Gunmage-Chapter 244: Choosing a throne

It was like the sky came crashing down on him.

That was the only way Mike could describe it. A power so mighty, so suffocating, it stripped him of every sense, every shred of orientation.

He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t even a spell—no runes, no incantation, no embellishment—just raw, undiluted mana, pure and overwhelming.

The moment it entered the room, it engulfed him like a tidal wave, slamming into his body and sending him crashing to the floor.

The impact was violent, marble splintered beneath him, groaning and cracking under the sheer force with which he hit it.

His eyes bled. His ears bled. The pressure didn’t let up for a second. It pushed him deeper and deeper into the floor as though the mana itself sought to bury him alive.

His bones creaked under the weight, it felt as though he were being compressed, like metal between industrial presses.

Mike knew he would break long before the floor did—but that knowledge brought him no comfort. There was nothing he could do.

Seconds dragged like centuries. The agony was excruciating. And then, just like that, the pressure stopped.

Mike did not get up. His limbs refused to move, his breath came in shallow bursts, and the will to resist had completely deserted him.

Only his eyes, barely open, twitched at the sound of footsteps drawing near. They were soft, deliberate, and carried with them the air of total command.

He managed to raise his head slightly, blinking through the haze and blood.

A figure stood before him. Feminine. She wore an elegant, all-black indoor gown, the fabric heavy with refinement.

A long veil of the same dreary color draped down, framing her silhouette in shadowed grace.

Despite her somber attire, every movement she made exuded elegance—measured, fluid, and almost unnaturally poised. Her presence was undeniable.

She gazed down at him with cold, impassive eyes. He couldn’t see them, but he could feel them.

Then she spoke.

"You will be of great use to me."

Her voice was calm. Smooth. Devoid of warmth.

After that, everything went dark. His consciousness, already on the brink, slipped away completely.

The oppressive tension that had gripped the room vanished in an instant.

The figures surrounding them—guards, attendants, dignitaries—all immediately fell to one knee, bowing low in reverence.

Every gaze turned toward the veiled woman, heads bowed as if before divinity.

She turned her attention to the king seated on the throne. His face remained passuve and indifferent.

She broke the silence.

"So cold,"

She said, her voice lilting slightly, almost amused.

"You aren’t going to give me a hug? Or a kiss?"

The king parted his lips.

"You cracked my floor."

His words were blunt, echoing off the marble walls.

The Queen followed his gaze down to the crater in the floor where Mike had been embedded.

"Oops. Sorry about that,"

She replied breezily. Her fingers snapped.

A figure appeared instantly—a Royal Guard, distinguished by the unique trim of his uniform.

He bowed his head.

"Clean this up,"

The Queen ordered, her tone still casual.

The guard obeyed without hesitation, already summoning magic to mend the damage. Mike’s unconscious body was hauled away, limp and bloodied.

He would no doubt be interrogated, his memories and knowledge torn open like a ledger.

As the leader of the mercenary group, he possessed far more sensitive information than any of his subordinates.

That was the whole point of inviting him to the palace under false pretenses—capture and interrogate. Simple. Efficient.

Then the king suddenly erupted into a violent coughing fit.

The Queen approached, slow and composed, and embraced him gently from behind. A warm red glow flowed from her hands into his chest, pulsing softly.

The coughing eased. The king stared down at his palm, now stained bright red with coughed-up blood.

He sighed heavily.

"I’m too old for this,"

He murmured.

But the Queen heard him.

"No, you’re not,"

She said softly.

"Compared to me, you’re still a baby."

"Yes. ’Compared to you,’"

He echoed, placing dry emphasis on the phrase.

"I’m not an elf. You should be making preparations to crown the next king."

"I already am,"

She replied without pause.

Her arms remained around him. The figures that had once populated the room had banished without prompting, leaving only the two of them.

"And how are your preparations coming along?"

The king asked.

"Well..."

The Queen hesitated, just slightly.

"I don’t really have much to work with."

"Lovainne?"

He prompted.

She gave a slow nod.

"He certainly is an option."

"That boy will not yield to your... requirements,"

The king warned.

"His hatred runs deep."

"I know,"

She said, lips pursed in thought.

"But what other options do we have? The younger one is extremely brilliant, but too much of a coward.

The older one is worse—too ambitious, too bloodthirsty. As for the others, they’re either dead, invalid, or not even worth mentioning."

The king frowned, his brow creasing.

"What about Vaelen, of the second consort?"

She considered for only a moment before replying in her usual soothing tone.

"The seventh is still too young. Not only that, a certain Von Heim daughter has her claws sunk deep into him."

The king seemed faintly surprised, but he gave nothing away.

They remained in silence for a long while.

Then he spoke again.

"Perhaps we’ll need to introduce an outsider."

"Perhaps,"

The Queen agreed.

"I’ll leave it to your good judgement."

"...Okay."

...

Back in the Cross Manor, Lugh was already preparing to advance the next phase of misinformation—to keep their hidden enemies blind and stumbling.

And to do that, the first step was clear: he had to distance himself from Selaphiel and Zhou.

Due to recent developments, the two of them were out in public without their customary veils, leaving their long, pointed ears fully exposed.

Lugh didn’t think they’d realized yet. He certainly wasn’t about to remind them.

Selaphiel’s bloodline was something of an open secret in magic circles, but it was still officially classified.

If it weren’t, she would never have endured the constant annoyance of wearing those veils in the first place. Lugh had seen how much she hated putting them on.

Even so, the two of them drew attention like flames drew moths.

People gawked openly. A journalist, with his heavy camera, was clearly itching to snap a picture of those stunning, otherworldly faces.

But he didn’t dare. Something in his instincts told him his life would fade faster than the flash.

It was precisely because of that spotlight that Lugh stepped away.

As long as he remained near Selaphiel and Zhou, no one would dare approach him.

They’d just continue staring, and that would hurt his chances. He needed interactio natural and convincing.

It was a strange thing to act like you were impersonating yourself, but Lugh believed he could pull it off.

He studied the crowd. Most of them were young, of course they were.

Then, as if on cue, someone approached him. Naturally this time. A drink held in hand.

Lugh steeled himself.

"Here we go"

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