"You're really placing your hopes on those dwarves, Lannister?"
A familiar voice rang out. Lann turned to see Demavend walking toward him.
Meve didn't even bother to hide her displeasure—it was Demavend's withdrawal from the front that had accelerated the coalition's collapse.
She sneered, "So His Majesty finally returns?"
Still, she didn't go too far. She understood Demavend had his reasons. It was just that the nation falling now was hers—Lyria—and it was her soldiers who were dying. Her emotions were difficult to suppress.
"Vizimir made a move. He's issued a warning to Henselt. I can now redirect our cavalry from the northern front. Together with our infantry… I can put another 10,000 troops into the field," Demavend reported directly to Lann, ignoring Meve's jabs.
"King Vizimir intervened?" Lann raised an eyebrow. Another piece of good news.
But Demavend showed no gratitude for the sudden support. He scoffed coldly, "He just wants me to keep acting as their sword with no distractions. Same as you all…"
Among the four great Northern Kingdoms, Aedirn had suffered the heaviest blow. Meanwhile, the other three remained either passive or manipulative, and that left Demavend more bitter than words could express.
"The best Aedirn can spare for now is just over ten thousand," he continued with another snort. "But I have one condition."
Lann raised a brow.
"I'll commit everything to this war—but once Nilfgaard is driven out and wartime ends, the six-nation agreement over the Pontar Valley is null and void," Demavend stated solemnly. "Henselt will almost certainly seize the chance to make another move against Aedirn. Even Vizimir might try to extract favors from me using this 'support' as leverage."
"I've thought about conserving my strength and preparing for what comes after… but I also know that if we don't win this war, there may not be an 'after' for Aedirn."
Demavend looked Lann in the eye and said candidly, "That's why I need our alliance to remain intact even after the war. I need you to support me when the time comes—stand with me against those who would take advantage of Aedirn's weakness."
The King of Aedirn looked visibly worn, caught between enemies on one side and scheming allies on the other. But even so, he stood tall.
Lann gazed at the hand Demavend extended toward him and smiled. "That's exactly what I was hoping for."
At last, some of the tension left Demavend's face. He turned to glance at the druids and sorcerers already busily preparing and, after a moment's thought, asked: "Lannister, do you really believe those dwarves can hold back Nilfgaard's heavy cavalry?"
"Absolutely. I trust them," Lann replied without hesitation. "But if you're still feeling uncertain, Demavend, I don't mind adding a little extra reassurance."
With that, Lann raised his hand and activated the Teleport skill once more.
A glowing rift, nearly the size of a dragon, appeared beside him—drawing everyone's attention.
When the light faded, a fully armored giant stood before the crowd, clad in iron and armed to the teeth.
Snowstorms of winter howled across the land—and visually, it was a spectacle a thousand times more overwhelming than a dragon.
And its impact on the battlefield was just as immense.
Demavend and Meve could no longer keep their composure. Their faces were frozen in expressions of utter shock and disbelief.
...
"When?" Menno Coehoorn lifted his gaze from the map, looking straight at his commanders. "You want to know when I'll give the order to attack?"
No one answered. Menno's eyes swept over his officers.
Everyone in the room knew exactly what he meant—because just a few days ago, none of these officers had even been qualified to enter this command tent.
In recent days, nearly every major commander across the divisions and regiments had been assassinated by Lann in pinpoint strikes. The entire command structure had been replaced.
These newly promoted officers now faced the daunting task of taking full control of their forces—and quickly.
At the same time, they had to devote considerable effort to bolstering their own security, scrambling to avoid the same fate as their predecessors. And if they couldn't stay alive, their next duty was to ensure that their successors could assume command with minimal delay after their deaths.
"I'm giving you two days—two days only," Menno snapped. "By now, we should already be resting in the capital of Lyria!"
"But now we're hearing that Aedirn has sent more troops south. All of this is because your incompetence caused us to miss our window!"
All the officers lowered their heads, but their eyes darted subtly toward the high-ranking sorcerers observing nearby.
They, after all, weren't protected nearly as tightly. So far, Menno Coehoorn was the only one to survive an assassination attempt by the Lion.
"Fortunately, it's just Aedirn," Menno finally said after a long breath, looking at his silent subordinates. "They'll cause us more trouble, but they can't stop us."
...
The halfling Milo Vanderbeck was bustling about in the capital of Lyria. As a military physician, he was feverishly directing the students he had brought back from Oxenfurt, ordering them to set up military tents one by one.
A rock-armored troll came rumbling up.
"Little man, troll help! Help!"
But Milo was already on high alert.
"Get lost, you rock-brained oaf! There's a war coming—we need every drop of alcohol for strategic purposes!" he shouted, stamping his foot. "If you don't scram, I'll have Lann deal with you!"
The troll sulked and quickly trudged off, looking pitiful.
Only after a long round of comforting from the students did Milo calm down again.
He took a deep breath, drawing in the familiar blend of iodine, ammonia, alcohol, and magically-infused alchemical potions brewed by spellcasters. While the air was still clean, sterile, and untainted, he savored it.
Because Milo knew—this environment wouldn't last long.
His gaze swept over the snow-white operating table, then the surgical instruments arranged neatly beside it—dozens of them, cold and pristine in their steel sheen, methodically laid out with an aesthetic order. Soon, these tools would become the key to saving the lives of soldiers.
Around them, his core surgical team moved busily in preparation.
"Shani!"
"Here!" The red-haired student abruptly froze, tools in hand. "What is it, Professor Milo?"
Milo stared at Shani for a moment.
He had heard the rumors after arriving in Cintra—rumors that the Duke of Lannister had a fondness for redheads.
But the reason he brought Shani into his team had nothing to do with currying favor. It was because this poor girl possessed exceptional medical knowledge and an unshakable will—two qualities that made her stand out among all students from Oxenfurt.
Ordinarily, someone with her promise should've been eased into the field step by step—not thrust straight into something this overwhelming. But fate had other plans.
With a quiet sigh, Milo recalled that he had once wanted to ask Lann to assign a red-haired sorceress to the medical unit. Her skills in alchemy and healing spells would've eased much of the burden on the doctors.
But unfortunately, the front lines needed sorcerers even more—this was shaping up to be a brutal fight.
"What's this, Shani? What's it used for?"
"Are you testing me, Professor Milo?"
"Just answer me, child!"
"That's a periosteal scraper! It's used during amputation surgeries to remove the periosteum. To prevent the periosteum from shattering under the saw, it must be thoroughly scraped away beforehand!"
"Very good, child. And keep your voice down."
Milo combed back his hair with his fingers and muttered, "Looks like your nerves haven't gone blank. That's good. After all, you're my most trusted assistant."
The halfling pointed toward the city gates. Two soldiers were slowly turning the metal winch, opening the heavy wooden doors. Leading the way were three rock-armored trolls, followed by thousands of short, stout infantrymen marching in tight formation like iron-clad blocks.
A golden-haired knight mounted a gold-green dragon, and alongside a second red dragon the size of a fortress, they soared into the sky. Druids began chanting to summon storm clouds, concealing their aerial movements.
Behind them came a long procession of Witchers with amber eyes, flamboyantly dressed sorcerers, and other druids—all riding out at a gallop.
"This doesn't even feel like a battle between humans. Even at my age, I've never witnessed a war like this before."
"But war is always the same," Milo said gravely. "We all know what comes next."
"There will be blood—rivers of it. And then, the first wounded soldier will be carried into our tents. You all know what to do. You know where to stand. You know your duties."
"If you follow your orders, you won't go wrong. Understood?"
The other doctors gathered around Milo, silently listening to their leader.
"Over there," the halfling said, pointing again, "soon, tens of thousands of people will throw themselves at each other, using every imaginable method to kill."
"We'll be split across three medical points. We've got a few dozen physicians who can cut and stitch—but it won't be enough."
"We won't be able to save every wounded soldier. We might not even manage a tenth of them. But we will treat them—yes, forgive me for the cliché—because that is why we exist. We exist because there are people who need us."
"We cannot go beyond the limits of our ability," Milo said, his eyes scanning the students' tense faces. His tone softened, as did his demeanor. "But we will give our all. Not a shred less."
"Now, Shani, repeat the technique I taught you!"
The red-haired medic responded reflexively, "Red wounds, red thread. Yellow wounds, yellow thread. White wounds, white thread!"
Milo nodded in satisfaction and let out a small sigh. "Good. That'll do."
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