Gunmage-Chapter 238: Qualities of ruin

The atmosphere in the air had thickened—congealed—pressing in on them with a weight that felt almost tangible, as though the very air sought to crush them beneath its intangible mass.

A suffocating aura, heavier and more malignant than anything they had ever encountered, pervaded the dungeon like a choking fog.

Draque’sill was only halfway through the chant, but already, the effects were unmistakable. The torches lining the walls flared violently, vomiting forth brilliant columns of flame that stretched high and lashed at the ceilings.

Their crackling grew louder, deeper, until it resembled a roar, as if the fire itself had been angered.

Blue turned to white—no longer fire, but holy incandescence—burning with purifying intensity, a light that seemed determined to scour away all remnants of corruption.

Then came the voice. No—voices. Every prisoner trapped within the room opened their mouths, and sound poured from them in perfect synchrony.

Though their tones varied, old, young, male, female, their words were fused together into a single, harmonious utterance.

The resulting chorus had no humanity to it. It was chilling.

"Calm yourself, you aren’t in any danger."

The two men, guided by intuition rather than sense, opened their eyes—and immediately wished they hadn’t.

Axel sat upright on the bed, his frame slouched casually, as if he were simply waiting. His gaze met theirs, direct and unnervingly calm.

But they looked away, instinctively avoiding the eyes. Something primal in them recoiled.

"Draque’sill and Zy’rakal."

Axel—no, the thing that now wore Axel’s face—spoke, alongside every other prisoner present.

It hadn’t moved toward them. It hadn’t done anything. And yet every syllable that passed their lips warped the air minutely, like a ripple through the veil of reality.

The pope responded, his expression carefully neutral, though his features had tightened. A crack in his composure.

"Ti’s an honour you know our names."

"If you knew my magic, you wouldn’t be so reverent."

The reply was dry and unamused.

Both men tensed but still held their tongues.

The silence was long and unnatural, but eventually, the pope broke it, his voice composed, though his heartbeat was quick.

"I see you’ve regained that which was taken."

"I haven’t."

The voices overlapped again—calm, flat, and unified.

"I’m working on it though."

The high cardinal’s eye twitched. The pope exhaled, slow and silent. They processed the meaning behind the words, and what they might imply.

"But when I do..."

The voices said,

"I’m going for that fool first."

Draque’sill stiffened. He spoke.

"Our Lord wasn’t complicit."

"But he retained his silence."

The rebuttal came sharp, swift, and collective.

As the two holy men faltered, unwilling or unable to argue, the voice—or whatever it was—continued, relentless.

"And now. He lounges in peace."

"...Not exactly."

The pope’s interruption was soft, but it landed hard. The room seemed to freeze.

Then came a single word:

"Explain."

The pope swallowed.

"He has been sealed."

There was a pause. A heartbeat later—

"Bahahahahaha!"

Laughter exploded from every mouth—wild, raucous, hideous laughter that echoed with nothing but cruel amusement.

There was no enchantment behind it. No mana. No divine or infernal augmentation.

Just laughter.

But it hurt.

It grated against their minds like rusted nails across a chalkboard, worming its way through their ears and pounding against their skulls.

Draque’sill stumbled, the strength momentarily drained from his limbs. The pope swayed, his composure cracking under the onslaught.

And then—something worse. Their bodies reacted.

A ripple passed through their flesh despite their best efforts to control it. Wrong and foreign mutations bloomed.

On the side of the pope’s neck, iridescent scales erupted like goosebumps, glinting faintly under the torchlight.

With a grunt of will, he pressed a trembling hand to the site, drawing on every fiber of his spiritual discipline to suppress it.

Eventually—mercifully—the laughter stopped.

They stood gasping, sweat crawling down their faces, their regality in tatters.

Neither man could hold onto their polished elegance anymore. They were shaken.

Axel—or what inhabited him—glanced up, his gaze seemingly aimed beyond the ceiling, as if he were trying to see the sky through stone.

He spoke again, a whisper this time, one that echoed from every direction.

"No wonder it seemed so different."

Draque’sill and Zy’rakal exchanged glances, their eyes were wary.

"This is news. Not wonderful news, but news nonetheless."

Then the gaze—no, the presence—refocused on them. They felt its attention like a hand around their throats. They froze.

"You don’t mess with me, and I don’t mess with you."

A simple offer. Maybe even a threat.

The pope glanced toward the high cardinal, the gravity of the moment settling between them. Grim understanding passed in silence.

"Our institution has stood for centuries,"

The pope said at last.

"Our reach spans the northern enclaves. We have hundreds—thousands. Don’t you think this... arrangement is too one-sided?"

The response was immediate.

"It’s not about quantity. It’s about quality."

The words rang hollowly but with a strange authority.

Draque’sill scoffed quietly, recovering just enough to retort.

"Can you surely say that, when we’re here?"

Axel’s form tilted its head, studying them with cold curiosity.

"Yes, I can. But it won’t happen the way you think."

The voices rippled once more, leaving silence in their wake.

Both men hesitated. Confusion flickered in their eyes.

"Pay attention to this year’s selection."

The message hung heavy.

"My time is up."

But the pope wasn’t finished. He stepped forward slightly.

"Before you go—"

He said quickly, almost pleading,

"Can you keep the priest alive?"

A pause.

"Are you asking me?"

"I’m begging."

And with that, the pressure vanished.

Instantly.

The unbearable aura dissipated, and the spell over the prisoners broke. Axel collapsed where he sat, like a puppet with its strings severed.

The other prisoners followed, slumping silently to the floor.

The pope held his breath, listening—until he heard the faint sound of Axel’s breathing.

He exhaled deeply, the weight in his chest easing. His legs quivered beneath him. He might have collapsed right there...

But it was the floor. And the pope detested dirty things.

The high cardinal clearly shared the sentiment—perhaps not the one about the dirt, but certainly the relief.

"Draq. I’ll need your Inquisition to dig up everything on the survivors of Drakensmar. We need to find out who the priest met."

His eyes drifted again, warily, to Axel’s still form.

Draque’sill replied, his voice low and deliberate.

"We already know who it is."

"...You do?"

"Yes."

Draque’sill continued.

"I’ve already met him."

That gave the pope pause. He inhaled sharply, already dreading what would come next. If the man wasn’t here in chains already, then this would not be simple.

"...Who was it?"

"Lugh Von Heim."

A heavy silence settled over them.

This content is taken from (f)reewe(b)novel.𝗰𝗼𝐦