Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love
Chapter 429: The Southern Front (5) Checkmate

Chapter 429: The Southern Front (5) Checkmate

The forest loomed around Commander Thallus like an unforgiving maze, thick with underbrush that tangled at their legs, branches clawing at their armor. His men moved in a loose formation, three thousand strong, but the dense woods hindered every step, reducing their progress to a crawl. The scent of damp earth hung in the air, mingled with the sweat and grime of his soldiers. The ground beneath their feet was soft, almost bog-like in places, sucking at their boots and making each step feel heavier. The sunlight barely filtered through the thick canopy overhead, leaving the forest floor in a perpetual twilight.

Thallus, a hardened veteran of many campaigns, knew that the forest was a double-edged sword. It offered cover but also slowed them down, and in the enemy’s territory, every shadow felt like a threat. His eyes scanned the path ahead, narrowing at every rustle, every unnatural sound that echoed through the woodland. He was used to the battlefield, to charging headlong into an enemy line, to seeing his men clash in the open. But this—this was different. The enemy they pursued was elusive, intangible.

"Keep moving!" Thallus barked, his voice hoarse from days of issuing the same order. He knew morale was waning; he could see it in the way his men walked, their heads hanging low, their shoulders slumped. The usual bravado was gone, replaced by apprehension. They were tired, wary, and the dense forest that should have hidden them instead felt like a cage.

Around him, the soldiers exchanged uneasy glances. The forest seemed to have eyes. They were surrounded by nothing but trees, yet Thallus knew—they were being watched. His instincts told him that the Astellian forces were out there, somewhere in the darkness of the forest, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

"Commander," one of his officers, Lieutenant Varian, approached, his armor scratched and dented from the unforgiving march. "The men are restless. They know we’re being followed."

"I know," Thallus growled, his gaze fixed ahead. "We keep moving. We have the numbers. We just need to reach the other side of this cursed forest and get to their flank. Once we get out of these damned trees, we’ll crush them in the open."

Varian nodded, though there was doubt in his eyes. Thallus could see it. He could feel it, too—a gnawing uncertainty that had taken hold of his men. As they trudged forward, a sudden shout echoed from the rear of the column, followed by the unmistakable sound of clashing steel and pained cries.

Thallus whirled around, his heart pounding. "Ambush!" he roared, drawing his sword as the chaos erupted behind him.

The Astellians had struck again—arrows rained down from the trees, whistling through the air before finding their marks. Camouflaged figures emerged from the underbrush, striking swiftly, cutting down Varzadian soldiers before melting back into the forest. Thallus watched as his men struggled, their shields raised, eyes wide with fear as they tried to make sense of the chaos around them.

"Hold your positions! Do not break formation!" Thallus shouted, but his voice was drowned out by the clash of blades and the screams of the wounded. It felt as if they were fighting ghosts, unseen enemies who struck without warning before disappearing into the shadows.

His forces were dwindling. The enemy’s tactics were relentless, attacking when least expected, sowing confusion and fear among the ranks. Around the campfires at night, Thallus could hear the whispers of his men—rumors of The Devil Baron, Evocatore. They spoke his name in hushed tones, as if even mentioning it too loudly would summon the elusive figure.

"They say he’s a monster," one of the younger soldiers muttered, his eyes darting nervously. "A demon who fights without being seen. He commands the shadows. And he has multiple wives that as strong as him,"

"Enough," an older soldier hissed, his eyes darting around as if expecting to see the Devil Baron himself emerge from the trees. "We’re Varzadian soldiers. We fight men, not phantoms."

Thallus overheard these conversations, and though he would never admit it aloud, there was a kernel of truth to their fears. It did feel like they were fighting ghosts—an unseen force that was slowly, methodically chipping away at their numbers. His own frustration simmered just beneath the surface, barely contained. Every plan they had made, every push forward, had ended in another skirmish, another ambush, and more of his men lost.

That night, he convened with his officers in a small clearing. A fire burned at the center, its light casting flickering shadows across the tired, grim faces of those gathered around it. The mood was bleak—their forces were battered, morale was low, and the forest seemed to close in on them with every passing hour.

"We cannot continue like this," Lieutenant Varian spoke, his voice tinged with exhaustion. "They are picking us off, bit by bit. We need to change our tactics."

Commander Thallus nodded, his eyes narrowed. "You’re right. We need to lure them out. They think they own this forest, that they can keep hitting us and retreating without consequence. We’ll show them otherwise."

He pointed to the map spread out on the ground, his finger tracing a path through the woods. "We split into three units. One will act as bait, drawing them in. The other two will encircle this area here," he tapped a section of the forest, "where we’ve detected the most movement. Once they’re surrounded, we strike. We cannot allow a few phantoms to dictate the fate of Varzadia! This forest will be their grave!"

The officers exchanged glances, some nodding, others still uncertain. But they had no choice. They had to fight back, to take control of this cursed forest and show their men that they were not prey.

"Tomorrow, we execute this plan," Thallus declared, his voice rising above the crackle of the fire. "We end this game of shadows. We take the fight to them, and we crush them."

A cheer, albeit a weary one, rose up from the gathered officers. It was clear that they needed something to believe in, a sliver of hope that they could hold onto. Thallus prayed that this plan would be that hope—that it would finally allow them to take back the initiative.

The next day, as the sun barely peeked through the thick canopy, Thallus’ forces moved into position. Three units split off, each moving silently through the forest, their armor muffled with cloth to reduce noise. They moved slowly, cautiously, each soldier on high alert. The tension was palpable—each crack of a branch, each rustle of leaves, set nerves on edge.

Thallus’ unit moved into position, hidden among the trees, their eyes scanning the underbrush. The bait had been set—a small contingent stationed ahead, meant to draw the Astellian guerilla fighters in. They waited, breaths held, every muscle tense as they anticipated the enemy’s approach.

Minutes turned into hours, the silence of the forest pressing in on them. Thallus could feel the sweat trickling down his back, the anticipation gnawing at him. Something felt wrong. He couldn’t shake the feeling that they were the ones being watched, that the enemy was one step ahead of them.

Suddenly, the forest erupted with noise. The sound of arrows whistling through the air, the clash of steel, and the shouts of men filled the once silent woods. Thallus’ eyes widened as he realized what was happening—the bait had gone untouched. Instead, the Astellians had found them, had used the bait to locate their true position.

"It’s a trap!" Thallus shouted, his voice barely audible over the chaos that had erupted around him. He watched as his men, caught off guard, scrambled to defend themselves. The Astellians struck from all sides, their movements precise and calculated. They moved through the forest like shadows, their arrows finding their marks, their swords cutting down Varzadian soldiers with ruthless efficiency.

Thallus swung his sword, cutting down an attacker who had emerged from the underbrush, his heart pounding. The forest was alive with the sounds of battle, the cries of the wounded mixing with the clash of steel. He could see his officers, desperately trying to rally their men, but it was no use. The Astellians were relentless, their tactics flawless.

He caught a glimpse of the figure leading the assault, a man moving with a calm confidence that stood in stark contrast to the chaos around him, wielding a glaive like a demon. Lyan—the Devil Baron, Evocatore. Thallus felt a chill run down his spine as their eyes met for a brief moment. There was no hesitation in Lyan’s gaze, only a cold determination.

"Hold the line! Regroup on me!" Thallus shouted, his voice growing hoarse as he tried to rally his men. But it was no use. The Astellian forces were too well-coordinated, their attack too precise. His officers were cut down one by one, the enemy targeting them with ruthless efficiency, leaving the Varzadian soldiers leaderless and disoriented.

The clash of steel, the screams of the wounded, the chaos of the ambush—it was all too much. Thallus could feel the battle slipping away from him, the realization sinking in like a stone in his gut. They had been outmaneuvered, outthought, and now they were being systematically destroyed.

Suddenly, the Astellian forces pushed forward, and Thallus found himself face-to-face with Lyan. The Devil Baron moved with a grace that seemed almost unnatural, his glaive glinting in the dappled sunlight that filtered through the trees. Beside him were the Valkyries—Surena, Alice, and Emilia—their swords drawn, their eyes cold and focused.

Thallus raised his sword, his arms trembling from exhaustion. He could barely keep his blade steady as Lyan stepped forward, his presence commanding, his eyes never leaving Thallus’. It felt as if the air had grown colder, the weight of the moment pressing down on him.

Wilhelmina emerged from the shadows, her gaze sweeping over the scene, taking in the chaos, the fallen soldiers, the broken lines of the Varzadian forces. Her expression was one of icy determination, her presence a reminder that they were not just fighting against an army—they were fighting against leaders who knew no mercy.

Surena, Alice, and Emilia moved in, their swords poised at Thallus’ throat, the cold steel pressing against his skin. He could see no escape, no hope of victory. His men were scattered, their morale shattered, and he was alone, surrounded by enemies who showed no mercy.

Lyan’s voice cut through the din, cold and final: "Checkmate."