to find a way to draft mages into the army. Integrate them directly into the command structure. It wouldn’t do to separate them.

The only viable path forward was through a skillful blend of magic and modern weaponry. If mastered properly, it would be enough to bridge the technological chasm between Heieg and Ophris.

As Lugh pondered the implications, his attention was suddenly arrested by the approach of another figure.

Stepping out of the gloom came Lyra Cross.

Her presence was hard to miss—loose-fitted trousers tucked into combat boots, and a large, sleeveless shirt that exposed her arms.

Those arms were inked with elaborate tattoos—except, they weren’t just tattoos.

They were finely wrought runes, layered with crisscrossing, surgical precision.

At the far end of the arena, the patriarch of the Cross family observed her approach with a gaze of thinly veiled disapproval.

Lugh’s eyes flicked briefly to another corner of the chamber. There, seated among an extended gathering, were other members of Lyra’s family.

Many wore similarly displeased expressions, especially as their eyes swept over her exposed runes.

But not all of them looked with scorn.

Two women in particular caught Lugh’s attention. One was a mature woman, bearing the grace and weight of experience.

The other, a girl around the same age as Mirelle—or perhaps Lirienne—watched Lyra with a gaze full of worry.

They bore a familial resemblance: thick auburn hair cascading down their backs, similar brows, and the same sharp cheekbones softened by time or youth. Their concern was unspoken but deep.

There were quite a lot of them, enough that Lugh had to wonder: either the patriarch had more than three wives, or this was the broader Cross family—an assembly of siblings, cousins, uncles, and affiliated branches.

Given the scattering of grown men among the group, Lugh leaned toward the latter. But then again, when it came to nobles, one could never truly know.

"My unruly spawn."

The words cut through his thoughts like a knife.

Lugh’s eyes snapped back to the arena. The patriarch had spoken, his tone dry.

He had seen the man only once before—when the patriarch fainted after seeing the damage done to the expensive lounge.

But the figure standing now bore little resemblance to the one he remembered. It was as if they were two entirely different people.

This man exuded a cold, suffocating aura. It felt like he could freeze a river with a breath. His gaze was like stone—unyielding, unreadable.

His facial features were oddly relaxed, and his skin was pale enough to be mistaken for a corpse. There was a subdued menace to him, a quiet promise of danger.

Lugh knew he wasn’t the only one feeling this. A quick glance at several of his cousins confirmed it—they too seemed unsettled by the patriarch’s transformation.

He spoke again, voice level but brimming with authority.

"Now look at what you’ve caused. The crowd you’ve gathered. You never tire of making a spectacle of yourself, Lyra."

"Really, Dad?"

She replied flatly.

"You’re going to run a whole monologue?"

She folded her arms with visible impatience.

"I suggest we cut the chatter and give the people what they want."

A few unruly nobles—mostly younger ones—cheered in support, reveling in the drama.

Lugh could feel Sela visibly restraining herself beside him. Did she want to cheer too?

He frowned slightly.

’Lyra might not be the kind of role model you should be looking up to’

He mused, but said nothing aloud.

The patriarch’s steely gaze swept across the onlookers. A few flinched instinctively. Others sank deeper into their seats. The atmosphere grew still.

Lyra gave a low whistle in amusement, but her father remained stone-faced.

"You’re right,"

He said, cold and decisive.

"We should get on with it. But this is neither a fight club nor a gladiator arena. Rules must be established."

"I’m pretty sure both of those examples also have rules,"

Lyra shot back with a smirk.

"Shut up."

"I’m no longer a member of the Cross family,"

She replied evenly.

"You can’t tell me what to do."

He paused, just long enough to let the silence settle.

"Regardless of the outcome of today’s match," he said slowly,

"you will be."

"...Regardless?"

She blinked, confused.

"A duel should carry equal risks,"

He announced.

"You become the leader of House Cross if you win. But if I win—you quit the military. You return to the family. You will obediently carry out the tasks assigned to you, without complaint.

You will learn the family magic. And once the time comes... you will be used to strengthen our ties with another prominent household."

He raised his hand slightly.

"Let all the noble representatives present be our witnesses!"

The cheering returned, louder and rowdier this time. Mostly from young men.

Lyra’s beauty was undeniable, and now that she was, for the first time, being spoken of as a potential political bride, the bluebloods could barely contain themselves.

The tension between admiration and opportunity charged the room like a storm.

Lyra grimaced.

This was the first she was hearing of any of this.

If her father had announced such conditions when she had issued the challenge, she never would have accepted.

But now, with eyes watching from every tier of the chamber, there was no going back.

Lyra straightened, steadying her breath. Her shoulders relaxed, her fingers uncurled. The objective hadn’t changed. She always planned to win.

"Fine,"

She said, her voice low but firm. Her stance shifted fluidly into a ready position.

"Let’s begin,"

The patriarch said at last, clasping his hands.

The temperature dropped at once.

Darkness coiled through the air like smoke, motes of pale light flickering to life around him. Between them, a shallow chasm opened—quiet, unnatural.

From within the void, a wraith began to rise.

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