Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 443: The Take Over (2)

"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."

Perhaps. The memory of Southeastern screams echoed in his mind, but he forced it down. This was different, a step in a greater campaign—though he wasn’t sure if telling himself that made it any easier.

"Time to move," he said, shaking off the momentary heaviness. "We need to show the people who’s in charge now."

Josephine offered a faint smile. "After you, Baron Evocatore."

They walked through the ruined hall, stepping over debris and smoldering beams. In the courtyard beyond, men and women in Astellian armor moved like streams converging at the keep’s gates. Some carried water to extinguish lingering fires, others escorted civilians to safer quarters. The hush of night was broken by orders, by the crackle of flame, by the subdued whimper of the defeated.

At the far end of the courtyard, they found Alstan once more—his unconscious form propped against a chunk of collapsed masonry. Two Shadow Servants stood guard, their featureless faces revealing no emotion. A small crowd of battered defenders lay nearby, stripped of weapons, wrists bound with rope. They watched Lyan with something akin to hopeless awe.

"Bring him," Lyan commanded the shadows. "Slowly. I want every corner of this city to see."

The night parted around them as they advanced. Alstan’s weight dragged heavily, like a bag of lead, leaving a trail of dust and blood. Soldiers parted to let Lyan pass, their heads dipping in deference. None dared question or protest. After all, they had witnessed what defiance earned from the "Devil Baron." And in their eyes, it was a fitting name—he moved with an air of final judgment, as if he alone decided which structures would burn and which would stand.

They reached an archway leading to the city square, the wide expanse lit by scattered torches. Broken cobblestones bore the fresh scars of battle, and small fires still licked the edges of ruined stalls. Ravia’s team had cleared the main path of bodies, lining them discretely along the side, covered in torn canvas. The stench of death lingered, sharp and invasive.

At the sight of Lyan’s approach, the few defenders who still had fight in them simply dropped their weapons. There was no rallying, no last-ditch stand. This night had already shown them the futility of resistance.

In the center of the square, a makeshift stage of rubble loomed, likely once a platform for noble proclamations. Josephine gestured for the men carrying Alstan to lift him onto it, under the hush of a city that witnessed the end of an era.

From the darkness of an alleyway, a pair of wide, frightened eyes peered—a young woman, face smeared with dust, her arms hugging a small child. They were silent watchers. Another group of townsfolk, drawn by the dying flames and the promise of a new dawn, crept closer. Some wore expressions of raw terror, others a cautious curiosity. A few, those who had suffered under Alstan’s greed, gazed at the spectacle with grim satisfaction.

Lyan paused, scanning their faces. (They’ll remember this moment.)

He nodded once, giving the silent command. The Shadow Servants dropped Alstan’s unconscious body into the center of the battered platform. The dull thud jolted the lord back to a half-lucid state. He groaned, blinking blearily at the ring of torches surrounding him, at the eyes that stared with a mix of fear and contempt.

He coughed again, bringing up flecks of blood. His gaze darted to Lyan, hazy recognition tinged with panic. Lips parted, but no coherent words formed. He was too disoriented, perhaps too terrified to speak.

Someone in the crowd spat on the ground. A murmur of voices rippled outward, growing in volume as more townsfolk emerged from shadows to watch. They whispered of devils, of unstoppable mercenaries, of a city turned upside down in a single night.

Josephine’s ledger clutched under her arm, she stepped up behind Lyan, ensuring the city’s new "account books" were safely tucked away. She saw the crowd’s reaction and leaned in to Lyan: "They’re ready to see a new leadership, if we handle this carefully."

"Careful or not," Lyan murmured, his tone even, "they’ll see the truth tonight."

He stooped down, hooking a finger under Alstan’s collar, lifting the man’s face into the harsh torchlight. Alstan winced, blinking tears from his swollen eyes.

"Look around you," Lyan said, voice carrying through the hush. "Your illusions burn with your keep, and these people you once ruled—they’re not yours anymore."

Alstan’s lips moved in a silent protest, but Lyan simply dropped him back onto the stone with a dull thump. The battered noble whimpered, and a hush fell over the assembled crowd.

In that quiet, Lyan felt the city’s heart beating: a communal breath, a recognition that something had shifted irreversibly. The golden chain of authority that once dripped from Alstan’s every gesture was shattered. The city watched, waiting to see what shape the new chain would take.

(They need to see him this way. They need to remember that arrogance can’t save them.)

He sensed Griselda’s faint approval, Eira’s silent agreement. Even Lilith, enthralled by the drama, kept her remarks to a low purr.

Lyan looked up. The city’s skyline was cut by towers of smoke, swirling ghosts of the night’s battle. Firelight glowed like dying stars on broken rooftops. Against that backdrop, he saw not destruction alone—but the forging of something new. It wasn’t a sweet victory. War never smelled sweet, only bitter with ashes. But it was a victory that meant everything for the next step. For reminding every Varzadian noble that the so-called "Devil Baron" had arrived.

At his feet, Alstan wheezed, eyes rolling in half-conscious terror. The Shadow Servants loomed, silent and unyielding. Across from him, Ravia watched from a collapsed archway, her blade sheathed now, arms folded. Josephine hovered near Lyan’s shoulder, ledger clasped tight. And in the flickering glow, Lyan felt the shift of power flow like an undercurrent through the city.

(The war isn’t won with blades alone,) he thought, eyes narrowing. (It’s won with symbols.)

____

Wilhelmina had already taken command of the post-battle logistics, her voice calm but sharp as steel, rising above the clamor echoing through the palace’s old ballroom. The chamber, once a place of lavish banquets and noble dances, had become a command hub filled with soldiers, engineers, and medics bustling about. Sunlight streamed through shattered stained-glass windows, illuminating swirling dust motes in the air and highlighting the ragged state of the room. Ornate pillars stood chipped, and the remnants of plush draperies hung in tatters, casualties of the previous night’s siege.

"Begin routing the engineers to assess structural integrity. Prioritize the water lines and warehouse blocks," Wilhelmina ordered, tapping an ancient marble table that was now strewn with maps and crumpled notes. Her composure never wavered, even as she fielded questions from half a dozen officers. The calm precision in her voice acted like a balm, steadying everyone around her. "Patrol rotations start in fifteen minutes. Nobody rests until we’ve secured the entire district."

Soldiers hurried to carry out her commands, their boots scraping against marble floors littered with shattered tiles. The staccato of their footsteps mixed with the low murmur of scribes cataloging the city’s resources. Wilhelmina swept her gaze over them, her honey-brown hair pinned back in a neat bun that contrasted with the soot-stained armor she wore. She had no time to wash away the grime of battle—her focus was on ensuring the city’s arteries kept pumping. Water, food, shelter, and safety: that was her battlefield.

Near the doorway, Josephine darted between scribes and soldiers, a thick ledger in hand. She rattled off names and reassignments with quick, sharp words, her eyes gleaming with urgency. Alstan’s treasury lay stacked in crates nearby, each one bearing the crest of the fallen lord. Gold coins and jewels glittered in the torchlight, a silent testament to the opulence that had once been his shield against the world.

"Half this gold’s going straight into city kitchens," Josephine muttered to Lyan as she swept past him. "Let them taste the difference immediately. No better way to win hearts than through an empty stomach."

Lyan stood with arms folded, observing the whirlwind around him. He was no stranger to the trappings of wealth, but this scene of organized chaos—where Josephine scribbled notes with unrelenting fervor and Wilhelmina issued orders like a seasoned general—provided a stark contrast to the city’s earlier pomp under Alstan’s rule. He noticed a slight upward curve at the corner of Josephine’s lips, a satisfaction in commandeering the noble’s hoard for the people. For a moment, he allowed himself a flicker of amusement.

(At least she’s having fun,)

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