Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 440: The Terror of The Lord

The night was heavy, suffocatingly quiet save for the faint rustle of curtains disturbed by an idle breeze. Lord Alstan Ferindale jolted awake, his breath coming in shallow, panicked gasps. Sweat slicked his brow, soaking into the expensive silk sheets clinging to his body. He pressed a trembling hand to his chest, the phantom weight of a nightmare still bearing down on him. The vivid images of his dream lingered: walls crumbling, molten gold pooling at his feet, and a man—an unrelenting figure with a blazing glaive, his eyes piercing through the haze of destruction.

"A dream," he muttered hoarsely, forcing himself to sit upright. "Just a foolish dream." His voice trembled, betraying the faintest quiver of fear that lingered in his chest. He pressed the heels of his palms to his temples, trying to banish the haunting images that refused to fade. The man with the blazing glaive—his sharp, unrelenting gaze—remained vivid, etched into the corners of his mind like a brand.

Forcing a deep breath, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his feet finding the cool marble floor. Each step toward the window felt heavier, as though invisible chains weighed him down. With trembling hands, he drew back the velvet drapes, allowing moonlight to flood the room. The glow cast stark, elongated shadows across the lavish furnishings, their shapes twisting and bending in ways that made his heart quicken. Every creak of the floorboards and flicker of light from the candelabras felt alive, mocking his growing unease.

He peered out over his city, its walls standing tall and proud under the moonlit sky. The streets lay still, patrolled by guards whose silhouettes moved in a familiar, rhythmic pattern. This view, once a source of immense pride, now felt hollow. Unease prickled at his skin, and for the first time, he found himself questioning the impenetrability of his beloved defenses.

His gaze flickered to the shadows cast by the battlements. Were they always so dark, so deep? He squinted, leaning closer to the glass as if trying to pierce the veil of his own paranoia. His breath fogged the window, and he wiped it away with an impatient hand, only to find his reflection staring back at him—pale, disheveled, and unrecognizable.

He whispered again, as if to convince himself, "Just a dream... nothing more." But the words felt like ash on his tongue, their hollowness amplified by the oppressive silence of the chamber. His eyes darted to the far corners of the room, half-expecting shadows to coalesce into something tangible, something dangerous.

The faint rustle of curtains caught his attention, and his pulse quickened. The idle breeze that stirred them felt out of place, as if the room itself conspired to unnerve him. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to stand taller. He was Lord Alstan Ferindale, a man of wealth and power—he would not succumb to baseless fears conjured by his own mind.

Yet as he turned his gaze back to the window, a fleeting thought struck him, unbidden and unwelcome: What if it wasn’t just a dream?

His feet found the cool marble floor as he stumbled toward the window, drawing back the velvet drapes. Moonlight flooded the room, casting long shadows across the lavish furnishings and golden trinkets that adorned every surface. His city sprawled beneath him, its walls imposing and its streets quiet save for the occasional patrol. It was a sight that had always filled him with pride—and now, unease.

A sudden burst of light caught his attention, wrenching him from his spiraling thoughts. The sky was ablaze with a flare, its piercing brilliance carving through the suffocating darkness like a blade. Its cold, unrelenting glow drenched the walls and battlements in stark, otherworldly light, casting harsh shadows that seemed to breathe and shift with a life of their own. The faint glimmer of polished armor on patrolling guards caught the flare’s glow, appearing like fleeting ghosts atop the parapets. For a fleeting moment, it felt as though the city itself had become a stage for some celestial judgment.

Alstan’s heart lurched, pounding painfully in his chest as he stared, unblinking, at the fiery streak in the sky. He squinted against its oppressive glare, his hands gripping the window frame so tightly that his knuckles turned white. The once-familiar sight of his fortified city seemed suddenly alien under the harsh, unnatural light. Each stone, each shadowed alcove, now carried an oppressive weight that gnawed at his fragile confidence. Irritation swelled in his chest, mingling uneasily with a budding sense of dread.

"Guards!" he bellowed, his voice cracking the tense silence like a whip. The sound reverberated through the chamber, and he heard the hurried clatter of boots against the stone floor beyond the door.

As the doors flew open, two guards burst into the room, their faces pale and taut with unease. The sudden intrusion made Alstan’s irritation flare hotter, his temper fraying like an overworked rope.

"My lord?" one stammered, his gaze darting nervously toward the light spilling in through the window. His hand lingered on the hilt of his sword, more out of a need for reassurance than readiness.

Alstan rounded on them, his face contorted with fury and disbelief. "What is that?" he demanded, thrusting a trembling finger toward the window. "Why is the sky alight like a battlefield? Speak, you fools!"

The guards exchanged uncertain glances, their discomfort growing under their lord’s piercing glare. One ventured a hesitant reply. "We... we’re not sure, my lord. It could be a signal of some kind." His voice faltered, his eyes searching for reassurance he would not find.

"A signal?" Alstan repeated, his voice rising in incredulity. "A signal for what? Must I do your thinking for you? Imbeciles!" He stormed past them, his heavy robe sweeping the floor as he barked, "Wake the captain of the watch immediately! I want answers, and I want them now!"

The guards hesitated for a moment too long, earning a sharp glare from their master that sent them scrambling into the corridor. The door slammed shut behind them, leaving Alstan alone once more with the stark, unrelenting light. He returned to the window, his pulse racing as his eyes scoured the cityscape below. The flare’s illumination persisted, casting the familiar streets in a harsh, unforgiving light that only seemed to amplify his gnawing unease.

For the first time in his life, as he stared out over his city, Alstan felt the faint stirrings of fear—a feeling he had always dismissed as the weakness of lesser men.

The guards hesitated, but a sharp glare sent them scrambling down the corridor. Alone again, Alstan returned to the window, his fists clenched at his sides. The flare’s glow persisted, bathing the city in an unnatural light that seemed to amplify his growing unease.

Before he could dwell further, a deafening explosion shattered the silence, tearing through the stillness like a thunderclap. The ground beneath Alstan’s feet quaked violently, sending ripples through the ornate carpets and causing the delicate ornaments lining the shelves to tumble and shatter. The chandelier above swayed dangerously, its crystal pendants clinking together like frantic whispers of impending doom. Alstan stumbled backward, his arms flailing for balance as the tremor surged through the keep. His hand found the cold, unforgiving stone wall, bracing against it just as a second, even louder explosion erupted.

The force of it reverberated through his body, shaking the very foundations of the structure. Plaster rained down from the ceiling in fine, choking dust, and the air seemed to tremble with the weight of destruction. The oppressive sound was punctuated by the faint screams of panicked voices in the distance, their cries slicing through the chaos like jagged shards of glass. Flames burst forth in the distance, their orange glow licking hungrily at the night sky, casting grotesque, flickering shadows that danced across the walls of the chamber.

Alstan’s breath came in ragged gasps, his pulse pounding in his ears as his gaze darted wildly around the room. His disbelief gave way to alarm, his mind struggling to grasp the enormity of the situation unfolding outside. Somewhere deep within the keep, the faint clang of steel echoed—a grim reminder that the chaos was spreading, unstoppable and unrelenting.

Fires erupted in the distance, their orange tongues licking at the sky. The chaos below was unmistakable: shouts of alarm, the clash of steel, and the unmistakable rumble of collapsing structures. Alstan’s heart pounded as he watched the city’s ordered streets dissolve into pandemonium.

The door burst open again, and a messenger tumbled inside, his face streaked with soot and his breath coming in ragged gasps. "My... my lord! The supply depot’s been destroyed—explosions everywhere! The... the enemy’s inside the walls!"

Alstan’s eyes widened in disbelief. "Inside the walls?" he repeated, his voice rising. "How? That’s impossible! Our defenses are impenetrable!" freēwēbnovel.com

The messenger shook his head, his words tumbling over each other. "They’re shadows, my lord... they move like ghosts. The guards... they’re being slaughtered!"

Alstan’s disbelief twisted into fury. "Cowards! Useless cowards, the lot of you! Sound the alarm! Mobilize the garrison!"

"We... we tried, my lord," the messenger stammered, "but the bells... they’ve been silenced. The enemy’s already seized the towers."

"Enough of your excuses!" Alstan roared, his face red with anger. He turned to the guards who had re-entered the room, their expressions grim. "Restore order at once! I will not let this city fall to a rabble of vermin!"

But his commands were met with hesitance, the fear in the guards’ eyes betraying their doubts. Alstan’s frustration boiled over as he stormed past them, his heavy steps echoing down the corridor. "I’ll see for myself what’s happening," he spat.

He ascended the staircase to the keep’s balcony, his breath ragged with exertion. As he reached the top, the full extent of the devastation unfolded before him. Fires raged across multiple districts, their glow casting a hellish light over the city. Smoke billowed in thick plumes, obscuring the stars and choking the air. The sounds of chaos were deafening—screams, the clash of steel, and the distant rumble of yet another explosion.

His gaze swept the scene, a mix of disbelief and fury warring within him. Then he saw it. Amidst the chaos, a lone figure stood atop the city walls, silhouetted against the backdrop of flames. The man was calm, almost casual, his posture relaxed as he rested a glaive on his shoulder. The blade gleamed in the firelight, a stark contrast to the shadows that seemed to dance unnaturally around him.

Recognition struck Alstan like a physical blow. The figure’s sharp eyes, faint smirk, and commanding presence were unmistakable. Baron Lyan Evocatore—the Devil Baron. The man from the nightmare that had haunted him only hours before now stood in terrifying reality.

Alstan’s hands gripped the balcony railing as fear coiled in his chest. The rumors he had dismissed as exaggerations now seemed woefully understated. This was no mere man; this was a force of nature, a harbinger of ruin.

"Him!" Alstan’s voice cracked as he pointed a trembling finger at Lyan. "Kill him! Kill that monster!"

The guards hesitated, their fear palpable. The sight of the burning city, the chaos, and the calm, unflinching figure atop the walls froze them in place. Lyan’s smirk widened slightly, his eyes gleaming with cold amusement as he raised his glaive, its blade catching the firelight.

"Move!" Alstan shrieked, his voice breaking. "Do as I command!"

But his words fell on deaf ears. The guards’ hesitation stretched into paralysis, and Alstan’s rage gave way to desperation. His knees buckled, and he stumbled back, clutching his chest as his breaths came in short, panicked gasps.

Lyan remained unmoving, his presence a beacon of menace amidst the chaos. His shadow stretched unnaturally long, amplified by the flickering flames. The scene was surreal, almost otherworldly, as if the very fabric of reality bent around him.

Alstan’s vision blurred as his terror reached its peak. He pointed again, his hand shaking uncontrollably. "Kill him!" he screamed, his voice raw. "Kill him now!"

But Lyan didn’t move. He didn’t need to. His mere presence was enough to shatter the fragile illusion of control that Alstan had clung to. The city burned, its once-mighty defenses crumbling, and its lord was left powerless in the face of a single, unyielding adversary.

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