Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love
Chapter 279: The Killer of The Lightning Spirit (1) The Interrogation

Chapter 279: The Killer of The Lightning Spirit (1) The Interrogation

The moon hung high in the night sky, casting a silvery glow over the encampment. The preparations for the victory march towards Astellia’s capital were well underway, with soldiers and servants bustling about, ensuring everything was in place for the grand event the next day. Fires crackled, casting a warm light that mingled with the moon’s ethereal glow, creating an atmosphere of anticipation and triumph.

Lyan, however, had other plans. Slipping through the shadows, he moved with practiced stealth, his steps silent against the cobblestones of the Duke’s castle courtyard. His destination was the prison deep within the castle’s bowels, where he hoped to find answers. The night was his ally, its darkness providing the perfect cover as he navigated through the maze of soldiers and sentries.

He encountered a few close calls along the way. A group of soldiers, laughing and sharing stories of their victory, almost stumbled upon him as he pressed himself against a wall, blending into the shadows. He held his breath, his heart pounding in his chest, until they moved on, oblivious to his presence. Another time, a lone guard patrolled a narrow corridor he needed to pass through. Lyan waited patiently for the guard to turn the corner, then darted forward, his movements swift and silent.

Lyan moved with the fluid grace of a shadow, slipping through narrow alleys and across open courtyards with equal ease. His black cloak billowed slightly behind him, the fabric blending seamlessly with the darkness. The soft rustle of his clothing was masked by the ambient noise of the encampment, the clinking of armor, and the distant chatter of soldiers.

At one point, he nearly walked into a pair of sentries deep in conversation about the upcoming parade. Lyan froze, his body pressed flat against the cold stone wall, every muscle tensed. The soldiers paused a mere arm’s length away, their faces lit by the flickering light of a nearby torch. Lyan could hear every word, the excitement in their voices, the clinking of their armor. He remained motionless until they resumed their patrol, their footsteps echoing down the corridor.

Slipping past a storeroom, he noticed a servant girl struggling with a heavy crate. She stumbled, nearly dropping it, and Lyan reached out instinctively to help, catching the edge of the crate and steadying it. She looked up, startled, her eyes widening in surprise. Before she could react, Lyan put a finger to his lips, signaling for silence. The girl nodded, understanding, and hurried off, leaving Lyan to continue his journey.

As he neared the entrance to the prison, he encountered his final obstacle: a seasoned guard, one who clearly took his duty seriously. The guard’s sharp eyes scanned the area methodically, and Lyan knew he couldn’t rely on luck this time. Waiting in the shadows, he watched the guard’s pattern, timing his movements perfectly. When the guard glanced away, Lyan slipped past, a silent specter in the night.

Finally, he reached the prison. The heavy wooden door creaked open just enough for him to slip inside. The air was damp and cold, carrying the faint smell of mold and despair. Torchlight flickered against the stone walls, casting eerie shadows that danced in the corners. He moved deeper into the prison, his ears straining for any sound that might betray the presence of guards.

Navigating the labyrinthine halls of the prison, Lyan’s mind was focused and alert. The damp air clung to his skin, and the faint, echoing drips of water added to the oppressive atmosphere. He passed rows of empty cells, each one a silent testament to the countless souls who had suffered within these walls. He could almost hear the echoes of their despair, but he pushed the thoughts aside, concentrating on his mission.

As he approached the cell he sought, he heard the low murmur of voices. Peering around a corner, he saw a soldier attempting to interrogate a man chained to the wall. The prisoner was gaunt, his clothes tattered and filthy, but there was a defiant spark in his eyes. His dark hair was matted with grime, and a beard framed his hardened face. Despite his dire circumstances, he held his head high, refusing to give in to the soldier’s demands.

The soldier, growing frustrated, delivered a final threat before storming out of the cell. "You’ll talk eventually," he snarled, "or you’ll rot here forever."

The prisoner remained silent, watching the soldier leave with a mixture of contempt and relief. As the torchlight dimmed with the soldier’s departure, Lyan seized his opportunity. He stepped into the cell, his presence startling the prisoner, who had just begun to relax.

"Where is he?" Lyan’s voice was a low, dangerous whisper.

The prisoner looked up, his eyes narrowing in confusion. "Who?"

Lyan’s eyes hardened. "You know who I mean."

A slow, mocking smile spread across the prisoner’s face. "Ah, it must be you, Evocatore. What are you looking for?"

But it wasn’t Lyan who emerged from the shadows next. Griselda, her silverish-white hair cascading down her shoulders, stepped into the cell. The prisoner’s mocking expression dissolved into one of sheer terror. "You... you’re supposed to be dead."

But it wasn’t Lyan who emerged from the shadows next. Griselda, her silverish-white hair cascading down her shoulders, stepped into the cell. The prisoner’s mocking expression dissolved into one of sheer terror. "You... you’re supposed to be dead."

Griselda’s presence was like a storm rolling in, her eyes cold and unforgiving. Without a word, her fist shot out, connecting with the man’s face in a blur of motion. The force of the punch sent him sprawling, blood trickling from his nose and mouth. He stared up at her, his eyes wide with fear.

"Where is your boss? Your true one, I mean," Griselda demanded, her voice cold and unyielding.

The prisoner coughed, a weak laugh escaping his bloodied lips. "I don’t know what you mean."

Griselda’s eyes narrowed, and she stepped closer, her presence imposing and relentless. The prisoner tried to shrink away, but the chains held him fast. She could see the truth in his eyes—he knew exactly what she meant, but he wouldn’t speak.

The air grew thick with tension. Griselda’s rage was a palpable force, her fists clenching and unclenching at her sides. She continued her interrogation, her voice steady and unforgiving. "You know who I’m talking about. Where is he?"

The prisoner’s silence was like a challenge, his resolve crumbling under the weight of her gaze. She didn’t stop, her questions slicing through his defenses like a knife. Each denial, each evasion was met with a blow, her fists moving with lethal precision. The cell echoed with the sounds of flesh meeting flesh, the prisoner’s groans of pain mingling with the steady drip of blood.

As Griselda struck him again and again, memories of her own suffering flooded her mind—images of betrayal, loss, and the relentless pursuit of vengeance. Every punch was an outlet for her pent-up fury, each strike fueled by the injustices she had endured. The prisoner’s defiance only served to amplify her anger, his resistance a reminder of those who had wronged her.

Finally, he broke. His eyes wide with terror, he whispered, "He’s gone. We only get orders from afar, nothing more."

Griselda’s face twisted in frustration and rage. "Fucking bastard!" she spat, slamming her fist into the prison cell’s wall. The stone cracked under the force of her blow, but she didn’t stop. She hit the wall again, and again, each strike fueled by her fury. The sound of stone cracking echoed through the cell, a testament to her unyielding strength and determination.

The prisoner watched in silent horror, his body trembling with fear. He had seen many things, endured countless tortures, but nothing compared to the sheer, unbridled wrath of the woman before him. When she finally stopped, the cell was silent, save for the prisoner’s ragged breathing. Griselda turned to Lyan, her eyes blazing with anger and determination.

"Let’s go to that fucking Duke," she said, her voice cold and resolute.

Lyan nodded, his expression grim. He understood her rage, shared in it, and knew that her mission was far from over.

Respecting her wishes, he has been searching for hints and threading carefully in case he meets his killer. But the candidates that he mentally noted didn’t even appear.

The Valkyries’ sworn enemy, Loris, and the black-cloaked man with him, who completely has a different aura from the person before him right now.

Lyan let out a sigh. "Let’s go swiftly,"

Together, they slipped out of the prison, their minds set on their next target. The night was still thick around them, but they moved with purpose, their steps silent as they navigated the castle’s dark corridors.

Their footsteps were silent, but the air crackled with barely-contained energy as they called upon their lightning mana. The flickering light from the torches seemed to bend away from them, casting their surroundings into deeper shadow. Only the occasional flash of blue light hinted at their presence, a testament to their speed and precision.

People could only hear the crackling of lightning but not their silhouette as they used their lightning mana at full throttle to speed up their journey. Their resolve was unshakeable, each step bringing them closer to their goal, the promise of retribution driving them forward.