Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love
Chapter 354: The Unchangeable Outcome

Chapter 354: The Unchangeable Outcome

Not far from where the duel raged, Lyan’s Valkyries fought their own battles. Alice, her blade slicing through the enemy with deadly precision, glanced toward Lyan and Lucan’s fight. Her eyes gleamed with admiration as she watched Lyan handle the young warrior so effortlessly.

"He’s toying with him," Alice muttered under her breath, her sword flashing as she cut down another soldier.

Surena, her daggers dripping with blood, nodded in agreement. "Look at the way he moves. It’s like he’s barely even trying."

Emilia, standing a few paces away, her greatsword cleaving through a group of enemies, let out a low chuckle. "Lyan’s always like that. Makes everything look easy."

Josephine, who had been blasting away enemies with her magic, paused for a moment to watch. Her eyes narrowed as she took in the scene before her. "Lucan... he’s supposed to be one of the strongest warriors in Hektor’s army, isn’t he?"

"Yes," Wilhelmina said, her tone thoughtful as she swung her staff, knocking a soldier off his feet. "But look at how Lyan’s handling him. It’s like watching a lion play with a cub."

Raine, her bow drawn as she loosed arrows into the ranks of the enemy, nodded. "Lyan’s too strong for his own good."

"He’s not just strong," Ravia added, her voice quiet but full of admiration. "He’s graceful. Every move is perfect, every strike precise. It’s like he’s dancing."

The women continued to fight, but their eyes couldn’t help but drift toward Lyan as he faced off against Lucan. Even as they fended off soldiers, there was a quiet awe in the way they spoke about him, a shared understanding that they were witnessing something extraordinary.

But as they marveled at Lyan’s prowess, their eyes were drawn to a different scene—a figure slipping through the chaos of battle, moving quickly and quietly toward the safety of the stronghold.

It was Hektor.

"He’s running," Josephine said, her voice filled with disdain as she pointed toward the fleeing lord. "Look at him. He’s abandoning his son."

Wilhelmina’s eyes narrowed as she watched Hektor disappear behind the walls of the stronghold, his guards following close behind. "Coward. He’s leaving Lucan to die."

Alice shook her head, disgust clear on her face. "What did you expect? He only cares about himself."

The women exchanged glances, their expressions hardening. While they continued to fight, a cold fury settled over them, the sight of Hektor’s cowardice fueling their resolve. They fought harder, their strikes more vicious as they tore through the enemy ranks.

And all the while, Lyan continued his battle with Lucan, his movements graceful and powerful, like a storm unleashed on the battlefield.

But even with all of his strength, Lucan knew deep down that he couldn’t win. Lyan was just too strong. Too skilled. Too overwhelming.

Lucan’s breath came in ragged gasps as he circled Lyan, his muscles aching from the effort of trying to land a meaningful strike. His armor, once pristine and glowing with magic, now bore the marks of Lyan’s relentless defense. Sweat trickled down his face, mixing with the dirt and blood of the battlefield. But through it all, the burning fire in his eyes remained.

(He’s... too strong...)

The thought echoed in his mind with every blocked attack, every swing of Lyan’s massive glaive that sent shockwaves through the air. Lucan could feel the heat from his own magic-infused sword coursing through his veins, but it wasn’t enough. Lyan wasn’t just powerful—he was impossibly fast, impossibly skilled. Every strike Lucan attempted was met with a swift, effortless counter, as if Lyan could predict his every move before he even made it.

Despite the heavy weight of exhaustion settling over his body, Lucan couldn’t give up. He wouldn’t. His father’s words—those sharp, demanding words that had shaped his entire life—rang in his ears.

(I can’t lose. Not like this. Not in front of him.)

He lunged forward, his flaming sword slicing through the air in a wide arc. The heat radiated from the blade as he channeled every ounce of strength into the swing.

(This time... I’ll get through!)

But just as his blade was about to connect with Lyan’s side, the glaive moved with a speed that defied reason.

CLANG!

The sound of metal meeting metal reverberated through Lucan’s bones, the force of the block sending him stumbling backward. His heart pounded in his chest, a mixture of fear and frustration tightening in his throat.

Lyan, his expression calm and composed, twirled the glaive in his hand, the massive weapon seeming weightless in his grip. "You’ve got spirit, I’ll give you that," he said, his voice steady. "But spirit alone won’t win this fight."

Lucan clenched his teeth, rage bubbling up inside him. He couldn’t accept this. Not after everything he had been through. He was supposed to be one of the strongest warriors in his father’s army, a name feared on the battlefield. And yet, here he was, fighting like a child against a man who barely seemed to be trying.

(I have to find a way...)

Lucan’s mind raced as he darted to the side, trying to find an opening in Lyan’s defense. He shifted his weight, aiming for the flank again—this time faster, with more precision. His sword flared with fiery light as he swung, the flames burning hotter than ever.

CLANG! Once again, Lyan’s glaive intercepted the strike with effortless grace. Lucan barely had time to register the block before Lyan countered with a powerful swing of his own. The glaive sliced through the air, cutting a path toward Lucan with terrifying speed. He barely managed to jump back in time, the blade missing him by inches.

(That’s close...)

Lucan’s chest tightened as he felt the force of the near miss. His legs trembled, but he forced himself to stay upright, his sword still alight with flames. The weight of the battle was starting to take its toll, but he couldn’t stop now.

With a roar of frustration, Lucan charged forward again, his body fueled by pure adrenaline. His movements were erratic, desperate, each swing of his sword more reckless than the last. He could feel the heat of the fire coursing through him, pushing him to keep going, to keep fighting.

But no matter how hard he fought, Lyan remained in control. Each of Lucan’s attacks was met with a calm, calculated response. Every strike he landed was blocked or dodged with ease. It was as if Lyan was moving at a different speed, playing a different game entirely.

Lucan’s vision blurred as exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him, but he couldn’t stop.

(I have to do something... anything!)

Desperation clawed at him as he decided to gamble everything on one final strike. Lucan planted his feet firmly in the ground, gripping his sword with both hands as he gathered all of his remaining magic into the blade. The flames roared to life, growing taller, hotter, until they consumed the entire sword in a raging inferno.

(One more... just one more...)

He sprinted toward Lyan, his sword raised high. The flames crackled and hissed, leaving a trail of fire in the air behind him as he moved with all the speed he could muster.

(This time... I’ll break through!)

Lyan’s gaze remained steady as he watched Lucan’s charge. There was no fear in his eyes, no hesitation—only a quiet understanding of what was about to happen. He readied his glaive, the weapon gleaming in the dim light of the battlefield, and waited.

Lucan’s heart raced as he drew closer. He could feel the heat of his own magic burning in his veins, the weight of his father’s expectations heavy on his shoulders. He gritted his teeth, pushing himself to move faster, to strike harder.

His sword swung down in a fiery arc, aiming for Lyan’s head. (Now! This is it!)

But before the blade could connect, Lyan’s glaive moved with blinding speed. CLANG! The impact of the weapons meeting sent a shockwave through the air, the sheer force of the collision rattling Lucan’s bones. His sword was stopped dead in its tracks, the flames flickering and dying as Lyan’s glaive held firm.

Lyan’s eyes met Lucan’s, and for the first time in the fight, Lucan felt the full weight of his opponent’s strength bearing down on him. It was like standing before a mountain, immovable and unbreakable.

"You’re strong," Lyan said, his voice calm. "But you’re not strong enough."

Lucan’s heart sank as the truth of those words hit him. He had given everything he had, poured every ounce of his strength and magic into that final strike—and it hadn’t been enough.

His arms trembled, his sword feeling impossibly heavy in his hands. His legs wobbled as exhaustion crashed down on him, threatening to buckle his knees. He staggered back, breathing hard, the fire in his eyes dimming as the realization of defeat settled over him.

Lucan took a shaky step back, his chest heaving with the effort of standing. He glanced up at Lyan, who remained poised, his glaive still at the ready, but his expression softer now, almost understanding.

(He’s... too strong. I... I can’t win.)

Lucan’s mind raced, searching for something, anything that could turn the tide. But deep down, he knew it was over. Lyan wasn’t just stronger than him—he was on a completely different level. This fight had never been winnable. And yet, Lucan couldn’t bring himself to surrender. Not with everything he had riding on this battle.

"I see it in your eyes," Lyan said, his voice cutting through the noise of battle. "You still want to keep fighting. But I’ll give you one last chance. Walk away."

Lucan’s grip tightened around his sword, though his body screamed in protest. His pride wouldn’t allow him to stop now, not after coming this far. He wasn’t just fighting for himself—he was fighting for his father, for the legacy of their house. For everything he had ever known.

"I won’t," Lucan said, his voice hoarse but defiant. "I won’t stop. Not until one of us falls."

Lyan sighed, his eyes narrowing slightly. "So be it."

At that moment, a gust of wind swept through the battlefield, and Lucan’s gaze shifted for just a second. In the distance, he saw Hektor, his father, slipping away from the chaos, his guards surrounding him as he retreated toward the safety of the stronghold.

(H-He’s leaving me...)

The realization hit Lucan like a blow to the chest, but he couldn’t afford to dwell on it. Not now. Not with Lyan standing before him, ready to strike.

Lucan took a deep breath, raising his sword one last time. His body ached, his mind was clouded with fatigue, but he had no choice. This would be his final stand, the last chance to prove himself.

"I’ll make this quick," Lyan said, raising his glaive as he prepared to end the fight.

Lucan’s heart raced as he tightened his grip on his sword.

(This is it. One last strike.)

With a shout, he charged forward, his sword blazing with the remnants of his magic, determined to end the fight on his own terms.

And then the final clash began.

Beginning and ending so quickly with his head flying to the air.