The sorcerers unleashed their spells with precision, while the Wild Hunt seemed as if its mind had been scorched by flames, standing in place, merely defending and casting fireballs sporadically.
Over time, even the fireballs grew fewer and fewer, with defense becoming its primary focus.
The flames engulfing its body still burned fiercely, but they shifted from white-hot intensity to the dim red of smoldering embers.
The witcher knew then—the Wild Hunt was nearing its end.
The sorcerers realized this too. The frequency of lightning, gusts, and ice spikes slowed, becoming gentler, like a hunter cautiously ensuring a wounded beast's demise while avoiding its final desperate attack.
The witcher's gaze focused on the Wild Hunt's waist, studying the structure of its armor.
The four experienced sorcerers stood within their magical ritual circle, no longer holding out hope of killing Vilgefortz. They were now forced to think about how to quietly and efficiently seize the item guided by fate to their advantage.
Why had it been so easy for Sadia to follow fate's guidance and retrieve the fragment of the Gate of Ard Gaeth from Shaerrawedd?
Yet here he was, enduring trials upon trials, like a monk on a pilgrimage, before he could claim his destiny.
The witcher couldn't help but sigh. "If only the Wild Hunt could deal one last devastating blow to those sorcerers before it dies…"
As he lamented, the battlefield suddenly changed once more.
From within the encampment, a third voice joined the cacophony, distinct from the Wild Hunt's.
It was a voice of majesty and grace, each word like a sung ballad. Yet, to those who heard it, it also carried the clash of blades and the reek of blood, both resplendent and foul.
At the sound of this voice, the Wild Hunt snapped out of its frenzy.
The flames consuming its body extinguished abruptly, revealing a face charred and bloody, beyond recognition.
The sorcerers gradually ceased their casting.
It was undoubtedly a foolish move, but sorcerers are creatures of insatiable curiosity. When they hold the upper hand, their intrigue often overrides caution.
The Wild Hunt itself was an enigma, and its overwhelming power was undeniable. A single member had pushed these sorcerers—masters of the arcane—to the brink. Their eventual advantage stemmed more from its injuries and its strange mental and physical state than from their own prowess.
Any information they gleaned from the Wild Hunt could become a significant discovery, a stepping stone to wealth and power.
Even Vilgefortz, who rarely exhibited much interest in such things, redirected his wandering focus to the scene before him.
The witcher could not understand the exchange between the Wild Hunt and the mysterious voice. Initially, the Wild Hunt responded in a tone of surprise and reverence, as if as bewildered by the voice's presence as they were.
Gradually, its words grew fewer, its tone subdued. After a brief pause, it glanced at the corpse of the dead elven woman and murmured something that sounded like an explanation.
Then…
The majestic and elegant voice suddenly rose, like a stern reprimand.
Throughout their exchange, the voice seemed oblivious to its surroundings, as if the entire world should fall silent during this dialogue.
Only the Wild Hunt occasionally raised its head, casting fierce, hateful glances at the opposing side.
Suddenly, the Wild Hunt began to argue with the voice—or more accurately, plead.
"It's trying to escape!" the lead sorcerer shouted in alarm. "Be wary of that voice! Attack now!"
The sorcerers began chanting spells once more. The glowing runes and incantations on the magical carpet dimmed as the energy stored during the ceasefire was rapidly drained by the sorcerers.
The effects were immediate.
Lightning, snow, and storm winds surged toward the camp, roaring like an unstoppable tide.
And then…
The majestic voice stopped abruptly.
The entire forest seemed to hold its breath in fear.
The wolf medallion beneath the witcher's chest armor thudded violently, vibrating with an intensity it had never reached before.
"Neén!!!"
The Wild Hunt let out an anguished, guttural cry, turning its back to the incoming barrage without hesitation.
"What's happening?"
Amidst the chaos, the witcher deciphered the meaning of the Elder Speech word "neén," a vehement refusal—"No!"
The battlefield erupted in unexpected upheaval.
The corpse lying on the ground stood up.
"What?!" The witcher's mind reeled.
But what happened next shattered his imagination further.
The severed, graceful head of the corpse floated naturally back to its neck, twisting slightly to adjust its angle once reattached.
The resurrected corpse angrily shoved the grief-stricken Wild Hunt aside. A wave of powerful mental energy swept across the entire camp like a tsunami.
This indiscriminate psychic surge forced the witcher out of his concealment.
Even the Level 7 Aard Sign, reinforced on his mental defenses, shook violently as if enduring a true tsunami's impact.
"Fulfill your duty, coward!"
The figure—no longer "she," but now clearly "he"—rebuked with commanding authority. Without even raising his head, he casually waved his hand.
The incoming lightning, blizzards, and razor-sharp winds vanished instantly, as though they had never existed.
"How is this possible?!"
"What is that thing?!"
The sorcerers screamed in terror.
Even Vilgefortz staggered back a few steps, his face pale.
To nullify master-level spells as if by mere whim—such a feat was beyond even Hen Gedymdeith, the legendary Source of Magic.
What level of mastery over the elements and magical energy could achieve such a thing?
Could even Geoffrey Monck, the famed hunter of extradimensional beings, accomplish this?
The witcher noticed something as he crouched low, observing the battlefield.
The moment the corpse-wielding voice dismissed the spells, the skin of the Wild Hunt's female corpse visibly withered, growing desiccated. Even after the miraculous defense ended, the decay persisted.
"It comes at a price," he thought.
Yet, even with a cost, achieving such power was absurd.
Moreover, the ease with which it was executed…
"Who is he?" The witcher silently retreated a few paces, distancing himself from the battlefield.
The reanimated corpse, now wielded by the voice, still ignored the sorcerers. Instead, it turned its cold gaze to the Wild Hunt.
Only after the Wild Hunt gritted its teeth, staggering out of the battlefield and vanishing into the dark woods, did the figure finally face the sorcerers, who were braced for combat.
"W-who are you?" Miguel stammered, his redwood staff trembling as it connected to a thick line of energy reinforcing a cerulean magical barrier.
"My apologies," the figure bowed courteously, as though genuinely regretful. "I am Eredin Bréacc Glas. Of course, you may also call me by your human term…"
"The King of the Wild Hunt…" The witcher froze in realization.
He knew Eredin. Eredin was the ultimate antagonist of the games, the invincible knight in the original novels, and the leader of the Aen Elle's Red Riders—the Wild Hunt.
As for his strength…
To put it bluntly, he was the true general of the Aen Elle's Red Riders, who waged destruction across countless worlds.
Allen never expected to encounter him so soon, like a fledgling adventurer stumbling upon the endgame boss.
The witcher instinctively paused his quiet retreat, considering chasing after the injured Wild Hunt. Guided by fate, the wounded creature couldn't have fled far.
But facing this final boss—a mere glimpse of Eredin's immense power, even while possessing a mere corpse, had already outstripped his portrayal in both games and novels.
Casually nullifying high-level spells…
How had Geralt defeated such a monster?
With just a silver sword?
Eredin's lips curled into a chilling smile. "The Lord of the Wild Hunt…"
Wait.
Not the King of the Wild Hunt?
The witcher blinked, realization dawning.
Of course…
Eredin would only become the true King of the Wild Hunt years from now, after orchestrating the death of Auberon Muircetach, the King of the Aen Elle, with Ciri's unwitting assistance.
That would happen decades later, when Ciri was fully grown.
"The Lord of the Wild Hunt…" The sorcerers murmured, their voices trembling.
"Why do you seek destruction…"
"Shh—"
Eredin raised a finger gently to his lips, signaling silence.
But what silenced Miguel's emotional outburst wasn't the gesture—it was the sudden, overwhelming scent of iron that filled the battlefield.
It was the cold, metallic tang of blood and death, sharper and more chilling than the eternal snows atop the Blue Mountains. It brought with it a suffocating aura of killing intent.
Even the witcher could hear the chattering of teeth, a tremor of fear overtaking everyone present.
That included the mages, even the mighty Vilgefortz of Roggeveen.
Though the witcher had distanced himself from the main battlefield, he could still feel his teeth begin to chatter involuntarily, as if this primal fear had been seared into the deepest corners of his soul.
"Time is short," Eredin spoke softly, his voice a sharp contrast to the oppressive atmosphere. "Don't force me to kill you. I still require messengers to deliver my words."
Eredin seemed satisfied with the trembling state of the four mages before him and withdrew his overwhelming aura.
"The Red Riders greatly 'appreciate' your hospitality. We shall return in due course, bearing our 'gifts,' after two cycles of soul rebirth, to reclaim what is rightfully ours."
It was a declaration of war.
Everyone present, including the witcher hidden in the shadows, understood that instantly.
"Their treasure… what could it be?"
Miguel, unable to suppress his fear, instinctively voiced the question.
"Oh~" Eredin squinted at the mage, his gaze sharp. "You don't know?"
The witcher's muscles tensed instinctively.
Though it was unlikely that the King of the Wild Hunt would reveal the name of the Gate of the Elder Blood, any mention of it would complicate matters greatly.
"It seems you're nothing but insignificant pawns," Eredin remarked, shaking his head with feigned disappointment.
Pawns?
Miguel and the others froze in disbelief.
They were no mere novices. Three of them were arch-mages of the prestigious Ban Ard Academy, members of the Conclave of Sorcerers—among the most powerful on the Continent. Vilgefortz himself, though still young, was a rising star among sorcerers, already considered the future of their order.
Yet before they could protest…
"No matter." Eredin shook his head dismissively. "You're only messengers, after all."
His gaze flickered briefly, as if catching onto something. He paused for a moment, then sighed softly, muttering an enigmatic statement:
"Let's hope at least one of you manages to deliver my message to your masters."
With those words, Eredin's borrowed body—the corpse of Serra—suddenly collapsed like a toppled pile of wood.
Her body split apart cleanly at the neck, the severed edges revealing not blood and flesh but a dry, blackened texture resembling charred wood.
For a long while, the battlefield remained silent.
Eventually, Miguel, ever cautious, approached and dispelled his magical barrier.
"Wh-what did he mean by that?" Miguel stammered, looking to Vilgefortz.
The young mage merely shook his head. Then, his body tensed, and he pointed into the darkness beyond the camp, where the fleeing specter of the Wild Hunt had disappeared. "Should we… pursue him? He hasn't gone far yet—we can still catch up."
They hadn't found the object they were after, after all. Miguel nodded hesitantly. "We have to try. Vilge…"
"Absolutely not!" two other mages interjected, their voices loud and unified.
Miguel froze, confused. "Andeni… Jared…"
"Have you lost your mind, Miguel?" Andeni bellowed. "If he hadn't spared us as messengers, we'd all be dead right now!"
"But we haven't recovered the target… That thing must be with the one who escaped…"
"And why do we need whatever it is they stole?" Jared countered, answering his own question. "To uncover the source of the Wild Hunt's power? And yet…"
He briskly walked over to Serra's remains.
"We already have the perfect sample right here! A body, intact… No, this is the only corpse left behind by the Wild Hunt!"
"All we have to do is bring it back. It'll elevate us in the Conclave without any need to risk ourselves further, Miguel. No risk at all!"
An intact corpse? The witcher, eavesdropping from his hidden perch, furrowed his brow.
Could it be that during the Wild Hunt's previous assault, not a single body had been left behind?
How, then, had the mages prevailed in the first place?
He pondered this as pieces began to fall into place.
It seemed the Wild Hunt had been as shocked as he was when Serra was slain.
"Could it have been the result of the Witcher's Codex? Or perhaps my use of the Monster Hunt?"
He mulled it over carefully, filing the thought away for later. For now, he kept himself hidden, waiting for events to unfold further.
Meanwhile, the mages continued their argument. Or rather, two of them were busy persuading Miguel, while Vilgefortz remained detached, quietly observing.
Yet something about Vilgefortz's gaze troubled the witcher.
It lingered on Serra's body for too short a time.
Something wasn't right.
The witcher sank further into the shadows, preparing for whatever might come next.
Then, all of a sudden…
"Look out!"
Both Vilgefortz and Miguel cried out, their faces twisting in horror as they pointed at Jared—specifically, at something behind him near Serra's corpse.
.....
📢20 advanced chapters on p@treaon📢
For advance chapters: p@treon.com/Uchiha_Itachi007 (replace @ with a)
374. Do Not Empathize with Your Enemies.
375. Another S-Rank Evaluation.
376. Absurd.
377. Ban Ard Is No Longer a Threat.
378. Could It Be He's Not the Child of Prophecy?
"Glory to the Alderfolk!!!"
A sudden burst of white-hot fire tore through the dense forest with blinding speed.
That fire howled.
The overwhelming surge of psychic energy accompanying it surged past like a burning wind.
The mental walls in the Witcher's mind, already unstable, crumbled instantly.
No! That wasn't fire!
Fire does not possess glory, nor the all-consuming rage to incinerate the world and destroy everything in its path.
It was the Wild Hunt, the one Eredin had cast aside in his retreat.
He had returned, burning hotter than when he left.
And he was ablaze—burning with a ferocity that could rival the sun.
In this infernal clearing, blackened by scorched trees and despair, the dazzling brightness made it seem like midday.
Behind him, the ground itself ignited, a path of flame trailing like molten lava.
A sharp, persistent hum broke the Witcher's silence spell. The medallion on his chest howled in alarm.
But no one cared about such details anymore.
Standing near Serra's corpse, Jared turned his head in terror. Andeni scrambled desperately toward the magical ritual carpet. Vilgefortz and Miguel, seemingly recognizing the Hunt's fiery state, raised their staffs in unison, pointing toward the heavens with horror.
Even Allen, who typically masked himself with caution, was caught off guard.
The moment the Hunt burst forth, an overwhelming sense of danger crystallized into an icy chill that shot up his spine to the back of his head. It felt as though countless sharp needles pierced his unprotected skin.
He dared not think of destiny's guidance or why it did not align with the Hunt's path. He didn't even dare to turn and flee. His instincts screamed that escape was impossible.
He couldn't escape.
Even with thirty meters between himself and the mages, even with the cover of the slope, charred trees, and rocks…
Allen forced his mutated organs to squeeze out every drop of energy, his trembling arms outstretched, crossing before his chest.
Quen Sign!
He almost shouted it aloud, as if that might speed up the formation of the magical barrier.
The translucent, pale-violet sphere barely began forming at his feet…
And the blazing figure, like a miniature sun, had already reached Serra's corpse, standing alongside Jared.
The mage swung his staff frantically, trying to resist, but the fear dilating his pupils betrayed his certainty of death.
In that moment, he finally understood the meaning behind the words left by the one called Eredin before departing:
"I hope at least one of you can deliver the message to your leader."
Those words were never meant for them.
"Serra!"
A psychic shockwave erupted as the Hunt opened his arms wide, releasing an even more explosive light.
The entire world seemed to pause in an eerie stillness.
And then—
The elemental fire around them surged to life like a volcano erupting in a sudden, violent blast.
Allen's vision was filled with searing white light, forcing him to shut his eyes.
"BOOM!!!"
The deafening roar lasted less than a second before it was replaced by disorienting tinnitus.
He didn't even feel the breaking of his Quen shield.
His body became weightless, like a kite in a storm, or a scrap of paper blown away.
He collided with countless obstacles along the way—likely trees—but he felt no pain. His training instinctively had him curl into a protective posture as he bounced and rolled.
Strangely, he noticed he wasn't feeling the sensation of being burned. Then it hit him—his nerves likely hadn't yet caught up with the damage.
As that thought registered, a wave of agonizing pain coursed through every fiber of his body.
But pain was a good sign—it meant he was still alive.
At some point, his body slammed to the ground with a heavy thud.
Allen forced his eyes open through the pain, greeted by a chaotic blur of overlapping images, each shimmering with firelight. The disorienting sight made him nauseous, forcing him to close his eyes again.
Reaching into his potion pouch for healing remedies, his fingers found only shards of shattered crystal and glass.
Allen's heart sank. Rummaging deeper, relief washed over him as his fingers closed around an intact vial in a hidden compartment—the Swallow potion.
[Name: Swallow]
[Type: Potion]
[Effect: Accelerates regeneration. Stops regeneration during intense physical activity for 2 seconds.]
[Note: Your trusty health potion!]
He uncorked the vial and, despite the nausea and vertigo, downed it in one gulp.
The warm liquid flowed down his throat. He waited nearly half a minute before the dizziness and nausea began to subside.
"Quite the price to pay," was Allen's first thought as clarity returned to his mind.
The inventory of the Witcher's Journal could only store items originating from itself, such as essence vials and purified spirits. Other items, even potions brewed from recipes obtained through loot, could not be stored.
To compensate, Allen had commissioned Lady Vera to craft a specialized potion pouch. It was designed to protect its contents—bombs, oils, and potions—from typical impacts.
Clearly, this wasn't a typical impact.
Fortunately, the Swallow potion had survived in its innermost compartment. Being a restorative potion rarely used in active combat, it had been tucked away for emergencies.
Without it, the situation would have been dire.
However, the more volatile potions stored in the outer sections—like Blizzard and Alghoul Decoction—had been completely destroyed. The Hunt's self-detonation had cost him dearly.
"Alive is better than nothing," Allen muttered, consoling himself.
"Still, I need to look into acquiring a proper dimensional storage item. Or find a way to unlock the Journal's full capacity."
He shuddered at the thought of carrying more dangerous items like Northern Wind bombs. The explosion could have turned this catastrophe into a massacre.
The Swallow potion's effects took hold, dulling his pain. The ringing in his ears subsided.
Unlike the games, the potion wasn't a miraculous cure-all. It didn't restore full health instantly or mend broken bones as if by magic.
The Swallow potion simply doubled a Witcher's already formidable regenerative abilities.
Once the dizziness faded, Allen cautiously opened his eyes again. The blurriness slowly resolved into clarity.
He'd been flung nearly a hundred meters from the battlefield. Before him was a familiar creek, surrounded by burning splinters of wood and strange black substances.
Lifting his gaze, he peered through the sparse trees at the Wild Hunt's former encampment.
There were no Hunt warriors. No corpses. No mages.
Only a massive, twenty-meter-wide crater, filled with flowing, molten rock.
Allen knew for certain the Hunt warrior was dead. Whatever solar-like state he'd entered, it had consumed him entirely.
But the mages weren't dead.
The Witcher's Journal hadn't issued any rewards, which meant the threat wasn't over.
"Persistent bastards…" Allen muttered, still aching. "Even after such devastation."
His Wolf School medallion hummed faintly. The armor had been charred, but it was otherwise intact, a testament to its craftsmanship.
"Quen did its job, after all," he thought grimly.
Just as he tried to push himself off the ground, a sharp pain surged through his back and limbs, momentarily blacking out his vision.
"Ugh…"
The pain forced him out of the invisibility granted by the Night.Shade Cloak, a relic from Francesca. At least it, too, had survived.
In his Witcher senses, Allen detected severe bruising along his back and significant tears in his muscle fibers.
"Must've been from colliding with trees and the ground during the blast."
These injuries weren't something Swallow could heal in the short term. Rest and recovery were necessary.
Despite the excruciating pain, Allen forced himself to his feet, trudging slowly in the direction guided by destiny.
As for the fate of the mages, he could no longer afford to care.
No further accidents occurred.
Allen smoothly followed Destiny's guidance into the depths of the forest, arriving beneath an unremarkable birch tree.
After arduously digging for nearly three minutes, he finally unearthed a plain black stone.
"Ding!"
"Fragment of the Gate of Ard Gaeth detected. Absorb it?"
Hearing the reassuring prompt in his mind, Allen took a deep breath, finally relaxing his tense nerves.
At the same time, Destiny's guidance vanished without a trace, as though it had never existed.
"Destiny..."
Feeling a vague sense of loss, he carefully covered the traces of his digging and was about to stash the fragment of Ard Gaeth's Gate...
Wait!
His still-dazed and dizzy mind suddenly snapped awake, as if doused in a bucket of cold water.
If the Wild Hunt had hidden the fragment of Ard Gaeth's Gate here, they must have some way to track it. He couldn't just take it back.
Yet, no matter how Allen examined it, this was just an ordinary-looking stone, and the surroundings were indistinguishable from any other forest.
After some thought, he reached out to the Wolf Medallion at his neck.
Through the medallion's elemental perspective, he finally noticed a strange tree-shaped rune etched into the black stone.
"As expected, there's something sinister about this!"
Despite trying several methods, he was unable to dispel the rune.
So.
The witcher gritted his teeth and headed away from the blazing inferno in the opposite direction, walking for quite a while.
"Ding!"
"Fragment of the Gate of Ard Gaeth detected. Absorb it?"
The Witcher's Journal was the best tool for dispelling lingering traces of magic. He refused to believe this rune could follow and mark the codex itself.
Absorb!
The moment he confirmed the command, the fragment rose from Allen's hand, levitating briefly before vanishing into thin air.
"Ding! Fragment of Ard Gaeth's Gate being absorbed..."
Time passed.
The translucent panel before his eyes showed no further updates.
"Looks like it'll take some time to fully absorb."
The lack of any notable reaction reassured Allen.
"I wonder if those four sorcerers are still alive..." he muttered as he struggled to stand, gazing back in the direction he had come. 'Is Vilgefortz still breathing?'
Vilgefortz must be alive.
Allen shook his head.
The Wild Hunt had exploded near Serra, while Vilgefortz had been the farthest from the blast. If any of the sorcerers survived, he would surely be among them.
Even so, the sorcerers of Ban Ard were unlikely to come out unscathed.
After all, the sheer force of that detonation had gravely injured Allen from a considerable distance away.
The thought of that terrifying explosion caused the witcher's expression to grow dazed.
"Glory to the Alderfolk!"
"Serra!"
The heart-wrenching roar still echoed in his ears.
The Alderfolk—Aen Elle.
To Allen, they had always been nothing more than malevolent conquerors, destroyers, and bloodthirsty marauders.
Yet today, the witcher had never felt so vividly how alive his enemies truly were.
They didn't even need him to kill them—they were willing to burn their lives away for some unfathomable belief.
Though this outcome pleased Allen, and he had even actively facilitated it.
Still...
Why had that elf, after hiding the fragment of Ard Gaeth's Gate and ensuring its safety, chosen to turn back and perish alongside the sorcerers?
What had he been thinking at that moment?
Had he returned because he didn't want the body of the female elf, Serra, to be defiled?
Was it old-fashioned love? Or camaraderie with his fallen allies? Or perhaps the failure of their mission, the deaths of his companions, left him unwilling to continue living...
Maybe it was a mixture of all these emotions, along with feelings Allen couldn't comprehend.
When one considered it deeply, the Aen Elle were, in the end, just a pitiful people—fleeing in desperation, having lost their home to the White Frost.
"Rustle~"
Out of the corner of his eye, Allen noticed movement—a bush trembling unnaturally.
Just as he tensed, a rabbit darted out from within.
He shook his head, casting aside his strange sentiments.
This wasn't the first time Allen had killed someone.
But today, the manner in which the dead had perished was simply too striking to forget.
The cold wind chilled him to clarity.
"Do the conquerors of countless worlds deserve your sympathy?"
"One ordinary Wild Hunt soldier's self-destruction left you gravely injured."
"Your current strength, and that of the Wolf School, in their eyes, is no better than that rabbit's."
-----------------------
"Allen."
The witcher took a deep breath, warning himself:
"Never empathize with your enemies. Never."
Then.
Allen lifted his gaze again.
In the darkness, thick black smoke mixed with crimson flames shot into the sky.
With a sigh, he turned and chanted an incantation softly.
"Boom~"
A swirling orange-red portal appeared in the forest, roaring with wind.
Allen stepped into the portal.
And at the very moment both his feet crossed the threshold—
"Ding!"
"Monsters: 'Aen Elle,' 'Sorcerers' defeated!"
"Rewards Calculated: …"
.....
📢20 advanced chapters on p@treaon📢
For advance chapters: p@treon.com/Uchiha_Itachi007 (replace @ with a)
375. Another S-Rank Evaluation.
376. Absurd.
377. Ban Ard Is No Longer a Threat.
378. Could It Be He's Not the Child of Prophecy?
379. Spiral! The Witcher Who Commands Time and Space!
Anda mungkin juga menyukai
Komentar Paragraf
Fitur komentar paragraf sekarang ada di Web! Arahkan kursor ke atas paragraf apa pun dan klik ikon untuk menambahkan komentar Anda.
Selain itu, Anda selalu dapat menonaktifkannya atau mengaktifkannya di Pengaturan.
MENGERTI