Gunmage-Chapter 280: The vessel

"His magic? What’s up with it?"

"Simply put... it’s way too powerful."

"Ya think?"

Although he said this sarcastically, a ponderous expression crept across Victor’s face like a cloud swallowing sunlight. The other man continued, his voice lower, almost cautious.

"I don’t know the specifics, but that’s way more mana than any human is supposed to have."

Victor countered, his tone sharp but not dismissive.

"But isn’t that what Selaphiel’s been trying to do all this while? Produce high-magic descendants? The average Von Heim is already stronger than they were decades ago. Maybe this Lugh kid’s just the final product."

"...You’re not wrong,"

The man admitted, the edge in his voice softened with apprehension as he turned the idea over in his head. Then something dawned on him, and he frowned.

"But Lugh’s not Selaphiel’s direct son. He’s a bastard. And his father has no talent for magic..."

He paused, realization hitting him mid-sentence.

"...Which, now that I say it out loud, is... very suspicious.

Both men fell silent. An unease lingered in the air like the pressure before a storm. Something was wrong. They both felt it, but neither wanted to be the one to say it first. Eventually, the man broke the silence.

"Look... it might be a trap, just like you said. But the higher-ups suspect the Lugh you saw wasn’t even human. They think he might’ve been an elf in disguise. One who slipped up and blew his cover."

Victor’s expression didn’t shift immediately, but his eyes narrowed, the edges of his thoughts sharpening.

"They won’t listen, will they?"

The man gave a grim smile.

"You know how elves are. Always thinking they’re old and wise."

Victor blinked once, then muttered flatly,

"They are old and wise."

The man shrugged, unapologetic. ƒreewebɳovel.com

"Yes... but that comes with its own shortcomings. That kind of age blinds you to certain things. If what you’re saying is accurate, then Selaphiel knows this—and she’s using it brilliantly."

Victor sighed and leaned forward, his voice strained.

"Then tell them."

"Haven’t you been paying attention? They won’t listen."

A pause.

"We’re f*cked. We’re f*cked, aren’t we?"

Victor muttered, rubbing his forehead

"Do you think they can take on the Von Heims?"

"They wouldn’t be sneaking around if they could."

Again, silence settled between them—this one heavier than the last.

Then Victor murmured

"Where am I supposed to find ten kids?"

The man exhaled slowly.

"Well... have you tried the slums?"

...

The ripple effects of the Cross family duel had only just begun to spread. Across the capital, organizations and families with their own buried agendas had already begun laying the groundwork for what came next.

In the front pews of the ancient cathedral, Drey sat draped in red-and-white robes—the official garb of Embercreed clergy.

Her noble gowns, the expected attire for a lady of high society, were long shed. She looked calm and still, hands clasped in silent prayer, but her shoulders bore tension.

As her fingers slowly unfolded and her eyes rose in reverence toward the altar, she spotted a man seated not far from her. She blinked.

"...Archbishop?"

Her voice was quiet.

"Why are you here?"

The man didn’t move at first. Then he spoke.

"I’ll be the one receiving your correspondence now."

Drey nodded, slowly gathering her thoughts.

Unlike her childhood friend Anna—whose family were stout supporters and partners of the church—Drey had no outside ties.

She had been raised by the Embercreed itself, on these very grounds. The man before her, though bearing a lofty title, was more than just a superior.

He had been her teacher, her caretaker, her first example of order and grace. It was difficult to act solemn before someone who once wiped her nose and scolded her for sneaking bread, but she did it.

Because it was her job.

She spoke, voice even, respectful.

"The match didn’t go as expected. The power Lyra Cross wields is... terrifying."

The archbishop nodded slowly.

"Go on."

"She had the ability to manipulate and extend her hair. She used it to drain—and transfer—mana."

"Interesting,"

The man murmured.

"And the Cross patriarch?"

Drey’s face twisted into a slight grimace.

"As expected, their ghost arts feel unclean. Unethical. I don’t know why a family that violates the sanctity of the dead is allowed to exist."

The archbishop chuckled under his breath.

"The Cross family is important. We can’t do anything about them."

"Why not?"

She pressed, her voice rising slightly.

"Surely a handful of elves can’t stand in our way—"

"You’re still too young, Audrey,"

The archbishop interrupted gently.

"You don’t yet understand how old pacts work. Some of them were forged long before either of us were born."

Her disapproval remained written across her features, but she said nothing more.

He didn’t press the issue. Instead, he moved on.

"And what about the boy?"

Drey’s expression shifted immediately. She became more thoughtful.

"I approached and observed Lugh as instructed," she said.

"And?" the Archbishop prompted.

"...It’s hard to explain," she admitted.

He raised an eyebrow.

"He’s hard to read," she continued. "There’s something about him. It’s like he’s... empty."

The Archbishop leaned forward slightly.

"Elaborate."

The request didn’t surprise her. The directive to observe Lugh had come from high above—even from people who usually paid no mind to minor field clergy. Something was at stake here. Something that made her input valuable.

She spoke slowly, carefully.

"Despite what other sources say, I found him... pleasant enough. Easy to talk to. But only seemingly so. There’s always this undertone—this sense of caution. Mistrust."

She paused, hands tightening in her lap.

"It’s like he sees through people. I felt like pretending around him would’ve been a bad idea. So I didn’t."

The Archbishop nodded, faintly pleased. "You were wise to trust your instincts."

Drey accepted the compliment with a small bow of her head. Then, more hesitantly:

"When I say he’s ’empty,’ I don’t mean emotionally blank. I mean... on a fundamental level. It doesn’t feel like he knows what he’s doing. Or why he’s doing it."

She searched for the right words.

"He doesn’t act with purpose. He just... reacts. That’s the closest I can get. It’s like there’s no inner compass—no motivation. Only motion."

She paused again, then added softly:

"I’m sorry if my words aren’t clear. But when I say he felt empty, that was the first thing that came to mind. Like... like..."

Her voice trailed off.

Then her eyes lit up with a quiet revelation.

"Like a vessel."

The cathedral fell quiet.

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