Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 512: Royal Final Battle (3)

The Crimson Knight exploded out of the swirling steam as though a siege-ram had grown legs and fury. Every plate of his armor screeched on its rivets, metal teeth grinding until sparks leapt into the haze. Lyan planted his boots, shifting just enough that the glaive’s butt kissed the marble for grounding. His eyes tracked micro-movements: the shoulder that lifted half a breath after the knee, the stutter in each stride where sigils on cuisses and vambraces fought one another for authority. Nothing the knight did was his own doing—it was a dozen ancient commands arguing in a single body.

(He’s no longer human. Just a puppet dancing on cursed threads.)

Griselda’s verdict cracked like tinder in a hearth, impatience humming down Lyan’s arms until the metal haft tingled. He tasted copper on his tongue—the familiar tang of lightning waiting for release.

(End it swiftly. He’s too dangerous now.)

"Swift, yes," Lyan whispered, letting his breath steady into a four-count cadence. The heat roiling off the knight beat against his face, sweat prickling under his collar. He noted the hinge at the elbow already glowing orange, the faint whistle of boiling blood forced through overstressed veins. A man would have collapsed. A relic-driven corpse did not enjoy that mercy.

Boot met marble with a cannon-crack. Timing couldn’t be better. Lyan stamped the glaive’s blade into a spiderweb of hairline fractures he’d spied earlier—faults left by centuries of royal processions. He thrust Arturia’s cool white mana through the weapon first, spreading it like oil on water so the lines lit up, defining the cracks. Then he poured Griselda’s lightning in a single, disciplined blast.

Blue-white radiance raced beneath the floor, turning ancient lapis into liquid glass. The stone sank before it melted, the weight of the palace forcing it to sag like bread left too long in the sun. The knight’s next step plunged shin-deep into a glowing pool. Steam roared upward, coating his visor in instant condensation.

He bellowed—less a voice than furnace wind. Lyan’s stomach knotted at the smell: scorched oil, iron, and something unmistakably human.

The knight tore one leg free with a wet pop, chunks of half-molten marble clinging like slag. He swung a sword longer than most men were tall, the edge painting an angry red sweep through the fog. Lyan ducked under, felt the hair at his crown singe, pivoted on the ball of his left foot.

Cynthia’s calm, insistent tone cut through the rush of blood. (You must sever the connection to the sigils. Break their hold.)

He answered her with action. Feint left—draw the monster’s weight that way—then pivot right so close he smelled burnt leather through vents in the gorget. Up close, the sigils were clearer: knotted glyphs that crawled across plating like glowing barnacles. Some pulsed in time with a heart no longer beating; others jerked erratically, forced to pump mana where arteries had failed.

Lyan’s left hand pressed flat to the breastplate. He felt every ragged vibration of overheated metal, felt the skin beneath blister and split. Compassion rose, a sting behind his eyes, but he boxed it away. Mercy now meant ending the suffering faster.

Golden light blossomed under his palm—Cynthia’s gift. Where the light touched, rune-lines flared, overfed on pure mana, and burst one by one with soft, pitiful snaps. The chain of magic unspooled; the sword drooped; the knight’s knees buckled.

For half a second the visor slit revealed something that might once have been eyes—grey, empty, grateful? Lyan would never know. The colossal frame slumped forward and hit the marble with a hiss like quenched steel. Steam gushed from every seam, and a long exhalation escaped the helm—as though the armor itself sighed in relief before falling silent.

The sanctum breathed once, then held its breath. Oil lamps flickered, freed from the oppressive heat. The Queen’s coronet winked out, a guttered candle. On the dais, the King reeled as though someone had cut his puppet strings instead.

"No... No!" His voice cracked, high and ragged. "Get up! I command you! Protect your king!"

A command meant for pawns now echoed uselessly against pillars of serpent stone. Lyan straightened, heart hammering but gaze steady. "There’s no one left to protect you," he said, each word dropping like a stone in still water. "It’s over."

The King’s eyes bulged, veins black beneath skin gone parchment thin. He staggered toward the obsidian throne and slammed both palms onto its arms. The throne drank him in greedily. Emerald veins that had once been decorative flared with sickly green luminescence, and raw mana—stolen from generations of subjugated provinces—poured into the monarch’s bloodstream.

Lightning spidered across his crown, down his temples, lighting sweat into sizzling beads. Flesh beneath turned translucent; muscle fibers glowed like smoldering ropes.

Cynthia’s warning sliced through Lyan’s mind. (He’ll explode! Stop him!)

There was no time for elegance. He lunged, boots skidding on still-cool glass. The haft of his glaive rose in a short, brutal arc—no flourish, no grace. It smashed beneath the King’s jaw with the dull crack of bone on wood, sending teeth and a spurt of blackened blood into the air. The crown—that obscene sunburst—flew, heliocentric arcs spitting sparks as it pin-wheeled. It hit stone, bounced once, then lay dark and inert.

Power snuffed out. The King folded, wheezing scarlet foam. "All... of you..." he rasped, as if words were lacerations in his throat, "betrayed... me..."

For a heartbeat, Lyan almost pitied him—then remembered villages razed under royal decree, children orphaned for tax rebellions. Pity evaporated. freewёbnoνel.com

Silken shoes padded across marble. The Queen, freed of the crown’s tyrannical whisper, stood taller than he’d imagined she could. Shadows of fresh wrinkles carved years across her cheeks, but in her eyes blazed an authority no relic had granted. She raised a hand—steady despite tremors that wracked the rest of her—and slapped her husband. The crack rang louder than swordplay.

"You betrayed us first," she said. Resolve made her voice a blade; grief softened the edge but didn’t dull it.

The King’s head lolled. Whatever answer he planned died in his throat.

Lyan let the moment hang before he turned, seeking the princesses. Ara crouched a few steps away, teeth dug into her lip so hard blood welled. Her gauntlet—now half-dead yet still hungry—had welded itself to blistered flesh. Every twitch sent pulses of corrupted mana up her arm; violet veins crawled toward her collarbone.

Kassia knelt beside her sister, mirror-sword discarded but eyes glittering with hate when Lyan approached. Rage looked heavy on her; exhaustion heavier. She raised her chin as though expecting a blade.

Lyan dropped to one knee, setting the glaive aside so its edge pointed harmlessly away. "Let me see," he said, voice plain, almost gentle. When Kassia made no move, Ara nodded weakly, lifting her trembling arm.

The clasp had fused; only ripping it away would free her. He frowned—too crude. Instead, he slipped two fingers beneath a gap where metal curled from heat and whispered a thread of white mana. The line traced inside, illuminating the gauntlet’s lattice like sunlight through cracked ice. Identifying the keystone rune, he pressed a thumb to it. Cynthia’s light flared, bright and clean.

The gauntlet convulsed, runes strobing as though trying to scream. One by one, they fizzled out. Metal lost tension, joints sagging like puppet limbs cut free. Lyan peeled it back, layer after layer, each motion coaxing rather than tearing. Ara bit down on a cry when scorched leather finally lifted from raw skin, but tears in her eyes sparkled—relief more than pain.

Cynthia poured cool radiance through Lyan’s hands into flesh, knitting burst capillaries, closing open blisters. Color returned slowly. Ara’s fingers flexed, marvel-wide, like a child discovering movement for the first time.

Kassia’s shoulders sagged, the steel pride that had held her spine straight leaking away like water from a cracked jug. Fury still rimmed her lids, but shock loosened the tight line of her mouth. Even so, she forced her chin up and let hatred burn through exhaustion. "Don’t think this absolves you," she rasped, words gravel-rough from smoke and battle‐screaming. "You’re still a killer."

The sentence should have struck like a thrown knife; instead it landed with the brittle sound of broken glass already on the floor. Lyan felt it, accepted it. He did not flinch, only met her gaze and let the truth stand between them.

"I know," he answered, voice low enough the sound slid beneath the echoing arches. He held the acknowledgement a heartbeat longer so she would taste sincerity. "But I don’t kill when I have a better choice."

He saw the words brush her anger—not quenching it, only confusing it, like wind tilting a candle flame without blowing it out. Inside, Griselda crackled with proud approval, while Cynthia offered the faintest hum of relief. Lyan exhaled through his nose, easing tension from his neck.

Ara’s whisper arose beside them, fragile as a snowflake landing on hot stone. "Kassia... he saved us." The princess’s voice wavered, trembling on the border between loyalty to her sister and reluctant gratitude toward her savior. Conflict painted her face in quick strokes: eyebrows pinched in worry, mouth trembling, eyes wide enough to show the pale ring around each iris.

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