'Wait!' Allen suddenly thought of a question. 'Who is actually fighting against the King of the Wild Hunt?!!'
The moment this question appeared in his mind, it immediately refused to leave.
The next second.
He "rushed" into the silent battlefield, passing between knights whose faces were smeared with blood.
For a few moments, he even brushed past several knights whose veins bulged on their foreheads, teeth bared in silent roars. He saw their builds, the shape of their armor, and the coat of arms on the armor that looked like a tulip.
Longswords gleaming with icy light brushed past the hairs on his arm as they slashed toward the Wild Hunt.
No one noticed his existence.
At this moment, not only all sound fell silent— even the metallic smell of blood and the stench of sweat in his nostrils rapidly faded.
The mountains far beyond the battlefield also began to be wiped away.
He instinctively turned his head back— the city he came from abruptly vanished, the noble heir standing at the city gate also gone. Only thick black smoke surged in from all directions, enveloping the battlefield like a poison circle in some game of his previous life, rapidly shrinking.
The closer he approached the heart of the battlefield— the closer he came to Eredin Bréacc Glas, King of the Wild Hunt, and the silver-white-armored knight commander whose figure blocked his view— the more taste, smell, touch, hearing, and sight were restricted and erased.
He was being rejected by this world in a strange way.
'At least let me see who Eredin's opponent is!' Allen shouted in his heart. The nameless existence that had brought him here seemed to hear his call— his vision accelerated even further.
The black smoke also accelerated, nearly brushing his back as it swallowed silver-white knights and the rust-armored Wild Hunt riders.
In the end, before him, only Eredin Bréacc Glas remained, and the silver-white-armored knight commander with his back facing Allen.
Shoulder-length hair danced wildly in the wind. A sword flashed with chilling light, clashing with Eredin Bréacc Glas' blade at a speed even Allen could barely follow.
No sound reached him, but even the air twisted.
Invisible shockwaves plowed trenches through the ground; the dust rising was blown away by the next sword clash before it could settle over the battlefield.
Allen felt that if his true body were here, he wouldn't survive even the aftermath of their battle.
'Who are these human knights? How can they even involve themselves in a battle like this?' He wasn't only curious about the knight commander's identity now— he was curious which order of knights could withstand a battle's shockwaves of this scale.
'A tulip on their emblem… when I get back and recover, I need to look this up…' he thought.
Eredin Bréacc Glas wasn't wearing his rusted skull-helm. He was laughing wildly and saying something.
But Allen couldn't hear a single sound, nor could he read Eredin Bréacc Glas' lips.
So he turned to look at the knight commander's face.
But for some reason, Allen's vision and the knight commander's movements were like a perfectly coordinated dance— always showing him only flowing long hair and the back of the commander's head.
Until…
Eredin Bréacc Glas suddenly swung his blade, a crescent of pale light bursting forth from the edge.
The silver-white knight instinctively raised his sword to block.
A shockwave twisted the air as it exploded from the point of collision. Blinding light erupted from within the pale arc.
From the flash, a black figure shot out like a lurking viper striking from the dark.
'Not good!'
Though he was only human, Allen instinctively tried to draw his sword to block.
His vision lurched violently— the world spun— and he locked eyes with a pair of azure beast-like pupils, the eyes of a Witcher…
Time froze.
'That is… me?!!'
A jolt of terror left him no time to think— another sudden stab of pain tore through his heart, making his vision shake violently.
When he regained focus, the blue beast-pupils had become a pair of strange green eyes— cold, cruel, ambitious, full of desire. They were…
Eredin Bréacc Glas— the eyes of the King of the Wild Hunt.
"Child of miracles, it's time for your curtain call. You've delivered quite the magnificent performance…"
The silence around him suddenly filled with noise and clamor.
Eredin Bréacc Glas— the King of the Wild Hunt— was speaking to him unhurriedly.
Curtain call… Allen suddenly realized something. His stiff neck lowered.
The sword— its blade lined with elegant elven runes and a vicious blood groove, glowing with pale light— was buried in his heart. Thick, molten-like blood was flowing down the channel carved in the blade.
'A pierced heart… shouldn't the blood spray out from pressure?'
As life rapidly faded, this bizarre thought passed through Allen's mind.
The next second.
"Shrrk~"
Eredin Bréacc Glas pulled the sword out— another flash of pale light. Then Allen's head suddenly felt weightless— the world flipped upside down.
The black fog covering the battlefield had vanished at some point.
As the world spun, Allen saw Eredin Bréacc Glas wave dismissively. In an instant, the rust-armored skeletal riders of the Wild Hunt slaughtered the remaining silver-white knights behind him.
Behind Eredin Bréacc Glas, beyond his protective cavalry, scattered across terrain blasted apart by magic, lay bodies— countless bodies—
Vesemir, Aresto, Mary, Sol, Philippa Eilhart, Francesca Findabair, Vera…
And many other Witchers and sorcerers he knew, and those he didn't…
Then in the blink of an eye—
The world pulled down a black curtain.
—
"Vera!!!"
Allen shouted as he abruptly opened his eyes.
Piles of corpses stacked like mountains, smoking ruins, and the Wild Hunt riding skeletal horses had already vanished. What entered his sight was a wind chime hanging down, swaying gently in the breeze.
Ding-ling ding-ling
The crisp, pleasant sound of the chime rang slowly, harmonizing with the morning call of kingfishers.
Outside the window, the blazing sun shone brightly, sending golden rays through the gaps of the shutters and into the room.
The air was filled with a rich mix of medicinal scents, dark earth, fragrant colchicum, along with chamomile and cedar.
The tranquil, peaceful atmosphere made the witcher—who had just stepped out of the "battlefield"—momentarily dazed.
He froze for a few seconds, not caring where he was. With a thought, he opened the Witcher's Journal.
On the character panel, a new talent had appeared. The flickering on the "Unstable Prophetic Power" bar was slowly fading. A few seconds later and he would have completely missed it.
[Name: Unstable Prophetic Power]
...
[Passive Effect: When in a relaxed state, you may occasionally glimpse scattered fragments from the future—sudden premonitions and crises related to yourself.]
[Note: Know this! Prophecy is both a gift and a curse!]
"So…" Allen looked at the now-motionless "Unstable Prophetic Power," exhaling with complicated eyes, "so it really was… prophecy…"
Sometime far in the future, in some unknown city, he, Vesemir, Aresto, Mary, Sol, Philippa Eilhart, Francesca Findabair, Vira…
Everyone would be killed by the Wild Hunt—by the Wild Hunt's king, Eredin Bréacc Glas…
Creak—
The bedboard beneath him shook. The witcher instinctively tilted his head toward the source of the sound.
Dark golden hair—glossy, luminous—was spread across the white bedsheet. Under the sunlight it looked like a flowing golden river. The scent of chamomile and cedar drifted up from that dark-golden river, refreshing and gentle.
His gaze shifted lower.
A smooth, fair forehead he knew very well appeared behind the golden river.
"Francesca Findabair… Mary…" The witcher was truly stunned.
The dark-golden hair belonged to Francesca Findabair, scattered across the sheet, while the forehead naturally belonged to Lady Mary—Mary had tied her hair into two small horns on either side, a style Allen had taught her after the Trial of the Mountain, once his mood had lightened.
But the strange thing wasn't their hairstyles—it was their posture.
Francesca Findabair was lying at the edge of the bed, while Mary lay atop Francesca Findabair's smooth, fair left arm, nose touching nose, the pose extremely intimate.
"When did Francesca Findabair and Mary get along this well?" Allen wondered.
Female mages were creatures with extremely sharp perception.
Sensing the witcher's gaze, Francesca Findabair and Mary opened their eyes at nearly the same moment.
Four eyes met.
An awkward silence settled over the room.
"How long do you intend to keep using my arm as a pillow?" Francesca Findabair said coldly.
Mary's face flushed red. She jerked her head away as if she had touched something filthy, and said stiffly, "You took up all the space. I had nowhere else to sleep, so I just—"
"This bed is very big." Francesca Findabair tried to lift her hand to point toward the large, empty space at the foot of the bed.
The arm that had gone numb under the pillow hung down on its own, as if it didn't belong to her.
She could only keep a straight face and awkwardly use her other arm to point behind Mary.
Mary noticed Francesca Findabair's powerless left arm. She originally wanted to smile embarrassedly, but thinking of their identities, she withdrew her smile: "This bed isn't that big. At least the key spot can't fit two people."
Mary's implied meaning made Francesca Findabair's expression turn cold again. Her sleepy, doe-like gentle eyes glared back in sharp opposition.
Early in the morning, the room was already filled with gunpowder tension.
Alright, looks like I misunderstood… Allen gently shook his head. Watching the two girls' lively "interaction," the prophetic scene appeared in his mind again without him noticing.
Mary lay in a pool of blood, one arm severed, a bloody, gaping hole torn open in her chest. Bleached bone stuck out of it, her face filled with ferocious pain—her death extremely tragic.
Francesca Findabair died cleanly.
Beheading…
Francesca Findabair was beheaded.
The most beautiful head in the Northern Continent floated in the blood pool beside Mary, staring wide-eyed with death's white haze covering her eyes. The golden, silky long hair that now spread over the white bedsheets was, in that vision, tangled messily and stained scarlet with filthy blood…
But her face held no pain, no fear of death—only regret and guilt.
What are you regretting, and what are you guilty about?
Allen stared at the two quarrelling figures, his gaze unconsciously going blank.
"Allen, you're finally awake?!!"
Mary's sudden scream jolted Allen back.
Francesca Findabair also jerked her head around, her long hair brushing across Allen's face, his nose filled with the scent of chamomile and cedar.
'Finally awake… that phrase sounded familiar… 'Allen thought.
Then he realized something he had overlooked since earlier—his neck could now stiffly turn, no longer immobile like on that old road. Everything before him was very clear.
His sharp Witcher senses seemed to have returned.
Only the faint stinging all over his body kept reminding him—he was still a severely injured patient.
"Yes, I'm awake." Allen tugged at the corner of his mouth. Facing Mary—whose bright, adorable smile kept alternating with the corpse lying in a blood pool—he awkwardly looked away, forcing a stiff smile. "How long did I sleep this time?"
"A whole month, Allen! You slept for an entire month!" Mary, not noticing Allen's abnormal expression, exclaimed noisily. "And the mentor said you should still need a few more days before waking up, but you ended up waking today…"
A month… Allen froze on the spot.
When Visenna and Korin found him, even at his gravest injury, he woke twice within three days—yet this time he was unconscious for a month.
The prophecy!
It must be because of that unusually long and terrifying prophecy!
Wait…
Vera said I should need a few more days to wake—what does that mean?
She doesn't even know I'm under the state of "unstable prophetic power." How could she know exactly when I'd wake?
"How did Vera know when I'd wake?" Allen asked.
"It wasn't Vera, it was a druid," Francesca Findabair replied. "A druid told Vera your waking time. The news Margarita heard was Vera retelling it. I was there!"
Francesca lifted her chin, childishly glancing at Mary.
A druid… Allen paused, feeling something, and asked, "Where is this place?"
"Mayena Druid Circle," Mary answered first, glaring at Francesca. "The Mayena Druid Circle where Lady Visenna—who treated your injuries—belongs…"
"Right! Mentor!" Mary suddenly exclaimed. "She told me to notify her immediately when you wake. Also Vesemir, Danthe… everyone is waiting for the good news of you waking…"
She stood up and was about to walk out when she stopped beside the old wooden table.
"What is it?" Allen turned his head, puzzled.
Mary was staring sharply at Francesca Findabair, who still sat at the bed's edge, staring straight at him.
Allen immediately understood and said helplessly, "Francesca, can I ask you to help notify everyone as well?"
Francesca did not move. Her doe-like eyes blinked once as she shook her head lightly: "That's not the right form of address."
Allen paused, glanced at Mary, then said: "E… Enid, can I ask you to help notify everyone?"
Only then did Francesca stand, blushing. She left the room without even looking at Mary, head held high.
"Hmph!"
Mary snorted unhappily and followed after her.
The room quieted down.
Listening to the gentle chime of wind bells, Allen stared blankly at the now-empty wooden hut as the two girls left.
"Good news…"
"Is it really… good news?"
The Witcher let out a faint, sorrowful sigh.
.............
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