Few people now remember that humans were not natives of this world, but creatures of the Conjunction of the Spheres. Their status was similar to that of other terrifying monsters, all foreign immigrants, and they were even more terrifying than monsters.
In that ancient era, when all sorts of new immigrants were still competing for dominance, human mages used mutagenic mushrooms, herbs, and plant stimulants to create killing weapons with superhuman speed and endurance, witchers, and gave them a lofty mission, to carve out living space for humanity!
Through the painful and dangerous Trial of the Grasses, witchers gained catlike eyes, allowing them to see in the dark. They could use combat spells known as Signs, as well as potions that enhanced their fighting skills.
In ancient times, when monsters flourished, their appearance was nothing less than the first light of dawn. Wherever they went, they were warmly welcomed.
But in the modern era, when monsters had all but vanished, their extraordinary power stirred the people's fear. This fear formed prejudice, provocation, and false rumors, causing the mutants to gradually become feared and hated by the world.
In the end, this led to extreme persecution and slaughter. The famous Massacre of Kaer Morhen almost drove witchers to extinction.
Now only a very small number of witchers survived, still persisting in this special work, traveling to every corner of the world, killing monsters, and living on meager bounties.
Yet in the spring of 1271, a certain unknown witcher changed the course of the entire civilized world. He was like a viper, lurking unseen in the dark. But once he bared his fangs, no one could forget his existence.
...
Vengerberg, capital of the Kingdom of Aedirn, hometown of the famous sorceress Yennefer. Demavend III, son of Virfuril, maintained his rule here.
This king very much disliked nonhumans. He often dealt with the Scoia'tael through extreme methods, and had also launched punitive expeditions against the dryads of Brokilon Forest.
Although Victor's assessment of him consisted only of the two words, "mediocre," that was the young man's ignorance, or perhaps the fault of misleading game developers.
In truth, Demavend was not only known for cruelty and jealousy, he was also quite intelligent and understood military tactics. During the Second Northern War, he accurately predicted Nilfgaard's military actions. If not for the backstab from Henselt of Kaedwen, the raids and sabotage by the Scoia'tael, and Francesca of Dol Blathanna leading the way, Aedirn would not actually have suffered such a miserable defeat.
Of course, after the Battle of Brenna, the Northern Kingdoms won the final victory. Carrying hatred, he would rather lose Dol Blathanna than let the South keep the Vrihedd Brigade. And judging by the result, apart from Iorveth escaping, the fact that all the other officers were hanged was enough to satisfy him.
...
On this day, the weather was fair and bright. Demavend was enjoying a feast on a royal pleasure boat, accompanied and protected by the male mage Abelard of Hagge and the sharpshooter Tybalt of Vengerberg.
The lute played a beautiful melody, drums and tambourines beat a cheerful rhythm, whistles and horns enriched the atmosphere, and jesters and acrobats were tumbling about. Two clowns bumped their buttocks together in midair, making Demavend laugh aloud, presenting a joyful scene of a flourishing age.
Some time passed. When two boxers stepped forward, bowed to the king, and began fighting to please him, a certain swimming witcher quietly climbed up the side of the royal yacht, hid behind wine barrels, and blew water from his nose.
The unknown witcher was a large man, with muscles as solid as granite and a cross-shaped scar on his bald head. His build did not look at all like an assassin's.
Taking out a glowing blue bomb, the smile of the maker when he first handed the object to him flashed through his mind. The witcher paused for a second, then threw the bomb toward Demavend's position.
Beneath the forceful rhythm of the drumbeats, the boxers punched blood from each other's noses. The blue bomb drew a beautiful arc and struck the mast of the royal pleasure boat.
Boom!
Heaven and earth froze!
With the impact point at its center and an effective radius of more than sixty yards, everything within range, whether jesters or clowns, musicians or boxers, and even the many armored soldiers guarding the king, was deeply frozen by this Northern Wind bomb.
The witcher's viper pupils contracted slightly. Although he had fought a hundred battles, he had never seen such a strange sight. After the Northern Wind raged through, only the scant few people beside the king remained unharmed on the ship, relying on the shield raised by the mage Abelard for protection.
"How powerful is it? Heh, haha, heaven and earth in one vast blur!? ...Probably. Anyway, it has a wider range and fiercer killing power. I haven't thrown it before, so I don't know, but it's at least several times stronger than an enhanced Northern Wind!"
The young man with four blade scars on his face had smiled brightly when placing the thing in his hands.
"Tch, more than several times, it's dozens of times stronger!"
The large man with muscles like granite grumbled inwardly. Then he rushed out from behind cover, holding a short blade in each hand, charging without hesitation toward King Demavend of Aedirn!
In this world of ice and snow that was gradually shattering, on this path of assault, he had to dodge the sharpshooter Tybalt's sniping, pass through the obstruction of two armed soldiers, and avoid the deadly fireball of the mage Abelard.
There was not the slightest wavering in the witcher's viper pupils.
...
At first, no one knew who he was, so people called him the Kingslayer!
...
"Light flashes, cutting through darkness. Radiance breaks the gloomy night."
Inside the spacious tent, gently stroking and reciting the elven words engraved on the blade, Victor sheathed the Golden Eagle with a scrape and handed it solemnly to Angoulême. With a great battle imminent, of course equipment had to be maintained first.
Angoulême took the weapon seriously. "Vic, those ten words you newly added sound so cool! Do they have some profound meaning?"
The witcher twisted his mouth. "No special meaning. It's just a kind of belief. In plain speech, it means evil cannot triumph over justice."
The young woman solemnly fastened the Golden Eagle on her back. "When you explain it like that, it feels vulgar.... Today our troupe is going onto the battlefield. Can't you say something nice, leader?"
"I don't have anything nice to say. Maybe I can sing Today I'm So Happy for you?"
"No, thank you. I've heard you sing it before."
"Then Angoulême, your leader has only one requirement for you, don't stand in front of the ballista!"
...
At the end of last month, Lambert left Vizima because he was a traditional witcher and was used to a wandering life.
Whenever he reached a village, he would stand not far from the entrance and wait. If the people inside had work, they would come out and invite him in. If they made no move, Lambert would leave.
After consideration, Victor chose to stay behind. In the name of the Phantom Troupe, he accepted King Foltest's temporary employment and joined the war to suppress the rebel Baron La Valette.
The employment terms were personally discussed with him by Vernon Roche, the King's Hand, with that bald Thaler accompanying as witness. The witcher hoped that during the attack on the castle, he would be allowed to speak with Aryan and persuade the baron to lay down his weapons and surrender. Knowing that their friendship was deep, the king made the decision and agreed.
The reason Victor joined the war was purely because he did not want that friend who valued honor and was gentle to die inexplicably just like this. To be honest, he believed this was an undeserved calamity!
And so, one month later today, outside La Valette Castle, the tents of Temeria's army spread like blooming flowers.
Countless feudal nobles answered King Foltest's summons, bringing their family crests and armies with them. Even the Mahakam dwarves sent their professional craftsmen, bringing all kinds of immensely powerful machinery.
Any discerning person could see that La Valette Castle had no chance of victory at all. The only reason the battle had dragged on until now without ending was that the king hoped to resolve the problem through negotiations beneath the walls.
"Your instruction is completely meaningless. Do I look like an idiot who would block a ballista?" After saying this irritably, the group member stepped forward and hugged the leader, then turned and left.
The witcher waved to Ves, who had specially come to pick up Angoulême, and said nothing like please take care of her. Although the things the Blue Stripes did were dangerous, they definitely would not be too difficult for the young woman's talent and instincts, as well as her powerful, carefully enchanted equipment.
After seeing them off, he tidied the tent and put important items into the Endless Herbal Satchel. Not long after, the tent flap was lifted, revealing the White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia, and that weathered yet charming uncle's face.
The uncle raised his eyebrows. "What a pity. I thought I would see Keira Metz in your bed."
"Even if Keira came over, she would leave before dawn. Vizima can't do without her, at least that's what she says." The young man spread his hands.
"Then let's go! Foltest says he wants to see us. That bastard messenger barged in and stared at Triss's ass. I almost drew my sword and cut him down."
"If I help you cut down that bastard messenger, will you let me see Triss's ass?"
"You really are a bastard!"
"I'll take that as a compliment."
Exchanging meaningless words, the two witchers walked toward the battlefield. Along the way, healthy soldiers were eating, and wounded soldiers were groaning.
The white-haired witcher sighed. "A foolish war. This should have been such a beautiful morning...."
"You should know this was your king who started it!" the blond witcher retorted.
"For now, he is your king too. Besides, what can I do? Advise him not to indulge in love and stop producing more illegitimate children, or tell him not to launch foolish wars?"
"War. War never changes."
In the dawn light, Geralt's cat eyes glittered. "You know, what you said is right. I've discovered I actually don't like serving kings. I've already discussed it with Triss. Once this battle is over, we're leaving. The moment the castle falls, we go."
"Tsk, tsk, tsk. Geralt, where I come from, what you just said is an extremely unlucky omen. Still, congratulations. You finally discovered that you're not suited for court life. After all, we both have bad legs and can't kneel!"
They stopped, letting a group of soldiers pushing a trebuchet pass first. They beat clappers and pushed the wheels with chants of heave-ho.
"Thanks to your potion, the old wound on my knee has recovered very well. By the way, a scout swore that he saw a dragon fly toward the river. He claimed he ran into a Scoia'tael unit, and they were coming toward him, but when the dragon flew over, those elves lowered their heads in prayer, which was how he escaped."
"Ha! A dragon appearing in the center of civilized territory? By Melitele's beard! If that poor scout wasn't slacking off, and if he didn't mistake a fork-tailed dragon, a slyzard, or even a pterodactyl for one, White Wolf... my terrible premonition is growing stronger and stronger.... I'm almost certain something will happen today!"
The white-haired man bumped the blond man with his elbow. "I think your way of saying things is the unlucky omen... It can almost be regarded as a bloody curse. Fortunately, magic is scarce here."
"Ha... another trebuchet!" They stopped again. Victor whistled. "Looks like our king has finally lost patience and is preparing to end the siege with one assault. Guess why he called us over?"
"An obvious assault." Geralt agreed with his junior's sharp judgment.
Next, the two witchers, continuing forward, stopped speaking because they had arrived at a heavily guarded place near King Foltest.
The soldiers around them held heavy crossbows and were fully armed. In theory, as long as thirty of them fired in unison, the witchers would undoubtedly die. Taking weight and cost into account, most Temerian soldiers still wore chainmail, with the Temerian lilies over their outer robes.
Seen from afar, sunlight fell on his handsome profile. Foltest, King of Temeria, was wearing dignified and solemn armor, standing beside a siege ballista and talking with someone. Shadow and light coexisted on him, making him look like a legendary hero in a painting.
As for the fellow speaking with him, judging merely by his back, his black clothes and high standing collar were enough to tell that he was a Nilfgaardian.
His extraordinary hearing activated, Victor heard the King of Sieges' voice. "What a fine day for war. Don't be afraid, Your Excellency. We are certainly still outside the range of the enemy's ballista!"
"Your Majesty, thank you for tolerating my fear. I must admit I am no warrior. I prefer to negotiate with others through words. After all, I am an emissary of peace...."
The sky was filled with smoke and flame. The battle looked like it had already been going on for some time. The engineering machinery on both sides shared the same origins, hammering at each other with great intensity.
Perhaps the atmosphere of blood and fire made him rather uncomfortable. The man in black spoke in a somewhat hurried tone, "...Forgive my directness, Your Majesty, but what I most wish to know is what fate awaits the royal bastards?"
The king suddenly clenched his fist and swung it through the air, growling in a low voice. "Damn it, there are some things I only say once. They are my children. If I hear the word bastard again, someone will die very ugly, even if he is the Nilfgaardian ambassador."
"Your Majesty, please forgive me, but the provisions of inheritance law are irrefutably clear...."
"Damn the law. If necessary, I will personally take up the pen and change it until it fully suits my will. No matter what, I will not allow a group of unreliable nobles to use my children as bargaining chips."
Moving a few steps to the side, Victor saw the Nilfgaardian's appearance clearly. Gray hair with an M-shaped balding hairline, forehead wrinkles, small eyes, and a hooked nose. It was none other than Shilard Fitz-Oesterlen, whom he had met several times in Toussaint a few months earlier.
Today, he was still wearing the traditional Nilfgaardian formal attire of a high standing collar, black base, patterned edges, and gold embroidery, with a sun emblem hanging on a thick gold chain before his chest. The standard attire of an emissary, naturally.
"Your Majesty naturally has the right to do so."
"Adda is married off, and I have no other children...."
"I understand completely."
"No... I do not think you understand." Noticing the witchers waiting not far away, the king waved them over. "Ambassador, this conversation ends here. Return to your tent."
Shilard bowed and withdrew without objection. When he brushed past Victor, their gazes briefly met, and the witcher noticed the shock in his eyes. That emotion was easy to understand. Forget him, even the witcher himself was shocked. A little over a month ago, he had never even thought of joining the war.
The king glanced at the ambassador's departing back. "My dear two masters, I dare say there is no more unlucky omen before battle than seeing a Black One. What do you think?" Foltest laughed. "What a vicious old dog. I truly want to cut off his wrinkled head and send it back to Emhyr. That would bring me immense satisfaction.... But Triss Merigold and Keira Metz both believe that I should maintain grace and courtesy. What do you think of my performance just now?"
Geralt bowed. "If it were me, I could not have said it more appropriately."
"Your Majesty, no one could have handled it better than you." Victor touched his chest in greeting.
Foltest laughed heartily. "Well said. Come with me!"
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