Gunmage-Chapter 276: Masks of immortality

"This is all the fault of those humans."

She spoke aloud, her voice carrying with it a twinge of irritation that cut through the thick silence.

The remaining three elves turned to glance at her. One of them sat atop a rock, her eyes glinting with a mechanical intelligence—sharp, focused and unsettling.

The second was seated on the ground, her back rested against the very same tree where the first elf perched above, silent as a shadow. And the last, veiled, sat on an opulent velvet chair—its presence jarringly conspicuous on a harsh forest trail like this.

They all stared at her for a long, wordless moment before turning their gazes away, uninterested or unmoved.

The only one still pacing finally spoke. His boots thudded softly against the earth, a restless rhythm to match his tone.

"If you still dislike humans so much, then why’re you even here?"

She scoffed and retorted without missing a beat.

"It’s not my fault elven men are so hard to find."

Her voice dripped with exasperation. She flailed her arms in theatrical frustration.

"I mean seriously, why are they so bloody rare? It’s not fair!"

"It is."

Another voice entered the conversation for the first time. Emotionless. Flat. Almost mechanical.

It belonged to the elf sitting cross-legged on the rock. She hadn’t moved once since they arrived.

"It is?"

The complainer asked, brows furrowed.

The cross-legged elf replied in her usual staccato-like cadence.

"Our species’ low conception rate is mitigated by producing more women. This ensures higher reproductive efficiency and avoids extinction. There is always balance in nature."

"Nature, huh?"

The male voice echoed thoughtfully.

"Isn’t magic mostly about deviating from nature?"

The explaining elf opened her mouth again, but the one in the tree cut her off.

"Ooh, ooh! Doesn’t mum have some sort of fertility spell?"

The elf with the mechanical voice didn’t even blink.

"That spell was created by a human, for a human. Our modifications only allow interspecies reproduction when one of the pair is human."

The person who had asked clicked her tongue in annoyance.

"This is why I said it’s not fair."

"It is."

The response came instantly, cold and measured.

She scowled.

"No, it’s not. A four-to-one ratio is not healthy, no matter how you look at it."

Still seated cross-legged, the puppet like elf slowly turned her head toward her.

The movement was disturbingly precise—smooth and unnatural, as though governed by some internal mechanism.

Finally, she spoke.

"Your words are based on a misconception formed by our current composition. In reality, the ratio is almost double."

"What? Eight to one?!"

"Almost double,"

She corrected flatly, before returning to her meditative stillness. Her eyes closed. Her limbs fell motionless. One could almost mistake her for a statue. It was hard to tell if she was even breathing.

The silence between the five of them stretched—long, unbroken, thick with unsaid thoughts.

Eventually, the talkative one couldn’t take it anymore.

"Hey, Soramir."

No reply.

"Hellooo? Soramir!"

Still nothing.

She sighed and slumped back, muttering sarcastically,

"Oh great one, bless me with your wisdom." frёeωebɳovel.com

Soramir opened her eyes slowly, then responded in her signature detached tone.

"Only the Queen bears the title of Great One. Refrain from making such mistakes next time."

"O-oh, okay. Sorry."

"What do you need me for?"

"Right!"

She said, suddenly animated. She pointed at the others, voice rising with indignation.

"I need you to explain to these... peasants, why acting all silent, emotionless, and—what else? Dark! Yes—dark and mysterious, doesn’t make sense and is a complete waste of time! No one thinks you’re cool. At least I don’t. There is literally no reason for it!"

Soramir blinked once.

"There is a reason."

"Ha! See—wait, what? There’s a reason?"

"Yes. There is."

"..."

"..."

"And that reason is?"

Soramir began.

"Millennia ago, the magically stagnant humans thought of elves as gods."

The tree-perched elf tilted her head, caught off guard. Not what she expected—but intriguing nonetheless. If only the narration weren’t so robotic.

"This belief,"

Soramir continued,

"Was especially widespread during the Jazeer colonisation of Ophris. Interpersonal relationships highlighted the gulf between our species, reinforcing the idea.

We do not age. We summon rain and thunder. We make plants grow. We cause the earth to shift. It was inevitable. Elf-worshipping cults were established."

She didn’t pause to check if they were listening.

"The endless praise fed our egos. We began to act the part. What sort of gods laugh and frolic? What sort of gods are easy to befriend?"

Soramir’s voice remained flat.

"Soon, we all wore masks—cold, impassive masks. The humans, who once worshipped us, began to imitate us.

Centuries passed. Magic propagated. The humans of Ophris became disenchanted, but by then, the practice had sunk into our culture—engraved in literature, poetry, mannerisms. From the masses to high society, it continues to this day."

Silence followed. Not the usual comfortable kind. This one carried weight.

Eventually, the talkative spoke, her voice soft.

"I... didn’t ask for a history lesson."

"And yet you listened,"

Soramir replied without inflection.

"True. True,"

The elf admitted, nodding to herself.

She leaned back, thoughtful now.

"What about you, Soramir? Are you wearing a mask?"

"I am."

The bluntness startled her. Only for a moment, though—she recovered quickly.

"Can you try taking it off? Be a little less formal?"

"No."

Another awkward silence.

She pressed on, undeterred.

"Why?"

Soramir’s reply came fast.

"Informality breeds familiarity..."

Her voice darkened suddenly—less artificial, more alive. A strange, foreign emotion glinted beneath the surface.

"...and familiarity breeds contempt."

The silence this time was not so easily broken. It lingered—unspoken, palpable.

The elf in the tree fanned herself with one hand.

"The atmosphere’s getting kinda heavy, don’t you think?"

She called out toward the man leaning against the tree.

"Rwanda!"

He looked up.

"What?"

His pacing had stopped long ago, replaced by a still tension. His arms were crossed as he leaned against the bark, unreadable.

"What are your thoughts on what Soramir just said?"

She asked.

Rwanda considered the question in silence.

Then, with a slight motion of his head, he gestured toward the other two.

The one still seated on the velvet chair—veil untouched, expression hidden. And the other on the ground—yet her clothes were pristine, her back against the tree, fingers absentmindedly tapping the rifle resting beside her.

He spoke.

"Those two probably aren’t faking it."

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