The Nilfgaardians were on the verge of madness.
They had long been aware that Lann possessed a strange teleportation magic—something typically reserved for high-ranking sorcerers. This highly mobile spell had allowed the so-called Lion of Cintra to combine terrifying swordsmanship with sudden strikes, assassinating numerous key commanders.
So, they were prepared this time. The Marshal himself had even volunteered to serve as bait.
Anyone with a basic grasp of military affairs could see it: for the Northern forces to triumph against superior numbers, their only real option was to assassinate Nilfgaard's supreme commander. With the bulk of the Nilfgaardian army pressing in, Marshal Menno was convinced Lannister wouldn't be able to resist such a tempting opportunity.
They had even crafted a comprehensive plan, accounting for the two dragons Lannister might bring along—and any other spellcasters that could appear at his side.
The only flaw in this plan was if Lannister turned out to be a coward—too timid to take the bait. In that case, all their preparations would be wasted.
But even that wouldn't have mattered much. Once Nilfgaard fully occupied Lyria and then crushed Aedirn, they'd have all the time in the world to deal with Cintra.
Whether by fortune or misfortune, Lannister did not exploit the plan's only 'loophole'.
The good news: Lannister didn't throw a wrench into the Marshal's future. Just as expected, he showed up.
The bad news: The reinforcements Lannister brought were… unusual.
...
Lann cast a wind-clearing sign to create space around him.
Nilfgaardian forces immediately rained down attacks—magic, dimeritium-tipped arrows, even massive siege crossbows—all directed at him.
But then, a massive and dazzling flare of light engulfed his form. It was as if a glowing wall had been erected around him—impenetrable and absolute, nullifying every assault.
It felt like tossing stones into a mountain—without even hearing an echo.
Moments later, the dazzling silhouette slowly rose to its full height, and only then did the Nilfgaardians realize the light had taken the shape of a giant.
Seasoned mages began to tremble. The chaos energy in their hands grew erratic. Given Lann's close ties to the Skelligers, a terrifying suspicion started to form in their minds.
An ice giant?
No—this was no ordinary ice giant.
The radiant emerald light gradually faded, revealing a creature that fused primal ferocity with the mark of civilization.
He towered taller than a fortress wall, but rather than exposing ice-blue muscles like the mages had expected, his body was clad in steel.
Looking up from the ground, the Nilfgaardians took in the massive figure: iron boots, greaves, knee guards, leg armor, shoulder shields, vambraces, gauntlets, breastplate, gorget—and even a helmet and visor. This giant was armored to the teeth.
Perhaps due to the sheer scale or haste of its construction, the armor looked rough—lacking any ornate detail or engraving. It seemed like the sole intent had been to wrap this monstrous body in metal by any means necessary.
Yet the materials were undeniably solid. Each forged curve fit the ice giant's form perfectly, providing maximum mobility while still offering unwavering protection.
Combined with his fearsome physique, this crude, practical armor imbued the giant with a savage and brutal aesthetic—a beauty born of raw, unrefined power.
As for flexibility? Utterly unnecessary.
Dragons couldn't wear armor; they needed to fly.
But a giant? He only needed to charge forward. That cumbersome steel would only enhance his devastating impact.
Across the entire continent—among all the realms of intelligent civilization—there was only one place with the means and craftsmanship to produce something this infernal:
The dwarves of Mahakam.
Several conflicting thoughts collided within Menno's mind. One alarming idea began to take shape. He suddenly felt the soldiers marching toward Lyria's frontlines might encounter unexpected resistance—but just as quickly, he dismissed the notion as absurd.
After all, what in this world could possibly stop Nilfgaard's heavy cavalry?
That thought didn't last long.
A thunderous roar—loud enough to rattle one's very consciousness—slammed into the Marshal's ears.
"GOD!!"
The ice giant let out a thunderous roar that shook the heavens, and frigid winds began sweeping across the battlefield.
Thud! A siege bolt smashed into the giant's chest, causing his enormous body to tremble slightly.
The soldier who had snapped out of his awe in time to fire that shot deserved praise. Yet, there was no joy on his face.
Instead, he groaned.
"By the Sun… it felt like hitting a stone wall..."
The first crossbowman's strike jolted everyone back into motion. The grating sound of winding winches filled the air as thick siege bolts launched one after another with dreadful whistling speed.
The kind of speed and force that could bring a dragon out of the sky.
But against the giant, they were utterly useless.
Some archers attempted to fire dimeritium-tipped arrows, but most were deflected by the swirling cold winds before they could even get close. A few shot from powerful longbows managed to hit, only to glance off the thick armor.
What they didn't know was—even if the armor were breached, their arrows still wouldn't pierce the giant's skin.
"Stop wasting the dimeritium! Forget the giant! Aim for Lannister!" the commander of the archer unit barked, wasting no time to issue new orders.
But how could they ignore the giant?
The mages felt a wave of chaotic pressure radiating from the massive figure—an overwhelming storm of chaos energy surging in all directions.
Sparks crackled in the giant's hand. A massive iron rod—thick enough to serve as a castle's main beam—materialized in his grip. Attached to one end by a heavy chain was a ship's anchor—the kind used to hold vessels steady in raging seas.
This had once been the ice giant's tool in the mountains of Skellige. Back when he was possessed by a corrupted druid, he had briefly abandoned it in favor of fighting with an oaken staff.
But now, it was back.
Stronger than ever.
The ice giant lifted the iron rod in one hand while swinging the anchor above his head like a massive windmill, the whirling chains roaring through the air. Then—
[BOOM!]
It felt like a mountain had collapsed in front of them.
"Scatter! Scatter!!" the commander screamed in a voice shrill with panic, the kind of cry he thought he'd only ever utter in his final moments. "Everyone, get out of the way!!!"
"All siege engines, aim at the— gah!"
Behind him, Lann didn't even lift his head. He didn't bother glancing back at the stone and dirt—seven to eight meters high—that exploded into the air along with fragments of human bodies.
Teleportation continued.
Druids, sorceresses, and witchers began to emerge one after another from the spell.
Mousesack led the spellcasters, and the moment they hit the ground, they unleashed devastating magic as if they had no concern for conserving mana. Storms and lightning spread outward in all directions, ripping through Nilfgaard's sorcerer ranks.
They might have been outnumbered, but in terms of raw power and quality, they vastly surpassed the Nilfgaardian mages.
The witchers began by casting the Quen Sign on themselves, then charged forward under the cover of magical bombardment. Against royal advisor-level mages they might have hesitated or flanked—but these battlefield-specialized sorcerers were unprepared for close combat. Against witchers, they were lambs for the slaughter.
[Crack!]
A bolt of lightning surged toward Geralt. Reacting instantly, he rolled aside and drew a small, elegant crossbow from behind his back.
[Thunk!]
The unlucky mage who had ambushed the White Wolf didn't even know how to cast a basic shield spell. He dropped dead on the spot.
Lambert grabbed Geralt and hauled him to his feet. Then, with wolf-like speed, he sprinted down the path cleared by the ice giant's rampage and dove straight into the cluster of enemy mages. Without hesitation, he flung several dimeritium bombs into their midst.
Some managed to dodge.
But most suddenly clutched at their throats, gasping in agony as if invisible hands had seized them by the neck.
Moments later, steel swords marked with bear and wolf sigils cut through their exposed throats in perfect sync.
"Ha!" Lambert cried out in exhilaration. "We should've dragged Vesemir along for this too!"
"Without magic, these bastards are worse than drunken beggars on the roadside!"
Witchers fighting alone always dreaded being surrounded. But fighting as a unit—this time—gave Lambert a thrill unlike anything he'd ever experienced.
This was how witchers were meant to fight.
Fringilla Vigo watched the swaggering witchers with a grim expression, raising her hand to unleash a bolt of lightning far stronger than a standard spell.
[Buzz!]
A heavy, earth-like protective barrier blocked the ambush, shielding Lambert completely.
The Wolf School witcher stared in shock at the figure standing protectively before him—Jerome. That was too close.
Jerome, however, kept his eyes fixed on Fringilla and Assire. "Those two sorceresses… we're supposed to take them alive, right?"
At the same time, Assire var Anahid had already begun opening a teleportation portal behind Fringilla, quietly preparing for a retreat.
Neither of them had any intention of dying for Nilfgaard.
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