Gunmage-Chapter 265: Rift and ruin

Right in the heart of battle, with her defeat imminent, Lyra’s thoughts flickered to the priestess, Xhi.

Not to the individual herself, but rather, the conversation they’d once had, when Lyra had angrily complained that her magic lacked cohesion.

At that time, the priestess had said to her,

"Unlike Lugh, you’re severely underutilizing your abilities."

"What do you mean by that?"

Lyra had demanded.

Xhi’s answer had come without hesitation.

"Think of it as a gun. A rifle. One you only use to bludgeon someone. Effective? Yes. But that’s not even close to what it’s truly capable of."

Lyra remembered that exchange vividly—and the memory made her blood boil. Not because Xhi was wrong. But because, despite pointing her toward something critical, the priestess had refused to offer any further explanation.

"I don’t know more than that,"

She had claimed.

Whether it was a lie or truth, Lyra had never been able to tell.

Now, gasping for breath and steadily losing ground, Lyra had no choice but to dig deep.

She inhaled sharply.

She had to do something—anything—before she was completely overwhelmed.

The rivers of auburn hair surrounding her suddenly shifted. Their mass roiled like a bubbling sea as her will surged through them.

The patriarch sensed the change—his instincts flaring. He was fast enough to avoid the trap... just in time to hear the loud, reverberating snap that echoed across the chamber.

A sonic wave struck from the force as Lyra’s hair yanked backward with all its might—only to remain fixed in place. The massive golem still held the ends of her locks in an unrelenting grip, unmoved.

"I hope this works,"

Lyra muttered under her breath.

Her hair began to glow faintly—not by its own property, but from the veins of mana coursing through it.

Swaths of drained energy flowed like current through a conduit, rushing along the strands and surging back toward her body.

The stone giant—the Immovable Summons—visibly began to deteriorate. Cracks split along its joints. Segments crumbled, dust and chunks breaking away from its bulk.

Sensing the shift in momentum, the patriarch acted.

He lunged, aiming to end the duel in one decisive blow.

But something changed.

The mana that had been flowing toward Lyra suddenly reversed, ripping backward in a blazing torrent, flooding back into the golem’s core with blistering speed.

BOOM.

The resulting shockwave hurled both Lyra and her father off their feet.

They scrambled to regain balance, but now—now that her weapon was finally freed—nothing stood between them.

Except—

The smoke didn’t settle. It thickened. The cloud of dust and fractured stone swelled, trembling with energy as the patriarch pumped a ridiculous amount of mana into it in a desperate attempt to salvage the fight.

He couldn’t form another giant.

But what he did manage to create was a swarm—multiple smaller golems forged from the debris. Dozens of them. Shorter, faster, far more mobile than their predecessor.

They spread out across the battlefield like living statues, blanketing the arena.

Lyra met the charge with full force.

Her auburn locks surged like a tsunami, flooding the chamber. The stone constructs caught within were mercilessly scrunched, crushed beneath her writhing mass—but their hardened bodies made them far more difficult to destroy.

Then the sea of hair rose.

It writhed upward, twisting and folding in the air. The strands came together, shaping into the form of a massive clenched fist.

With a single thought, Lyra brought it down like the hammer of judgment.

The runic enchantments protecting the spectators flared to life instantly. A cone of disruptive mana spread from the point of impact.

It was followed a heartbeat later by a shockwave of brutal force.

The shields cracked—and then shattered.

Panic rippled through the audience as dozens scrambled to raise their personal barriers. The force swept through the seats like a tidal wave, slamming into bystanders and knocking several back.

Below, all of the stone constructs were pulverized. The ruptured floor sent heavy debris flying across the chamber.

The patriarch’s personal barrier flickered, then cracked.

Then he was hit by the full force of the blast—his body flung through the air like a ragdoll. Yet even then, determination still glinted in his eyes.

While airborne, he thrust both hands forward. A web of force control surged into being. The flying debris around him halted in midair, suspended by his power.

With a flick of his wrist, he reversed the momentum.

The projectiles launched toward Lyra like bullets.

She reacted instantly, forming a dense shield with her hair. The smaller stones bounced harmlessly away—but the larger ones slammed in with force.

An enormous four-meter-wide block of marble struck her like a freight train. Its momentum barely slowed, dragging her backward, across the hall. It aimed to crush her between its mass and the far wall.

In that critical instant, Lyra extended her right arm outward.

Reality glitched.

An ornate longsword shimmered into existence in her hand.

She activated its enchantment—Rift Edge.

Her form flickered—then vanished from behind the stone, reappearing across the chamber.

She appeared just in time to hear the resounding boom as the marble block crashed into the wall with bone-shaking force.

Lyra stood still, her breathing labored. Her left arm hung limp at her side. Blood trailed from her cuts. Her eyes scanned the chaotic battlefield.

Then, like everyone else in the room, her gaze turned toward the Cross patriarch.

They all waited.

The man emerged from the cracked wall, staggering forward, dust rising from his robes.

He straightened his back—and locked eyes with Lyra.

Lugh’s frown deepened.

"How on earth is he—"

But the question choked in his throat.

The patriarch suddenly doubled over, collapsing to his hands and knees. He wheezed violently, blood spilling from his mouth as he struggled for breath.

Lirienne winced.

"That’s... a lot of blood."

Sela’s brow furrowed.

"That’s too much blood."

The truth was, the patriarch was in far worse shape than it appeared.

Every inch of his body screamed in agony. Bones shattered. Muscles torn. His organs felt like they’d been crushed in a vice.

The only reason he could still stand at all was the lingering influence of the possession spell.

The match was over.

He’d pushed it as far as he possibly could. That would have been the end—under normal circumstances.

But this wasn’t normal.

His opponent... was his daughter.

And Lyra—his daughter—had just revealed herself to be one of the most competent mages in all of Ophris.

He didn’t know how she’d come into such power.

And honestly?

He didn’t care.

What mattered now was that he could not afford to lose her.

If he had to reveal his trump card, even with so many rival eyes watching from the shadows of the arena, then so be it.

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