Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 444: The Take Over (3)

(At least she’s having fun,)

he thought, aware of the dryness creeping into his own throat. He had spent the night in the thick of the siege, illusions and Shadow Servants weaving a tapestry of confusion that paved the way for an almost surgical strike. Now, seeing his companions handle the aftermath, he felt a faint relief. They were all cogs in a precise machine—he set the stage, and they managed the next steps.

Outside, Surena led mounted patrols through the larger thoroughfares, stabilizing key intersections. The thunder of hooves echoed down the wide avenues, the cavalry’s presence drawing awe-struck gazes from the people who peeked out behind boarded windows. Surena’s mountain tribeswomen—renowned for their fierce loyalty and nimble riding—alternated formation with towering winter wolves that padded at the edges of the group. Lyan glimpsed them through a cracked window, the white-gray fur of the wolves glowing against the dusty streets. The sight was surreal, a mix of primal wilderness and regimented discipline. Citizens, still rattled by the night’s violence, stared in muted wonder.

He shifted his focus to the upper levels of the gatehouse, where Alice stood, her silhouette outlined by the bright sky. Her posture was confident, hands on her hips, scanning the newly captured city with a hawk’s gaze. A skinny runner bounded up the steps to deliver a sealed scroll. She read it with a curt nod, then dispatched him with three more sets of orders in quick succession, each one directed at a different post.

"Checkpoints every five blocks," she called, her voice cutting through the brisk morning air without needing to shout. "Roving patrols alternate in three-hour shifts. No gaps." There was a crisp finality to her words, as if a general used to her orders being obeyed instantly.

Lyan watched her for a moment, arms still folded. Her expression was calm, almost detached, yet he knew that behind that exterior was a razor-sharp mind evaluating every detail. She flicked a glance downward, locking eyes with him briefly. He nodded his approval, though he could feel a small twist of fascination: (She doesn’t need a battlefield to win a war, he mused. She is the battlefield.)

Down below, Emilia and Raine moved through the city’s public squares, each square a hive of restless citizens uncertain about their new occupiers. Some cowered behind crates or peered from narrow doorways, but many were drawn by curiosity or hunger to see the new rulers up close. Raine, cheerful even in the aftermath of destruction, carried a torch to light a symbolic brazier in one square, its warm glow dancing in the eyes of the onlookers. Emilia stood beside her, cradling a basket of bread which she handed out piece by piece. The gesture was simple but powerful—food in exchange for trust, or at least acceptance.

"This isn’t vengeance," Emilia said, her voice carrying an empathetic weight that caused several townsfolk to shuffle closer. "This is order. This is how things begin again. You’ve all seen a city fall to rot. Now, it’s time to build anew."

A man, standing near the back with trembling hands, mustered the courage to step forward. "And the soldiers... will they stay?" he asked, his voice quivering between fear and hope. "Are you conquerors or... protectors?"

Raine winked at him, adjusting the torch in her hand so the flame didn’t scorch the fresh wood of a rebuilt stall. "Only if you feed them good soup," she joked, the lightness in her tone easing the tension. "Don’t worry, they’re housebroken. They won’t bite unless you give them reason."

A wave of quiet laughter rippled through the crowd, uncertain but genuine. Even a few children, peeking out from behind their mothers, giggled softly. The tension in the square lessened, replaced by a cautious curiosity.

Near the palace gates, Wilhelmina stood, arms folded over her chest, scanning the gathering crowds. Her stance radiated authority, yet she carried none of the cruelty that Alstan had exuded. Behind her, scribes and engineers hustled to and fro, crossing off tasks from lengthy lists. She glanced at Lyan, who approached with measured steps across the scorched courtyard. Soldiers parted, giving him a wide berth, still respectful after the previous night’s swift conquest.

Within hours," she said, tilting her head toward the squares where Emilia and Raine were distributing bread and calm words, "they’ll be calling us saviors. Not invaders." A layer of guarded optimism clung to her voice. She knew how public opinion could shift like loose sand underfoot, but for now, the advantage was theirs.

Lyan gave a faint smile. The light breeze carried the scent of smoldering embers and fresh-baked bread in odd contrast. "Then let’s not disappoint them."

_____

Dawn crept in red and gold across the city rooftops. At the Grand Marble Plaza, once home to parades and noble speeches, thousands of citizens gathered—drawn by whispers, by the smoke, by that strange spark of hope that sometimes emerges from rubble. The first rays of sunlight glanced off the broken marble pillars and scorched facades, illuminating faces that were weary from fear but unable to resist the pull of curiosity. They came because they sensed an ending—and a beginning.

A platform had been raised at the plaza’s center, hastily assembled from collapsed beams and remnants of the old city stage. The rough edges gave it a stark, rugged quality, as though proclaiming that the old elegance was gone. Behind it, the Astellian banner flew high, catching the new light and casting a long shadow over the people below. It stood in stark contrast to the battered cityscape, a bright emblem of the force that had arrived. freēwēbnovel.com

Lyan stood at the platform’s edge, silent as stone. His posture was upright, but weariness clung to him—the sort that accompanies a night spent seizing a city with tactics and illusions. Still, his eyes were as sharp as ever, scanning the swelling crowd, noting their expressions—some fearful, some resentful, some subdued by the sheer spectacle.

Then came the dragging of chains. The sound was dull yet ominous, scraping the plaza’s cracked stones. All heads turned, and a collective hush fell like a weighted blanket over the gathering. Alstan, dirty, bruised, and barely conscious, was hauled into the light. His robe, once a proud display of wealth, now hung in tatters. One eye was swollen shut, and dried blood clung to the corners of his mouth.

Gasps spread through the crowd in ripples. No one had expected to see their lord, the man who had trumpeted his invincibility, brought so low. The bruise on his cheek was vivid in the morning glow; the shredded finery at his collar was a powerful symbol of his fallen status.

He stumbled but caught himself at the edge of the platform, glaring at those who watched with a mix of outrage and terror. "You... filth..." he rasped, spitting words that quavered with pain, "you’ll never rule this city..."

A hush followed, the crowd pressing closer. Some recognized Alstan’s voice—familiar from official proclamations and self-important speeches—but it was different now: raw, trembling, stripped of authority.

Lyan stepped forward slowly, letting the tension coil between them. The caked blood on Alstan’s face, the quiver in his stance, all of it told a story of downfall. "Your walls didn’t fall because they were weak," Lyan said evenly, his voice carrying over the plaza. "They fell because your pride blinded you."

He reached out, unhurried yet purposeful, and stripped Alstan of his rings one by one. Each one clinked against the broken wood of the platform, and the noble twitched at every metallic sound. A hush of shock or maybe grim satisfaction passed through the crowd. Lyan tore the mantle from Alstan’s shoulders, and the fine fabric tore with a hiss, leaving him trembling and exposed.

"This man," Lyan said, raising his voice for all to hear, "called himself your protector. He gorged himself on your taxes, built towers of gold while your streets crumbled. He used fear as armor and thought it made him invincible." As he spoke, his glare swept the onlookers, making sure each person felt the gravity of his words.

He stepped aside, allowing the crowd an unobstructed view of Alstan’s pitiful state. "He will not die today. He will live—live to watch what leadership truly means. He will be our message to the next lord who dares call arrogance a shield."

There was a moment of raw silence, thick as oil. Then someone—an old woman near the front—spat on the ground. Her contempt resonated across the plaza, and more followed, spitting or murmuring curses. But they were curses at Alstan, not at the men who brought him low.

Alice approached from behind, stepping onto the platform with a calm, measured stride. Dust clung to her boots, and her hair was pulled back in a tight, no-nonsense bun. "Orders?" she asked, her voice level yet respectful of the tension in the air.

"Take him to the secure hold," Lyan said, not tearing his gaze from Alstan’s battered figure. "Let him watch us rebuild his city without him." His words rang with finality, as though he had pronounced a sentence far heavier than mere execution.

Alstan screeched as soldiers yanked him by the chains. Broken curses poured from his lips, but they met only the stony silence of the crowd. He kicked feebly at the boards underfoot as they dragged him away. That same hush clung to the onlookers, like they couldn’t quite process that their once-untouchable lord was now just a pitiful spectacle.

But the plaza did not echo his screams. It echoed only the quiet that comes after a truth is laid bare. And then, respect—respect for the power that had taken the city, for the discipline they’d shown, and perhaps for the faint possibility that life might become better under these new rulers. Because at that moment, seeing Alstan’s downfall, they realized that nothing he had promised them was true. The old regime was just that—old, and gone.

Among the crowd, an elderly man clutched his grandson’s shoulder. A mother held her daughter’s hand tighter, uncertain but hopeful. They all watched, carrying their different scars, their different stories. Some had lost family to Alstan’s greed, some had lived in fear of his whims, and some had even benefited from the corruption. But no more. The new regime had laid its first claim, in a flood of smoke and steel, illusions and cunning.

Above them, the Astellian banner caught a stray gust, flapping with a sound like distant applause. Soldiers standing guard in the corners of the plaza held their weapons at rest, not brandishing them threateningly, but making it clear that order was now enforced. Stray embers from a fire set to a corner building drifted lazily in the dawn light, tiny sparks swirling against the pinkish sky.

A hush fell across the citizens, one that carried not just fear but also the faint stirring of possibility. Lyan, standing near the edge of the platform, felt the eyes of thousands on him. He could almost taste their questions: Who are you, that you can humble a lord? What will you ask of us?

He locked eyes with a few in the front row—an old woman wiping tears from her eyes, a teenage boy with fists clenched, a merchant who’d once bribed Alstan’s officials just to stay in business. Their faces were raw with conflicting emotions. Yet as they witnessed Alstan’s downfall, he saw something shift in them—a glint of acceptance or at least a stepping-stone away from terror.

(They understand,)

Griselda mused, a hint of satisfaction in her tone.

(Nothing stands against genuine cunning,)

added Eira quietly.

(Look at their faces,)

Lilith cooed,

(they’re practically entranced.)

Lyan drew a slow breath, letting the moment imprint on his memory. Whether entranced or not, the crowd stood with parted lips and furrowed brows, caught between wanting retribution and hoping for salvation. To them, Lyan’s forces were invaders, but also liberators. Alstan had promised security yet delivered oppression. Now, these new soldiers who walked under the banner of Astellia had shown that they too possessed power—only sharper, swifter, and arguably more just.

Ravia circled around the platform’s perimeter, making sure no straggling guard tried to cause trouble. She moved with her customary silence, cloak swaying at her ankles. Josephine hovered at Lyan’s side, ledger tucked under her arm, scanning the crowd for potential troublemakers. Alice, still near Lyan, kept a hand on her hip, eyes scanning the rooftops. The synergy between them formed an invisible shield around the platform—any attempt at a last-minute rebellion would be snuffed out in an instant.

For a moment, Lyan closed his eyes, recollecting his earliest fights, the illusions he’d once relied on more heavily, the deception that allowed him to triumph. So much had changed—he was no mere wandering mercenary. He was the Baron Evocatore, the so-called Devil Baron, who’d toppled more than one fortress. And in each victory, he’d learned something: arrogance breaks faster than stone.

He reopened his eyes, letting the fresh dawn and the hush of the crowd fill his senses. He glimpsed the battered city walls in the distance, scarring the horizon—a reminder that they still had more to conquer. But for now, this plaza was the stage for a new Chapter. Alstan’s battered figure being dragged away was the final punctuation mark on this city’s old story.

He raised a hand, motioning for the soldiers to guide the crowd back. Orderly, not harshly. Civilians parted like a receding tide, some trembling, others stepping aside willingly. The hush remained, pregnant with unspoken questions: What happens next? Will you feed us? Will you protect us? Will you become just another Alstan?

Lyan met their eyes with a calm, unwavering gaze. He wouldn’t speak more than necessary. He believed actions had already spoken volumes. And so he stood, the morning sun blazing behind him, the Astellian banner rippling overhead, and the citizens stepping away to make room.

Alstan’s curses faded into the distance as he was hauled into a secure hold, a place where his shouts would be walls echoing back at him, powerless. The city belonged to Astellia now, and these people belonged to a future still unwritten.

The hush lingered in the plaza. No one cheered, no one jeered. They simply acknowledged that something profound had shifted. In that echoing silence, respect bloomed. Respect for the unstoppable force that had claimed their city in a single night, for the wariness of a populace that wanted stability above all else, and for the haunting presence of the man who now stood on the platform. The man who had ended a tyrant’s reign without blinking.

Yes, the plaza did not echo Alstan’s screams. It echoed only silence. And then, respect.

Read 𝓁atest chapters at fr(e)ewebnov𝒆l.com Only