Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 442: The Take Over (1)

The world fell quiet as Lyan stood over the trembling, broken form of Lord Alstan Ferindale. The once-proud noble now lay sprawled against the cool marble of his shattered hall, coughing up blood and whimpering for mercy. His silk robes were torn and stained with soot, the fine embroidery reduced to ragged threads. Rings that once glittered on his pudgy fingers were gone, lost in the scuffle and scattered like worthless pebbles across the flaming ruins. The faint crackle of distant fires lent a feverish glow to the scene, painting the stones in wavering shades of orange and black.

Lyan gazed down at him, eyes gleaming in the firelight like shards of obsidian. He didn’t speak at first, letting the tension coil around them. The tip of his glaive hovered mere inches from Alstan’s throat, the polished steel reflecting the flicker of flames. A single thrust could have ended everything. Alstan, his breath ragged, tried to squirm backward, but his weakened arms found no grip on the slippery floor.

"Please... mercy..." he croaked, voice reduced to a pitiful rasp. "I—I can pay... anything. Anything." His once-haughty tone now quivered with desperation, his lips trembling as he waited for Lyan’s verdict.

In the shaky glow of the ruined hall, each breath Alstan took was a harsh, labored sound. His cheeks glistened with tears he tried to hide. The trembling in his limbs betrayed the deep terror coursing through him—a terror fed by the knowledge that, for once, his gold could not protect him.

Lyan inhaled through his nose, that single breath carrying a silent judgment. In one swift motion, he flipped the glaive in his hand and brought the blunt side of the blade crashing into Alstan’s temple. The heavy thud echoed, and Alstan’s eyes rolled back before his body collapsed like a sack of flour. The hall fell even quieter, if that were possible, as though the stones themselves were stunned by this display of finality.

"He won’t die yet," Lyan muttered, letting the glaive rest against his shoulder. He cast a glance at the unconscious lord, noting the flicker of shallow breaths still in his chest. "His humiliation will speak louder than his blood."

A ripple moved at the edge of the chamber, where shapes of living darkness gathered. The flickering firelight revealed them—Shadow Servants, stitched from gloom, each with a fluid, eerie grace. They responded to Lyan’s will with silent obedience, drifting forward to bind the fallen noble in inky coils. Their forms seemed intangible until they moved, pinning Alstan’s arms and legs as though molding the very night around him.

Ravia arrived soon after, her cloak singed at the hem but her posture steady. Blood clung to her blade, and the acrid scent of smoke trailed her like a ghost. Behind her, Josephine snapped shut a ledger, the echo of the clap sharp in the stillness.

"The city is ours," Ravia reported, wiping her sword’s edge with a torn strip of cloth. Her eyes flicked to Alstan’s inert form, then back to Lyan. "Signal towers are rubble, so no calls for reinforcements can leave. Resistance... done. Some pockets tried to fight, but they couldn’t stand against us."

Josephine’s gaze roamed over the hall’s wreckage, settling at last on Lyan. "Civilian zones are intact. Minimal conflict. Our side lost about a dozen people in the breach. They weren’t ready for our style of coordinated attacks."

Lyan absorbed the information with a single nod. He turned his head to glance through a half-destroyed archway toward the south plaza, where plumes of smoke curled into the starless sky. The stench of burning oil and fear merged into one pungent aroma. A dull roar from a distant collapsing structure rumbled like thunder in his ears.

"Then the first flame has caught," he said in a low voice that carried across the hall. "Let’s fan it now."

(You’re enjoying this too much)

Griselda’s voice slid through his mind with a teasing edge.

(The man begged like a child)

Eira murmured, her tone devoid of pity.

Lyan offered no verbal reply. He could feel the wash of heat from nearby fires, sense the tang of ash coating his lips. When he looked at the flames, he didn’t just see destruction. He saw the unraveling of illusions—Alstan’s illusions of invincibility, the city’s illusions of security, and perhaps even Varzadia’s illusions of superiority. In these embers, Lyan recognized power. Not power in raw violence alone, but in the message it sent: that they could strike anywhere, that no wall was too tall.

(The war isn’t won with blades alone,)

he reflected, narrowing his eyes as sparks drifted into the night sky. (It’s won with symbols.)

He paused, letting the weight of that thought settle over him like a mantle. Soon, the city would awaken fully to the reality of their new captors. Soon, rumors would spread about how quickly their defenses fell. And soon, fear would root itself in the hearts of any Varzadian noble who still believed they were safe behind gold and arrogance.

Ravia shifted in front of him, bringing him back to the present. The swirling black shapes of the Shadow Servants were already dragging Alstan’s limp body through a corridor that had once boasted priceless tapestries—now singed and hanging in tatters. In the flickering glow of the half-destroyed hall, Lyan caught glimpses of fallen sculptures and broken candelabras, each a testament to how swiftly a life of luxury could be reduced to ruin.

"He’s heavier than I expected"

Ravia commented silently, half to him, half to herself, as she gestured for two soldiers to assist the Shadow Servants. The men lifted Alstan’s limp form with grim precision, mindful of the finality in Lyan’s voice.

Josephine tapped the ledger in her hands. "I found a stash of accounts. He kept meticulous records of bribes, of hush payments to outlying villages. All that gold... Let’s just say we won’t be wanting for supplies anytime soon."

Lyan’s lips twitched in a near-smile. "Keep it safe. We’ll need it if we want to hold the region."

She nodded, tucking the ledger under her arm. Her gaze drifted to the flickering shadows dancing on the walls, her features etched with a quiet satisfaction. "This city’s wealth, ironically, becomes the means to topple the rest of Varzadia."

Outside, a muffled crash resonated, followed by distant shouts. The city was a web of small battles, but none that threatened the main hold. Ravia’s infiltration teams had done their work well: The signal towers were in ruins, and no organized resistance could form. The enemy was scattered, panicked.

The acrid tang of burning timber filled the air, and a swirl of soot drifted in through a shattered window, forming ghostly shapes before disappearing into the gloom. Lyan took a step forward, stepping over a toppled statue that might once have been a symbol of Alstan’s lineage.

His gaze drifted to the open night sky, visible through a torn section of the roof. Stars peeked through, indifferently watching as the city’s old regime collapsed. He wondered briefly how many times he had done this—toppled someone who believed in their own unassailable power. And yet, each new victory felt different, shaped by the stakes of the moment, by the people who stood beside him.

The memory of the Southeastern front, recently seized with minimal losses, flickered through his thoughts. In that conflict, strategy and illusions had paved the way to victory, reaffirming that cunning could outweigh brute force. And now, standing amid Alstan’s downfall, Lyan felt that truth crystallize further.

(We have them reeling,)

Eira observed, her voice tinged with approval.

(They thought they were safe. Let them see how fragile they truly are.)

(Let them quake in their beds,)

Griselda added with a purr.

(Fear is a powerful tool, so long as you know when to tighten the leash.)

(You guys are enjoying this a lot, aren’t you...?) (Lyan)

A soft scuff of footsteps alerted him to another arrival. Surena slipped in from a side entrance, her cloak smelling faintly of ash. She bowed her head. "We’ve secured the east gate. The cavalry stands ready if there’s any further skirmish, but it looks like most of them fled."

He angled his head in acknowledgment. "Let them run. Their flight will spread the tale of tonight’s downfall far better than we can."

Surena gave a wry smile and glanced at Alstan’s limp form, now just a shape dragged away in the gloom. "And him?"

"Alive, but not free," Lyan replied curtly. "He’ll serve as a reminder."

She nodded, a note of respect in her gaze. Then, with no further words, she slipped back out, her footsteps lost in the background roar of distant flames.

Lyan turned back to Ravia, whose posture remained poised for orders. "Take a squad and begin a thorough sweep of the keep. Confiscate every ledger, every letter. We’ll need all the intelligence we can gather."

"Understood," she responded, then vanished into the same corridor Surena had used. Her footsteps were quieter than a cat’s, even on the debris-littered floor.

Left momentarily alone with Josephine, Lyan took a slow breath. "Two hundred lost, you said?"

She nodded. "Mostly new recruits and a few unlucky ones. They charged in too eagerly. War exacts its toll."

He closed his eyes, inhaling the acrid air, tasting it on his tongue. "Every life matters, but some will always be lost."

Josephine reached out, placing a hand gently on his forearm. "Your plan spared a thousand more. That’s what they’ll remember."

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