The Lord: In Another World, I Have a Summoning Card !-Chapter 36 : The Night of Bloodshed (7)

The echoes of battle resounded from every direction, yet Gerome stood unmoving at the heart of the chaos—silent as a stone statue, his eyes fixed on the winding stone staircase that led to the upper floors of the castle.

The thunder of heavy hooves rang out across the hard floor as they charged through the side corridor leading into the inner keep.

It was the elite orc unit—the finest warriors who had followed Gerome through his bloodiest battles. They wore dark, patched and cracked armor, each piece telling the tale of a past battle, of victory or defeat.

Unlike the noisy masses below, they did not shout, did not boast. They waited in deadly silence... like blades steeped in shadow.

Gerome spoke, his voice low and rough like breaking stone: "Form up. We strike straight at the heart."

Then he advanced, his steps echoing dully through the narrow corridor, followed by a line of loyal warriors, their eyes gleaming with resolve, their hearts unfamiliar with hesitation.

.......

At the top of the castle,

Arthur stood in the council chamber, a burning candle behind him casting flickering shadows across the room’s walls and the wooden table cluttered with maps, flags, and broken pens.

Gabriel burst in, panting, his armor scratched and smeared with the enemy’s blood, his helmet gripped tightly under his arm.

He said heavily,

"They’re coming. They’ve reached the lower floor of the castle... and their leader moves with confidence, with clear intent. We believe he’s coming here himself."

Arthur’s expression didn’t change. He remained silent for a few moments, as if listening to a voice no one else could hear.

Then he turned his gaze to the small window behind him, where he could just make out the inner courtyard—specifically, the stone chest, closed and partially buried under debris.

He murmured,

"It seems we underestimated the value of that chest to the orcs. I didn’t think it held such importance... There’s something inside it, something they’re not willing to leave behind."

He let out a slow sigh and turned his gaze to Gabriel:

"I’m curious too, to know what it hides... but that doesn’t matter right now. After tonight, uncovering it won’t be difficult. In fact... obtaining it will just be a minor detail—one among the many details of victory or defeat."

Then he grasped his sword and struck its tip against the ground—a light blow, but one that rang deep—and said in a calm voice that carried a hidden storm:

"Prepare yourselves... It’s true that their entry into the castle is part of the plan we laid out, but we mustn’t let them reach it easily. After all... the deaths of the soldiers we sacrificed must have meaning."

As the orcs advanced through the winding corridors, the humans offered little resistance, continuing to fall back further and further, until every corridor seemed like a sealed tunnel leading into a trap.

Gerome continued his ascent, and so far the path had been suspiciously easy. No one had confronted him.

Not a single defender dared face him. But Gerome was not one to be easily deceived; his thoughts raced with growing unease:

"They’re not slowing us down... Why? What are they planning?"

Each step he took echoed heavily through the corridors, but the fear of revealing his location was gone. The chaos of the battle below was enough to drown out the sound. As for him, he climbed steadily, like a storm headed for the heart of the enemy. 𝒇𝓻𝓮𝓮𝙬𝙚𝒃𝒏𝓸𝙫𝒆𝙡.𝓬𝓸𝒎

And when they reached the top of the castle, where the council chamber lay, the massive doors stood ajar—half-open, as if awaiting them.

Gerome didn’t hesitate. He looked to two of his elite soldiers and commanded firmly:

"Close the door behind us. I want no one following... and no one escaping. Today, we either walk out with Arthur’s head... or we don’t walk out at all."

Inside, the council chamber was strangely still. No voices. No shouting. No clashing steel.

A heavy silence... as if the room itself were holding its breath, waiting for the explosion to come.

Suddenly, the doors of the grand hall creaked open—a soft sound, yet one powerful enough to silence every other noise, as if the very air in the room had been stilled.

Arthur appeared, standing at the center of the hall, bathed in the faint glow of the great torch behind him. His features looked like a shadow from a forgotten age.

Surrounding him stood a number of soldiers—clearly different from those the attackers had faced during the fortress breach. Their presence was extraordinary: standing with the stillness of statues, each one radiating an indescribable aura... like the calm before a storm.

Arthur stepped forward, and his voice came out quiet, yet carried a heavy weight. Piercing through the silence, it landed like an arrow:

"I had serious doubts about the value of that object... but I never expected you would come for it yourself, Orc Commander Gerome."

Gerome showed no sign of surprise at hearing his name. Unlike Arthur—who had only recently appeared in the region with the outbreak of war between humans and orcs—Gerome’s name had long echoed throughout the North.

He had led most of the winter raids into human lands and was regarded as one of the fiercest orc leaders, a nightmare that haunted the minor and mid-ranking nobles of the northern provinces.

He had personally decided to lead the campaign to seize this region from the beginning of the conflict, engaging in dozens of battles against Baron Edrick’s forces, until it culminated in the baron’s defeat and his replacement by Arthur and his newly arrived army.

So it was no surprise that Arthur knew who led these forces.

But what caught Gerome’s attention—what made his breath catch for a moment—wasn’t Arthur, nor his soldiers...

It was the man standing to Arthur’s right.

A man in his mid-forties stood there—despite wearing the standard uniform of the soldiers, his presence was overwhelming, impossible to ignore. His mere existence altered the very gravity of the hall, as if the silence itself had grown heavier with his arrival.

That aura... Gerome had felt something like it before. It belonged to a rare class of orcs—those he had encountered during special gatherings among the great clans. He couldn’t pinpoint the man’s exact strength, but the sheer pressure radiating from him was enough for Gerome to recognize: this man was on par with him, at the very least.

Of course, Gerome wasn’t afraid. Even if they were equal in rank or power, the racial advantage of orcs always tipped the scales in his favor—with their superior physicality and innate combat abilities.

That edge had long been the source of his absolute confidence that, once he completed the shamanic rites and broke through to the Bronze Rank, he would be able to conquer the Iron Keep—no matter how strong its defenders were.

The current backup plan—hastily devised—could still lead to victory, but it was recklessly aggressive. Yes, it could break the fortress, but it would likely break his army with it. The cost would be severe: between sixty to seventy percent of his forces might be wiped out, even if they won.

And yet... what felt unnatural—what clawed at Gerome’s instincts—was that strange sense of unease that swept over him the moment he saw Arthur’s smile.

That smile... it wasn’t normal.

It carried something sinister within it. A cold mockery—not the smile of a warrior ready to face a duel, but that of a butcher preparing for slaughter.

Gerome pushed the unease aside and spoke in a deep, rumbling voice, dripping with scorn:

"At first, I thought the human commander bold enough to steal from the orcs was a brave man... someone seeking vengeance after years of us raiding your lands.

Or maybe just a fool, who underestimated his enemy and ignored the natural difference between us—even if our numbers were the same."

Then he smirked even more mockingly and continued:

"But it seems you’re neither of those things... just a noble brat, barely weaned by his mother yesterday, sent today by his family to play at war—surrounded by a handful of tamed guards to make sure he doesn’t fall off his horse."

He then turned his gaze steadily toward the mysterious man standing beside Arthur, and his tone shifted slightly:

"And you... from your aura, I’d say you’re the knight guardian of this child. You seem to be at the peak of Iron Knight level, and maybe that’s why this boy feels so safe... He allows himself to provoke others, fully confident that you’ll handle any threat in his place. Isn’t that right?"

His eyes returned to Arthur, now gleaming with open challenge, and he said coldly:

"I don’t know which noble house you crawled out from, you cheeky little runt... but let me offer you one final piece of advice: It’s best you return what you stole, and go back to your family’s embrace, along with your loyal servant here...

Otherwise, no heritage—no matter how grand—will save you once the walls fall."

The sound of steel clashing against stone rang out, and shouts echoed like the roar of beasts inside a sealed cave.

The orc elite surged inward—faces grim, eyes ablaze with warlust. Heavy footsteps pounded the polished stone floor, long spears raised, and massive axes descended like the hammers of demons.

The first clash was brutal.

Arthur’s summoned soldiers, arranged in a strange battle formation, faced the elite head-on without retreat. Their eyes bore no fear, only cold focus—like finely tuned war machines.

Every strike they delivered aimed for joints, weak spots—places only someone trained for years in real combat would know to target.

Gerome himself charged into the front lines.

A scream tore through the air, and his black armor trembled under the force of blows. His face was smeared with the blood of his enemies, and a mocking smile was etched across it.

But he quickly noticed... that every step he took forward was met with precise resistance, every attempt to break through their defenses was countered by a clever move.

One of the summoned soldiers grabbed an orc’s weapon and pulled his opponent toward him, then delivered a brutal kick to his knee that sent him collapsing, before driving his spear straight into the orc’s throat.

One of the orc captains shouted, "They’re not falling back! They’re using a military formation to trap us!"

In the corner, the battle between Gerom and the mysterious man resembled a hidden martial arts exhibition.

The stranger moved with an unsettling calm, as if the chaos around him didn’t exist. He held no sword, used no obvious magic. He merely... raised his hand.

And in an instant, Gerom found himself slammed to the ground, as if something unseen had struck him square in the chest. The air was forced out of his lungs violently, and he couldn’t comprehend how he fell—he hadn’t seen an attack.

He rose, dragging his massive body forward, still unsure what had just happened. Then, with a furious roar, he lunged at the man with a massive spear, shouting:

"Fight me!"

But the man didn’t move an inch. He merely tilted his head slightly, as if observing a tantrum-throwing child.

And when Gerom reached him with his shield and spear thrust, the man vanished... only to appear behind him without a sound. Gerom felt a crushing pressure at the back of his neck—like a mountain had been dropped on him.

He staggered, took two shaky steps backward, and whispered, eyes wide:

"This isn’t a fight... this is a game."

The man finally laughed—a soft laugh, but laced with an unsettling cruelty—and said:

"At last... you’re starting to understand."

Gerom lunged with his spear—striking, slashing, maneuvering—but every blow slipped past the man as if his body had no weight.

One moment he ducked beneath it, the next he spun over it, and once, he halted Gerom’s full-force thrust with just two fingers.

Gerom, who had always been a fearsome opponent, was now breathing heavily. Sweat dripped down his face, and his eyes tracked his opponent’s movements with growing unease.

The man wasn’t fighting... he was playing. Advancing and retreating like someone testing a new dance.

And in the back, Arthur watched.

His eyes calm, as if reading a familiar book. He raised his hand and ordered a unit of summoned soldiers to move toward the left flank, where a group of orcs was attempting to circle around.

The maneuver shattered within seconds, and the sound of axes dropping and steel clanging against stone echoed through the hall.