Gunmage-Chapter 268: Interruptions and consequences

Up above, on the balcony that held a premium bird’s-eye view of everything unfolding below, Selaphiel frowned. Not just her—Zhou was the same.

She spoke first, her voice edged.

"Your grandson is too pesky."

Selaphiel didn’t respond immediately. Her eyes remained locked on the chaos below.

"What do we do now?"

She asked quietly.

At this rate, Lyra would win.

Just then, down in the arena, the patriarch’s debilitated body stirred. Despite its broken state, the limbs lifted, twitching like a marionette forced into motion.

His hands clapped together with everything he had left.

Zhou exhaled, a small smile of relief tugging at her lips. She raised her hands and channeled a considerable amount of mana into the spell.

Down below, the ambient mana that had fueled the wraith’s forming shivered. Something had changed. Something ancient stirred.

The soul, which had been mimicking the patriarch’s summoning matrix, suddenly sensed a violent fluctuation in the arcane current. The source had shifted. The spell was no longer his.

His mana had already been depleted. But something far greater had responded. Something that should not have.

It was implausible—insane—like a man trying to pull a mountain with bare hands...

...only for the mountain to actually move.

A rift tore open in the fabric of reality, violent and jagged. A paw stepped through—white as snow, as large as a carriage wheel.

Another followed. Then the full figure emerged: a lumbering, colossal wolf, its fur pure white.

Somewhere in the crowd, Aveline recognised the features of the creature she was looking at.

Solvyr.

Lugh’s body tensed the moment it arrived. A deep apprehension coiled in his chest.

The wolf opened its maw and let out a harrowing howl—a bone-deep cry that drilled into the skull like a blade.

Lyra took the brunt of it. Her mind buckled under the force, her body shivering like a leaf in a storm. The sword slipped from her fingers.

The beast charged.

Fangs wide, speed blinding, it bolted toward the motionless Lyra.

Lugh moved.

He didn’t think. His chair splintered as he kicked off from it, the seat exploding beneath his momentum. He shot towards the arena with terrifying speed.

Time slowed.

And not metaphorically.

Xhi had snapped her fingers.

In that instant, the world crawled to a snail’s pace—locked in a suspended state of time. All except Lugh.

He reached Lyra just in time, dragging her out of the creature’s path with urgency. A heartbeat later, time resumed.

The wolf’s jaws clamped down on empty air.

It missed.

It skidded to a halt, then turned sharply—locking eyes with the boy now holding Lyra’s limp form.

It roared again.

Then charged.

Lugh raised one hand. With a grimace, he emptied over ninety percent of his mana reserves.

The air around him warped and shimmered as golden magical circles materialized—one after the other—layering over each other in a dazzling, incomprehensible pattern.

They didn’t stop.

Two became ten. Ten became fifty. Then hundreds.

They filled the entire hall. A ceiling of radiant, ancient power.

The elves staggered back in shock.

The audience watched, slack-jawed and breathless, as the golden array cast its glow upon them all.

The wolf charged blindly into its death.

And then... the world shifted.

Time didn’t stop—but it dragged. Naturally this time. As if space itself was buckling under the weight of what was coming.

Everybody’s hair literally rose on end. A static charge surged through the air, thick and electric.

Then, from each golden circle, massive tendrils of lightning shot out—converging on the white wolf at the speed of light.

There was a flash.

Then impact.

Mirelle felt it in her bones. A pressure. A concussive wave.

But she didn’t hear it.

She couldn’t hear anything.

She couldn’t see anything.

Her vision was white. Her ears rang with an aching silence. The only thing that grounded her to reality was the unmistakable scent of charred flesh in her nostrils.

She wasn’t alone.

Almost everyone in the audience had been temporarily blinded and deafened.

Panic erupted.

People screamed, but no one could hear it. Some stumbled, others cried out in vain. They couldn’t hear their own voices. Couldn’t see who stood next to them.

Gradually, the flash receded.

Sight returned in flickers. Sound came later—distant and warped, like hearing underwater.

And when they could finally see what lay before them, none of them would ever forget it.

The floor of the arena was black. Utterly scorched. Stone had melted. Metal had twisted. What had once been a combat platform now looked like a crater of divine judgment.

There was no sign of the wolf. No corpse. No remains.

It had been erased.

Lyra was still in Lugh’s arms, though she no longer appeared as pale or broken as before. Her complexion had improved. Her limbs no longer hung like dead weight.

He had healed her—just enough. Not enough to draw attention. Enough to keep her alive.

But nobody was thinking about that right now. Because it all felt surreal. Like waking up in the middle of someone else’s dream.

Two figures floated down from above.

Xhi noticed immediately. Her figure blurred—then blinked—appearing beside Lugh in the space of a heartbeat.

The elves—Zhou and Selaphiel—landed lightly across from them, their gazes heavy as iron.

Then Zhou spoke.

Her voice was clear. Projected.

"You’ve broken the rules and interrupted a Cross Family duel at the most critical moment.

As such, the participant Lyra Cross has been disqualified. The win goes to the patriarch of the family."

"What the hell!"

Lyra snarled.

She tried to rise but staggered, pain wracking her frame. Lugh caught her instantly, keeping her upright.

He’d only mended her critical injuries. Nothing more.

"Calm down,"

He said.

But she wasn’t listening.

"No!"

She shouted.

"I was going to win! I—"

"Just leave it, Lyra,"

Lugh said again, this time his voice was firm.

There was nothing they could do.

They had fallen into the opponent’s tempo. A rigged match. A showcase of who could cheat better.

The elves had won this round.

All they could do was accept it.

That didn’t mean Lugh was happy about it.

Not one bit.

Selaphiel’s trap had worked. Now Lyra was being drawn directly into whatever games she had planned for her.

Though he had told her to leave it, Lyra’s frustration simmered just below the surface.

"I’ll have to leave the army..."

She muttered bitterly.

"And they’ll probably marry me off to some stupid prick."

"You don’t have to worry about that—"

Selaphiel interjected, her voice soft.

"—you’re much too important for some random political marriage."

She leaned forward as she said it, her smile sweet, but her eyes predatory.

Lugh clicked his tongue in quiet annoyance.

His gaze scanned the chamber.

He saw everything—the expressions of fear, awe, fear, confusion, fear, admiration?

It lingered briefly on Lirienne.

Then settled on Prince Wittmann.

The youth’s face was pale. His body frozen.

He’d attacked Lugh once, thinking him just another pawn.

Now, the boy looked ready to faint, no doubt realizing the implications of what had just happened.

"All that work,"

Lugh muttered darkly,

"For nothing."

Selaphiel followed his gaze, eyes narrowing slightly. She turned to Lugh, her tone urgent.

"We need to talk"

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