Gunmage-Chapter 267: Runes of ruin

Selaphiel’s eyes widened in shock. Lugh’s did the same. So did everyone else’s.

A familiar blood-red glow had begun to seep outward from the floor—right from the point where Lyra’s sword had impaled the stone.

It bled into the surroundings, racing like wildfire along the many jagged grooves carved into the arena. And then it clicked.

She hadn’t just been flailing wildly earlier.

Each lashing movement of her hair, every stray strike that had seemed too random to mean anything—all of it had been deliberate.

Every shallow laceration, every seemingly incidental blemish gouged into the stone, had been intentionally placed. And now, with the crimson light fully outlining her work, the result was unmistakable.

It was a rune.

A full-scale spell array—sprawled across the floor beneath their feet.

Lugh blinked slowly, a quiet tension climbing his back as a presence brushed against his senses.

He turned his head on instinct, only to find Xhi seated just behind him—directly beside his elder sister, who, like the others, had recoiled at the revelation of the strange woman’s appearance.

Xhi’s voice was low and calm.

"Did you teach her that?"

Lugh turned his eyes back to the arena before answering.

"I don’t even know that."

A brief, tense silence settled between them.

"This could be trouble"

The priestess muttered at last.

She was right. The rune’s effect was already beginning.

There was a sudden and violent eruption—an upward blast that cracked the ground beneath it, sending a shockwave rippling through the entire platform.

The blood serpent, still lingering above with its horrid majesty, began to decay. Its sleek, menacing form darkened rapidly, blackening from the inside out.

Its body convulsed, crumbled, then withered into thick flakes as it was reduced, bit by bit, into a pile of ash.

"The Blade of Entropy,"

Lugh murmured, remembering. That had been the second enchantment on her longsword.

It was as if the rune had seized that enchantment and warped it—amplifying it beyond all reasonable thresholds. It had taken the sword’s latent effect and bloated it into something monstrous.

The results were nothing short of catastrophic.

That crimson serpent, a creature that would’ve easily annihilated most human mages, hadn’t even had the chance to do much. And now, it was gone. Erased.

Only a rowdy cloud of soot-black ash remained, swirling gently in the aftermath before settling.

Lyra’s hair, previously coiled and restrained, was now unbound. It surged forward, a mass of silken brown moving like the tide of a stormy ocean.

It advanced with the inevitability of a natural disaster—its intent clear.

She was going to blanket the patriarch of the Cross family. Drown him in her momentum.

The fight was over.

Or at least, it should have been.

Mid-charge, her hair suddenly froze. Suspended in midair.

Lyra pressed both hands to her ears, her features twisting in pain.

Her father stared, stunned—just like everyone else. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke.

Except Lugh. His voice was sharp.

"What is happening to her?!"

Only Lyra could hear it—the devastating, high-frequency sonic attack that tore through her skull like knives. A hidden frequency. One intended only for her.

A satisfied, knowing smirk played across Selaphiel’s lips as the patriarch of the Cross family—misinterpreting Lyra’s condition as a sign of overexertion, mana deviation, or backlash—saw his opportunity.

He charged forward at full speed, convinced that fate had gifted him a second chance to end her.

He didn’t get far.

Just as he closed the distance, Xhi flicked her fingers.

The psychic wave that slammed into him was massive.

His entire body lurched backwards as if struck by an invisible wall. Blood burst from his nose and eyes, his vision whiting out as the force rattled his brain.

He nearly blacked out—but clung to consciousness by sheer, brutal willpower.

Even so, he couldn’t move. He could barely even breathe.

Kneeling, trembling, half-delirious, he forced his hands together in one final act of defiance. A clap. A summoning gesture.

Lugh saw it immediately.

The priestess behind him narrowed her eyes. Lugh’s magic senses were fooled, but the mawglass wasn’t.

The patriarch was summoning a wraith.

And something else was feeding it.

From the viewing platform above, a faint sliver of elven mana—almost imperceptible—slipped into the air.

It pierced the summoning matrix and buried itself deep inside the forming wraith.

The creature ballooned in size—expanding rapidly until it was as massive as the stone giant.

Ten meters tall, its presence was unbearable. The cold it emanated was so fierce that even the reinforced arena floor began to freeze inch by inch. Layers of frost crept across the seating rows.

Lyra, barely recovered from the sonic assault, staggered upright—just enough to stand.

Lugh spoke.

"^@#@^&*"

The atmosphere grew colder still. Shadowy phantoms—dozens of them—began to spiral around him like vultures waiting for the final breath.

Lyra’s mouth opened. It mimicked the sound of an explosion.

Lugh’s voice followed hers—perfectly synchronized.

"Amplify."

What happened next was not an explosion.

It was annihilation.

BOOM!

The blast that followed shattered everything. The very foundations of the manor trembled.

Glass domes exploded outward. Protective barriers, reformed by the security runes, crumbled to dust.

Lugh extended both arms, conjuring a massive, golden disc inscribed with ancient glyphs. A shield. And he wasn’t alone. Across the stands, every spectator capable of wielding magic had done the same.

Even those watching from above.

Beside Lugh, Lord Vaire of House D’Aramitz flicked his cane. It split midair, the segmented iron pieces darting upwards to intercept falling debris.

All around, figures worked to save themselves, some using force-control to stop the ceiling itself from collapsing.

Lugh ignored them.

He focused on the arena.

The wraith was completely gone. No magic residue. No remnants. Nothing. It was as though it was deleted from existence.

Both fighters had been blasted back several meters.

Lyra was on her knees—barely conscious.

The patriarch lay flat on his back, eyes wide open... but unconscious. His body was a ruined shell, and yet, it moved. Possessed. The soul within, though weakened, still clung to its final directive:

Victory.

It raised the patriarch’s arms.

And clapped.

Foll𝑜w current novels on fre(e)w𝒆bnovel