Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love

Borton’s scouts returned swiftly with critical information, revealing the location of the Duke’s hidden army nestled in a dense forest to the southeast. The cover of the forest offered both concealment and strategic advantage, but Lyan knew they held the element of surprise. He convened with Borton and his commanders, laying out a bold plan for the impending assault. "We’ll attack head-on," Lyan declared, his eyes gleaming with determination. "No elaborate tricks, just a swift and brutal assault. We’ll form a spearhead to break through their defenses quickly. Borton, you, me, and the Brave Rings will lead the charge to maintain momentum."

Borton chuckled, slapping Lyan on the back. "That’s bold, Baron. I like it. We’ll hit them hard and fast, break their lines before they know what hit them."

"Stop it. Just call me Lyan," Lyan uttered with a wry smile. Being called Baron still feels weird for him.

The mercenaries and soldiers of their combined force listened intently, adrenaline coursing through their veins. As dawn broke, they moved out, advancing through the forest with the stealth of predators.

As they approached the enemy camp, Lyan mounted his aggressive black horse, a beast as fierce and battle-hardened as its rider. Borton and the Brave Rings, his elite mercenaries, formed up beside him, their weapons glinting in the early morning light.

The enemy camp came into view, soldiers milling about lazily, unaware of the impending assault. Lyan raised his hand, signaling his forces to halt. He could see the Duke’s men clearly now—rows of tents, stacks of supplies, and men going about their morning routines.

Lyan turned to his men, his voice low but charged with energy. "This is it. We strike now. For Grafen, for the crown, and for victory!"

A chorus of whispers echoed his sentiments, and then he gave the signal. With a roar, they charged.

Lyan’s horse surged forward, its hooves thundering against the ground. He swung his glaive in a wide arc as he closed the distance, cleaving through the first line of unsuspecting soldiers. The blade sliced cleanly through armor and flesh, felling three men in an instant.

"To arms! We’re under attack!" a panicked enemy soldier shouted, but his warning was cut short as Borton’s greatsword cleaved through his neck.