Gunmage-Chapter 263: Dance of wraiths and tendrils

The temperature in the chamber plummeted as a wraith—formed of sinister, translucent mystique tinted a spectral blue—emerged into view.

It glided forward like mist possessed, rippling with malignant intent.

Lugh watched with furrowed brows, unmoved while most others in the grand hall recoiled in astonishment.

The patriarch of the Cross family had begun with a spell unique to their bloodline. Many had expected him to crush his opponent through sheer force control, not resort to family-exclusive conjuration.

Almost simultaneously, Lyra’s aura flared, flooding the space with invisible pressure as her long auburn hair began to levitate unnaturally—rising and writhing in the air like serpentine tendrils from some ancient myth.

The patriarch narrowed his eyes. Whatever hesitation or confusion he might have felt was instantly dispelled. The atmosphere snapped taut like a drawn bowstring, the tension growing brittle. freeweɓnøvel~com

Then—motion.

Lyra’s hair extended at blistering speed. Solidifying at the tips like dozens of serpentine spears, all launching forward in a synchronized assault.

Her father reacted instantly, pivoting to the left, twisting his body with an acrobatic grace that defied his age.

The wraith moved in tandem with him, charging directly toward the incoming attack.

A concussive quake split the air, followed by a shockwave that rattled the chamber. Lyra’s attack had penetrated the stone wall behind the patriarch, the impact sending heavy clouds of dust billowing outward in thick plumes.

But the wraith—unfazed—pressed on. Its incorporeal form phased through the assault with eerie fluidity, completely unaffected by the physical strike.

It surged ahead with increased velocity, its elongated, skeletal hand outstretched as it tore through the air, leaving behind a thick trail of frost.

The surrounding temperature dropped another degree, the chill brushing the bones of everyone present.

Lyra narrowly dodged the frigid swipe, the ghost not relenting for a second. It continued hounding her, a relentless predator.

Her father was already back in motion. He moved like wind, effortless, unburdened by age, another malevolent ghost trailing close behind.

Lyra’s auburn locks lashed out again, swift and feral like enchanted whips—but each strike phased uselessly through the incorporeal figures.

She couldn’t make contact. She couldn’t block. She could only evade, relying solely on footwork and reaction.

As the patriarch and his second summoned wraith closed in, Lyra abruptly turned in their direction and opened her mouth in a scream—yet no sound came.

But the effect was immediate.

The patriarch was blasted backward, flying several meters as the invisible force scrambled his senses. The wraith beside him disintegrated the moment the wave touched it, vanishing in a burst of frost and whimpers.

Without pause, Lyra spun back toward the first wraith. Her mouth opened once more, but this time the silent imitation of an explosion was followed by a real one—an eruption of furious blue and golden flames that incinerated the ghostly entity on contact. It screamed as it was reduced to cinders mid-charge.

Shock painted itself across the faces of the onlookers. Before the silence could settle, Lyra’s overextended whiplike hair shot forth, coiling around the patriarch’s waist like a rope of vengeance.

With brutal force, it dragged him across the chamber like a sling. He slammed into a stone wall, the impact thunderous, enough to shatter bones—had it not been for rapid deployment of mana shields and precise force control to dampen the damage.

The section of the hall where he landed was now obscured, thick plumes of dust curling upward in gray clouds.

With a single mental command, Lyra yanked back her hair—only to find the grip utterly empty.

The temperature plummeted again. Even the spectators could feel it now—a biting cold that settled in their marrow. It was the telltale sign.

From the dust cloud, tens of smaller wraiths burst forth like a swarm of malevolent bees. Their translucent blue vessels undulating like wisps of smoke as they homed in on their prey.

They zeroed in on Lyra with terrifying speed, sharks drawn to blood.

She met them with another concussive blast—a silent scream that tore through the vanguard.

The ones at the front were shredded into nothingness, but the rest spread out, surrounding her on all sides.

This couldn’t continue. Though controlling her hair cost her little, her other spells devoured mana at a worrying rate. She had to shift tactics, adapt, or risk depletion.

But she wasn’t given the chance.

The swarm began to change. The ghosts stopped moving of their own accord, then began to converge—drawn by some invisible, magnetic force toward the patriarch’s outstretched palm.

Their wails filled the hall, a chorus of the damned that pierced through the mind and echoed in the soul. The shrieks stabbed at the audience’s nerves, causing many to wince.

The ghosts collided together, melting into a single mass—a pale blue ghostflame that grew larger by the second, spinning and flickering like a living curse.

Lyra’s mother rose from her seat, alarm etched into every line of her face.

"Is he serious?!"

She stepped forward, intent on moving—but was restrained almost immediately by those beside her.

"This is a traditional duel! You can’t interfere!"

"Unhand me!"

A brief scuffle broke out in that part of the audience, whispers rising to shouts. But no one dared approach the center of the hall, where the flames grew ever brighter and larger, casting twisted shadows on the walls.

Lyra didn’t strike back. Instead, she concentrated, rapidly expanding her hair, stacking and layering it in front of her to form a thick, cocoon-like barrier—an impenetrable dome of living armor.

Lugh, his eyes fixed unblinking on the ghostfire, clenched the edge of his seat, his knuckles white. Yet sensing the hidden auras of Xhi, Selaphiel, and Zhou somewhere in the crowd, he held himself back.

The flames, once massive and boiling, suddenly compressed—shrinking in an instant to the size of a candle flame. Yet its aura was suffocating, pressing down on every soul present with disproportionate menace.

The patriarch snapped his fingers.

The flame flew like a shot arrow.

Lyra’s barrier pulled inward at the same speed, cocooning her entirely.

Protective enchantments embedded in the hall flickered to life in response. The blast hit, and the chamber trembled as if struck by divine wrath.

A titanic shockwave followed, pulverizing stone into dust and debris. Then came the second wave—a rolling tide of pale blue fire, crashing forward like a tsunami of spectral wrath.

"Lyra!"

A voice rang out, filled with anguish.

Lugh heard it but said nothing.

He only stared.

It took several long seconds for the smoke to thin and the dust to settle.

The battlefield had transformed into a scorched inferno of ghostly blue fire.

The flames licked across the ruined stone, sickly colours merging with natural light pouring through the ceiling windows that remained strangely pristine despite the cataclysmic devastation below.

At the center, only the caster remained—unburned, untouched.

And not far from him stood a darkened ball of tangled, charred hair.

The sphere quivered.

Then, slowly, the blackened mass began to fall away—shedding ash to reveal vibrant auburn strands beneath.

They unfurled like a blossoming flower, revealing Lyra’s unbroken form.

She wiped blood from her lips with the back of her hand, unshaken.

The patriarch smirked.

"As expected."

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