Gunmage

"The Von Heims are merciless—they'll kill me!"

"Calm down."

She spoke down to him, her tone cold and impersonal.

"Didn't you hear? I'm here to protect you."

Although she uttered those words with some semblance of authority, Victor knew—without a shred of doubt—that they were a blatant lie.

If one were to sum up everything she had actually told him since their unfortunate association began, the message became quite clear: an attack that came after he had delivered the goods wouldn't implicate him.

He would, in theory, be spared. But if the strike happened before then—if anything occurred prematurely—it would immediately mark him as an accomplice. A collaborator.

Something they had previously claimed—so confidently—wasn't going to happen.

Victor clenched his fists, jaw tight, his nails digging faint crescents into his palms as he stared at the woman in front of him.

She remained seated with her arms folded, unmoved by his panic. If he had the magic ability to see through opaque objects, he'd have discovered the truth hidden beneath her mask: an utterly callous expression devoid of empathy or concern.

In all honesty, she couldn't care less about Victor's fate. She wasn't here for him. She was on assignment. She had a mission. And so long as that mission was accomplished, nothing else mattered.

Coincidentally, that mission had nothing to do with his protection.

No, not at all.

Her actual task was to intercept and apprehend a potential assassin—one who might be sent to eliminate Victor. That was her true objective.

Because if it was discovered that Lady Selaphiel had stooped so low as to orchestrate the silencing of a legitimate witness to her crimes, then even her status as a Von Heim wouldn't shield her from the consequences.

Victor's survival was a convenience at best, but certainly not a necessary one.

The only complication was Victor's intelligence.

Despite his erratic behavior and tendency to act contrary to logic, he was sharp—too sharp. She was beginning to suspect that he had already discerned the real reason she was by his side.

That suspicion was confirmed not long after.

Victor said nothing through the remainder of the auction. Not a word. At first, it seemed unimportant—maybe he was shaken, maybe fatigued.

But then came the critical moment: he made no further effort to bid. Not a single attempt on the remaining important materials that had been clearly outlined for him.

She immediately knew something was wrong.

The auction eventually reached its climax with all the grandeur expected of such an affair. The final item was a ceremonial sword—ancestral, crafted by an extinct noble house, and buried in legend.

It was sold for an obscene amount of money. Not quite as much as what had been spent on the earlier relic, but still enough to raise eyebrows.

And that was when Victor stood.

He didn't glance at the items he'd purchased. Didn't move toward them. Instead, he walked—calmly, deliberately—toward the very man he had crossed swords with earlier.

The one whose pockets he had drained in their vicious bidding war. The stupidly rich one who had lost his temper in front of everyone.

The man noticed the approach and instinctively squared up, adopting a hostile stance. He was ready for a confrontation, and everyone else in the room braced for it too.

All eyes turned. Some leaned forward in anticipation. Even the event security—who usually had little to do in events attended only by highborns—began to mobilize toward them.

But the clash never came.

Victor leaned in and whispered a single sentence.

Just one.

And the man froze.

Expression blank, he nodded.

Together, with eerie composure, the two of them exited the grand chamber—calmly and cordially—leaving the room behind them filled with stunned silence and no small amount of confusion.

The woman who was supposedly assigned to "protect" Victor felt her instincts screaming.

Something was wrong. Very wrong. She scanned the remaining guests warily, mind spinning, before deciding to follow them.

But not too closely—too much proximity would raise suspicion. It might compromise her cover, and if the enemy was watching, it could expose her mission.

She followed at a calculated distance—far enough to seem uninvolved, close enough to track them.

Yet, despite her efforts, she lost them in the crowd. It was inevitable, really. The exiting process was carefully staggered, each guest leaving through alternate routes and intervals to protect their identities.

Still, losing sight of him was a liability.

Eventually, she reached one of the expansive halls at the surface level, turning sharply at a corner—and stopped dead in her tracks.

There, kneeling on the marble floor with his head pressed against the polished stone, was Victor.

"I'm sorry!"

He shouted.

Standing in front of him was the man from before. The same one he had dueled at the auction. The same one he had whispered to.

But now, his white mask was gone. His face, finally revealed, wore a sneer that oozed disdain.

"Is that all?"

He asked.

"I'm sorry! …Your Grace!"

She blinked.

Stunned.

What in the hell was happening?

Moments earlier:

Victor had realized he was well and truly screwed.

His network of contacts, fallback plans, and alternate escape routes couldn't be utilized. They all required time—time he simply didn't have.

He needed to send signals, contact handlers, coordinate smuggling routes—none of which could be done in the next few minutes.

So, he did what he was best at.

He improvised.

During the earlier chaos of their bidding war, the man he'd been sparring with had made a mistake. In a moment of unguarded rage, his real voice had slipped through.

Victor caught it immediately—filed it away, dissected its tone, cadence and dialect.

He ran it through the mental filters.

Cross-referenced with body type, temperament, mannerisms, financial behavior.

Only a handful of nobles fit the bill.

But none stood out like Orion—a rising figure in the Mornveil family. A younger heir of the house entrenched in the family's darker dealings.

And now, everything made sense.

The Mornveils. Of course it had to be them.

One of the top three noble houses in Ophris. The de facto leaders of trade. Their reach was vast, their influence colossal. Victor now saw the extravagant bids not as excess, but as power plays—flexes.

He recalled the dossiers.

Orion, though not yet thirty, was well-known for his arrogance, overblown self-image, and insatiable appetite for indulgence. Lavish spending. Expensive hobbies. Forbidden pleasures. The man reeked of privilege.

But that didn't mean he was a fool.

The Mornveils wore a facade of orthodoxy, but they operated deep in the shadows.

A significant chunk of their influence came from grey markets—or outright illegal ones. Orion in particular was said to control a large portion of the northwestern pirate armada.

Well—technically, his father controlled it. Orion was merely being prepared. Groomed. And from what Victor had seen, the man showed potential.

Victor had leverage. He had information. And he planned to use it.

He approached. Whispered the armada's creed—an insider phrase no outsider should know. That got Orion's attention.

He then proposed an urgent arrangement: an escape. Victor needed out of Ophris, and fast.

The Von Heims were already mobilizing, and Pyrellis would soon become a battlefield.

Only someone with Orion's kind of network could get him out in time.

Orion was intrigued. But also… proud. Far too proud.

He wanted compensation.

A public apology. A humiliating one. A spectacle to satisfy his bruised ego after Victor's earlier antics.

What he hadn't anticipated was just how utterly shameless Victor could be when his life was on the line.

Hence the scene.

"I'm sorry!"

Victor's voice rang with desperation.

Orion's eye twitched. Just then, a strange woman turned the corner and caught sight of them.

He hesitated. Then gave Victor a subtle nod.

"Get up."

Victor's thoughts spun.

He had to escape.

And likely, he'd be the only one to make it out.

His mind briefly flickered to those he was leaving behind. His connections. His so-called family.

Nothing.

He wasn't attached to any of them.

The few people he could genuinely consider allies wouldn't be in the crosshairs of the Von Heims. His wife? A waste of time and faith. He'd caught her cheating repeatedly.

His parents? Siblings? They considered him a failure. A stain on the family name. Completely unaware if his true talents.

Only his children sparked any hint of regret. But even then… he doubted the Von Heims would harm them.

They weren't savages.

Just efficient.

Brutally, terrifyingly efficient.

To outsiders, the Von Heim family appeared dormant and passive. But that image was a lie.

Centuries of inactivity had simply lulled others into a false sense of security. The truth was that they were as dangerous as ever—just patient. Always waiting.

And now, they would act.

Victor only hoped he wouldn't be anywhere nearby when they did.

Back in the heart of the Von Heim estate, oppressive auras ignited—powerful enought to trigger the defensive wards in an instant.

Deep in the gardens, Selaphiel smiled.

She had been waiting for this moment.

"We have guests,"

She said in a singsong tone.

"It would be rude not to greet them."