Gunmage-Chapter 215: Lessons in deceit

Your mission will be to confirm whether the Lugh that appears is real—or a fake.

"What?"

Victor jolted, startled, abruptly rising from his seat.

"Don’t tell me you believe that nonsense about him being dead?"

"I do,"

The man replied simply, his calm certainty slicing through the room’s stagnant air.

Victor slowly sank back into the bed, as if the very weight of those words pressed him down.

The man stood without delay, pushing off from the chair and walking slowly to the door. His voice trailed behind like smoke.

"And even if I don’t... they do."

He paused at the threshold, hand hovering just above the handle, as though recalling a lingering thought. He turned back, his gaze flicking toward Victor.

"What about your contact with the Canines? Any updates?"

"None,"

Victor replied with a tinge of wistfulness.

"They’re still remaining silent. I can’t find any traces of them."

The man nodded once, lips tightening into a line.

"We’ll have to be really careful. The beastkin will start making moves soon."

He pursed his lips, hesitating.

"Have you considered relocating?"

Victor stared at him for a while, thoughtful.

"You mean to run away?"

"Yes,"

The man responded smoothly, without judgment.

"I will. When the situation becomes bad enough."

"I see,"

Came the neutral reply. Then, with a faint creak, the man pulled the door open.

Their connection to the Canines was not widely known, even within the mercenary organization.

The beastkin captured by the Von Heims would likewise be unable to reveal anything meaningful.

The man’s hand lingered on the doorframe as he seemed to turn something over in his mind.

’Am I forgetting anything? No, I don’t think so.’

He gave one last remark before stepping through.

"Don’t waste time idling around. Get ready."

Victor didn’t respond. He simply raised his bottle in a quiet gesture of acquiescence, the glass catching a faint glint of amber light.

Once the man left, Victor let out a long, drawn-out sigh. The bottle slipped from his fingers, landing with a muted thud on the floor.

He rose to his feet and moved to the small sink nearby, beginning to wash himself. There was no time left to waste—he had to prepare for the event at Cross Manor.

...

The procession of carriages had already arrived at the outskirts of the estate. Cross Manor, ancient and foreboding, loomed in the distance.

The manor grounds weren’t fenced or guarded, but the area was largely avoided. Desolate and quiet, the land gave off a strange pressure.

Here and there, clusters of gravestones emerged from the soil, organized with eerie precision into pre-arranged patterns—markers of the dead that offered no welcome to the living.

The castle itself rose high, a monumental structure of white and grey stone that twisted like bone toward the sky. Its towers cast long shadows that bled into the overcast sky.

Inside the carriage, Selaphiel’s voice cut through the silence.

"We’re here."

"This place is creepy,"

Aveline murmured, her gaze fixed on the passing scenery. Her eyes traced the contours of tombstones and wild thickets that dotted the land like scars.

The hush in the air wasn’t just silence—it was the weight of something watching.

Selaphiel laughed lightly.

"Creepy? I’m not so sure about that." ƒreeωebnovel.ƈom

She tapped a finger on the glass pane.

"Gloomy? Yes. Very. Like the person who lives here."

Aveline tilted her head slightly.

"The person. Not the people,"

She silently noted. She voiced her thought:

"Does the Cross family also have an elf?"

"Yes,"

Selaphiel responded faintly.

"Several, actually. Just a handful. I don’t think they’re even up to six."

She paused.

"Most of them are young and weak. Not worth my attention. Except for one"

Aveline asked, her curiosity piqued.

"Are you... friends?"

"Friends?"

Selaphiel echoed, then burst into sudden laughter.

"I’m afraid not. I might have... bullied her a bit too much."

"Bullied?"

Aveline’s eyes widened as she latched onto the word.

"What did you do?"

"Hm?"

Selaphiel placed her palm against her cheek, adopting an exaggerated posture of thought.

After a long pause, she answered breezily.

"Many things. Actually, what you should be asking is what didn’t I do."

Aveline’s heart skipped.

"Wha—?"

Her thoughts spiraled. Is it even safe for them to be here? Aren’t they walking straight into a trap?

Selaphiel chuckled, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

"For one, I’ve stolen secret spells from her."

"Spells?"

Aveline blurted out, unable to stop herself.

"Yes. Spells,"

Selaphiel repeated warmly. Her smile took on a mischievous edge as she leaned in.

"For instance... the one you’re hiding under your bed."

Aveline froze. A chill ran down her spine. Her body stiffened.

She tried to collect herself, but ultimately failed.

"H-how did you find out—"

Selaphiel’s eyes narrowed in disapproval.

"What’s this? Is our little manipulator folding under pressure?"

She clicked her tongue and added,

"Next time, your words shouldn’t be ’how did you find out?’ They should be, ’I have no idea what you’re talking about.’"

Aveline stared, momentarily stunned, then her expression shifted. Realization slowly dawned on her.

She glanced at the unconscious figure of Lugh, unmoving and peaceful, then turned back to her supposed grandmother.

"You mean..."

"Yes, I do."

Selaphiel nodded, face composed.

"Deny. Do it shamelessly. Without hesitation. Deny."

"Deny,"

Aveline repeated, her voice quiet but clear.

"Good,"

Selaphiel said, pleased.

"Once you accept someone’s words, you’ve sealed your fate. There’s no way out of it.

Denying leaves room for more moves. It could be that they’re only probing you for reactions, they might not even have proof.

Even if they do—denial gives you precious time. Time to escape, coerce, blackmail, negotiate. Time to breathe."

Aveline listened with rapt attention. Every word sank deep, carving itself into her memory. She would not forget this lesson. Not ever.

"Thank you for your teachings,"

She said sincerely.

Selaphiel’s smile widened in contentment.

"And what about the spell?"

She asked.

"Were you able to learn anything from it?"

"Yes,"

Aveline said, her tone eager.

"Quite a lot, actually."

She no longer felt the need to hide—there was no point in pretense with this woman.

"By beseeching the... entities,"

She explained,

"I can borrow some of their characteristics for a short while—sharpened fangs, heightened reflexes, increased strength and speed."

"Oh?"

Selaphiel muttered, intrigued.

"But there’s a downside,"

Aveline added.

"During those states, I become color blind. My night vision worsens, and I have to rely mostly on my sense of smell to navigate."

Selaphiel’s gaze sharpened, the spark of curiosity slowly shifting into something colder.

"And what is your success rate?"

She asked.

"Success rate?"

Aveline blinked, confused.

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean, what are the chances you’ll be answered when you beseech for the enhanced physique?"

Aveline considered the question, then gave her answer plainly.

"There are no chances. I just ask... and I get it. Like turning on a gaslamp. Or opening a window."

Selaphiel’s face changed. Where admiration had once been, now there was apprehension.

"So you can call on it at any time?"

She asked, not as a question, but a quiet confirmation.

"Yes. Pretty much,"

Aveline responded, unsure of the reason behind Selaphiel’s change in demeanor. She had some guesses, but... no. It couldn’t be that.

Selaphiel stared for a moment longer, then spoke again.

"Is there anything else you can do?"

Aveline thought for a moment.

"Yes. For one... I can summon a big wolf."

Selaphiel froze.

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