Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 441: The Summoner’s Magnificent Plan

Lyan stood on the city wall, his sharp eyes cutting through the chaos below. Fires roared, casting long shadows that flickered across the cobblestone streets. Screams and shouts of confusion filled the air, mingling with the distant sound of steel clashing. Smoke billowed into the dark sky, painting it with hues of orange and black. This was the chaos he had orchestrated—every fire, every panicked cry a testament to his team’s precision.

He adjusted his grip on the glaive resting against his shoulder, its weight familiar and reassuring. Below, his Shadow Servants moved like specters, blending seamlessly into the dark. They struck with surgical precision, their blades and claws ripping through the guards who dared to organize resistance. At the barracks, flames licked at the wooden structure, devouring it in a fiery blaze. The barracks had been key; without them, reinforcements would be disorganized at best.

(The barracks are gone,)

Griselda’s voice crackled with approval. (A good start, but we’re not done yet.)

(Even so, it’s exhilarating,)

Lilith purred.

(Look at the chaos. Beautiful, isn’t it?)

Lyan’s lips twitched into a faint smirk. Chaos had its uses, but it wasn’t beauty he sought. His gaze flicked toward the towers where the city’s bells remained eerily silent. His infiltrators had ensured that no alarm would be raised tonight.

(No alarms, no coordination,)

Eira’s cold tone sliced through the cacophony of thoughts.

(They’re crippled before they can even defend themselves.)

Precisely. Lyan raised a hand, signaling his Shadow Servants to press forward. They vanished into the smoke, their dark forms melding with the shadows cast by the flames. He watched as they descended upon the guard towers, cutting down the few remaining sentries with ruthless efficiency.

From his elevated position, he could see the panic spreading through the defenders. Soldiers stumbled over one another, shouting incoherent orders as they struggled to regroup. It was chaos in its purest form.

(They’re breaking,) Arturia observed, her voice calm but tinged with justice.

(But don’t grow complacent, Lyan. Even cornered animals can bite.)

Lyan nodded to himself. She was right, of course. Complacency could undo even the best-laid plans. He tightened his grip on the glaive and turned his attention to the horizon. Beyond the city walls, a faint shimmer of torchlight signaled the arrival of his main force. It was time.

He raised the glaive high, its blade gleaming in the firelight. The signal was unmistakable. Moments later, horns echoed from the distance, their deep, resonant calls carrying through the night. The sound sent a shiver of dread rippling through the city as Astellian forces began their advance.

(Wilhelmina’s done well,)

Cynthia’s voice chimed with quiet pride.

(The army is moving like a well-oiled machine.)

(Of course they are,) Hestia said with a haughty tone.

(Proper planning and flawless execution. Anything less would be embarrassing.)

From his vantage point, Lyan watched as the Astellian soldiers moved with precision. They advanced in disciplined formations, surrounding the city and cutting off any potential escape routes. The defenders, already disoriented and leaderless, stood no chance against the encroaching tide.

Below, Abraham led a small unit toward the inner walls, moving with a deliberate precision that seemed almost otherworldly amidst the chaos. His every step was calculated, his posture exuding a calm authority that contrasted sharply with the frantic panic of the defenders. Abraham’s face, lined with years of experience, remained unreadable, his eyes sharp and focused as they scanned the battlefield for opportunities. He didn’t need to shout; a single gesture or glance was enough to direct his soldiers, who followed him with an unwavering discipline born of deep respect.

The unit moved like a well-honed blade, cutting through the disorganized defenders with brutal efficiency. Every strike was measured, every movement economical, leaving no wasted energy. Abraham’s longsword flashed in the dim light, slicing through enemy ranks with the precision of a craftsman. His soldiers, inspired by his calm demeanor, fought with a confidence that only grew as they saw the enemy falter.

A group of guards rushed toward them, their faces pale and their movements erratic. Abraham raised his hand, signaling a halt. His soldiers instantly formed a defensive line, shields interlocking to create an impenetrable wall. The guards’ charge broke against them like waves crashing against rocks, their attacks deflected with practiced ease. Without a word, Abraham stepped forward, his blade sweeping in a graceful arc that cut down two enemies in a single motion. The remaining guards hesitated, their resolve wavering as they faced the unrelenting calm of the man leading the assault.

"Push forward," Abraham said, his voice steady and commanding, yet barely louder than a whisper. The line advanced, shields pressing into the panicked defenders. One soldier stumbled, his weapon slipping from his grasp, and Abraham was there in an instant, dispatching the attacker with a swift thrust before nodding at the soldier to rejoin the formation. It was a small moment, but it spoke volumes of his leadership—a leader who saw every individual’s worth, even in the heat of battle.

The defenders’ resistance crumbled further as Ravia’s team emerged from the shadows above, their strikes targeting key positions with lethal precision. Abraham’s eyes flicked upward briefly, acknowledging their efforts with a slight nod before returning his focus to the task at hand. Together, they were an unstoppable force, systematically dismantling the enemy’s defenses and paving the way for the next phase of Lyan’s plan.

(That man is terrifyingly effective,)

Griselda said with grudging admiration. frёewebnoѵel.ƈo๓

(No wasted movements, no hesitation.)

Ravia’s team, meanwhile, had taken to the rooftops, moving with an eerie fluidity that made them seem more specters than soldiers. She led the charge with unerring precision, her lithe form melting into the shadows as if they were her natural element. The glint of her dagger was brief, a fleeting flash of steel before it found its mark in a commander’s throat. The man crumpled without a sound, his lifeless body slumping against the tiles as Ravia pressed forward.

Her team followed suit, their movements synchronized as if choreographed by an unseen hand. Each strike was swift and deliberate, blades plunging into vital points with cold efficiency. The defenders, already disoriented by the chaos below, found their chain of command unraveling with terrifying speed. A lieutenant, clutching a horn to rally his troops, toppled from a rooftop, his scream silenced by the dull thud of his body hitting the ground below.

Ravia crouched low, her sharp eyes scanning the scene as she wiped her blade clean with a quick, practiced motion. Spotting a cluster of officers huddled near a signal post, she gestured silently to her team. They dispersed like smoke, fanning out to encircle their targets. Within moments, the officers were silenced, their deaths marked only by the faint hiss of blades and the soft thud of bodies hitting the ground.

The defenders’ morale shattered further with each loss, their panicked cries echoing through the streets. Ravia perched on the edge of a rooftop, her gaze fixed on the burning city below. Her lips curved into a faint, grim smile as she whispered to herself, "The heart always falls when the head is severed."

Her team returned to her side, their blades slick with blood but their expressions calm and focused. She nodded approvingly, her voice low but steady as she issued her next orders.

"The inner defenses are next. Ensure no one escapes to spread the alarm. Move swiftly, and leave no trace."

They vanished into the night once more, shadows among shadows, leaving behind only the crumbling remnants of the defenders’ chain of command. The city, bereft of leadership and gripped by fear, teetered on the edge of total collapse.

(Few things crumble faster than disorganized leadership,) Eira remarked. (She’s efficient, I’ll give her that.)

Surena’s cavalry burst through the gates moments later. The sound of hooves pounding against stone was like thunder, echoing through the narrow streets. Her riders moved with practiced ease, their lances finding gaps in the defenders’ armor with deadly accuracy. The sight of the cavalry alone was enough to send waves of fear rippling through the enemy ranks.

"Press them!" Surena’s voice rang out, clear and commanding. Her riders responded with a ferocious charge, scattering the defenders like leaves in a storm.

And then there was Raine. She darted through the chaos, her movements quick and deliberate. Explosions erupted along key escape routes, sending plumes of fire and smoke into the air. The enemy had nowhere to run, their paths cut off by walls of flame and rubble.

(Oh, she’s good,)

Lilith said with a delighted laugh. (I like her style. Explosions make everything better.)

(Lyan,)

Arturia’s voice cut through the chatter, firm and resolute. (Focus. This isn’t over yet.)

She was right. Lyan’s sharp gaze swept over the city, taking in the destruction with clinical precision. His plan was unfolding perfectly, but there was still one more piece to move.

At the heart of the city, Lord Alstan Ferindale retreated to his keep. His face was pale, his robes disheveled as he barked frantic orders at the few guards who remained. His opulent surroundings—golden chandeliers, silk drapes, and polished marble floors—were now a stark contrast to the chaos outside.

"Defend the keep!" Alstan shouted, his voice cracking.

"Do not let them breach the gates!"

His guards exchanged uneasy glances. Their lord’s bravado rang hollow, his fear evident in every word. Outside, the sound of battle grew louder. The flames’ glow danced on the walls of the keep, casting ominous shadows that seemed to creep closer with every passing moment.

Alstan’s hands trembled as he gripped the edge of the balcony, his gaze fixed on the chaos below. And then he saw him. Amidst the smoke and fire, a lone figure descended from the city walls, his glaive resting casually on his shoulder. Lyan’s sharp eyes locked onto Alstan, a faint smirk playing on his lips.

(There he is,)

Hestia said with quiet satisfaction.

(The fool who thought his wealth would save him.)

Alstan recoiled, his mind racing as he recognized the figure. The man from his nightmare, the Devil Baron himself, had come to claim his city.

"Him!" Alstan shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at Lyan.

"Kill him! Kill that monster!"

But his guards hesitated, their fear palpable. Lyan’s smirk widened as he stepped closer, his glaive gleaming in the firelight.

"You thought your gold and arrogance could shield you from the world’s harsh truths," Lyan said, his voice calm but dripping with disdain.

"Tonight, you learn otherwise."

Alstan’s bravado crumbled. His shouts became incoherent as he stumbled backward, his opulent robes catching on the marble floor. His guards, paralyzed by fear, made no move to stop Lyan as he advanced.

The final confrontation was swift. Lyan’s glaive moved with practiced ease, cutting through the keep’s defenses like a blade through silk. Alstan’s guards fell one by one, their attempts to defend him futile against Lyan’s relentless precision.

When the last guard fell, Lyan stood over Alstan, his gaze cold and unyielding. The lord of the city cowered before him, his once-proud demeanor reduced to a sniveling shell.

"Mercy," Alstan whispered, his voice trembling. "Please... mercy."

Lyan raised his glaive, the firelight reflecting off its blade. Behind him, the sounds of battle faded as the Astellian forces secured the city. The keep was overrun, the city taken.

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