Lann formed a sign in the palm of his hand.
Though the raw power of his Signs wasn't on the same level as Jerome's, their effectiveness against conventional armies—especially when bolstered by multiple enhancements—was arguably even greater.
[Igni Sign: Pyromaniac – Magic Burst]!
A fan-shaped blaze erupted, engulfing everything within view. Several massive trebuchets and over a hundred soldiers were consumed in a wave of searing heat and agonized screams.
Drawing a deep breath, Lann swiftly restored his mana through the effects of potions. In a flash of golden light, he reappeared at the center of the densest cluster of troops, and with a flick of his wrist, unleashed another wide-area Sign.
Unlike the supernatural units he had brought with him, Lann charged headlong into the ranks of ordinary soldiers. Together with his ice giant, he began tearing through siege engines and cutting down engineers and other supporting troops.
They worked with clear coordination.
Whether witchers, sorcerers, or even dragons—all had a clear advantage over conventional humans. But none could achieve absolute domination, disregarding numbers and tactics. Arrogance in battle often invited countermeasures—and ultimately, death.
Just as siege ballistae were a threat to dragons, dimeritium was a bane to sorcerers.
That was why supernatural forces still had to act with caution—sometimes even retreat—when facing organized armies.
But Lann was different.
The variety of powers at his command allowed him to suppress ordinary troops to an overwhelming degree. His current combat system had, to a certain extent, already reached the level where one man alone could change the course of battle—or become an army unto himself.
He had brought his supernatural units to deal with the enemy elites, while he personally eliminated threats that could endanger his spellcasters, witchers, and summoned creatures—creating an environment where they could wreak havoc without restraint.
"Gods!"
The Nilfgaardians were already half-deaf from the ice giant's roar, and their dazed minds hadn't yet recovered when a golden light flashed before their eyes—
Only to be swallowed a second later by fire and frost.
"Lannister!"
The shout drew Lann's attention.
Someone still had the focus to call him out on a battlefield this chaotic?
Turning around, he spotted Field Marshal Menno surrounded by his most trusted guards. A high-ranking male sorcerer, clearly of elite status, stood beside the Marshal, leading a few other mage-soldiers in defending him against the attacks flying in from all directions.
Because of the initial plan, Lann's forces had intentionally avoided targeting Menno. As a result, the Marshal's personal guard remained surprisingly intact.
The provocation had come directly from Menno.
His reasoning was simple: Nilfgaard's elite forces were clearly being suppressed by Cintra—but the 'good news' was that Lannister himself had entered the field. If they could take him down in a duel of generals, then all the other rogue spellcasters and witchers would soon fall like dominoes.
There was still hope for victory—and that hope lay in the lone figure of Lannister!
High sorcerer Vanhemar strongly agreed with the Marshal's assessment.
As one of the three commanders of the mage corps, he had noticed that since Lannister's arrival, he had avoided all encounters with golems or other sorcerers, diving straight into the mobs of ordinary troops.
Clearly, Lannister had been humbled by past battles against Nilfgaardian mages—and was now only daring to bully common soldiers!
Drawing the attention of Cintra's final lion—defeating him, capturing him—would make him the hero who turned the tide of this entire Northern campaign!
"Lannister!"
Vanhemar echoed Field Marshal Menno's furious roar.
Fire magic—long banned in the North—was conjured through his incantation. A white-hot torrent of flames surged toward Lann.
Even as it skimmed just above the ground, the blazing stream seared a scorched path across the grassy field.
Vanhemar had seen Lann use flame and frost Signs earlier, and he was confident that Lann's magic couldn't possibly block his proudest spell.
But Lann had no intention of engaging in a duel of magical force. He gave Vanhemar a strange look—almost pitying—then vanished in a flash of golden light.
[BOOM!]
A blinding explosion of fire erupted at the spot where Lann had stood just a moment before. A small black cloud mushroomed upward, and the shockwave knocked over more than a dozen Nilfgaardian soldiers nearby.
Judging by the blast's sheer power, Vanhemar did have some real skill.
He just hadn't chosen his opponent wisely.
The next instant, a golden flash again—and Vanhemar instinctively raised his protective shield.
But Lann reappeared inside the barrier, becoming a 'protected target' alongside him.
[Shiiing—]
A cold arc of steel sliced through the air. Cutting down an unarmored sorcerer was even easier than striking down an ordinary soldier.
Blood sprayed, soaking Field Marshal Menno's cloak. Also shielded by the protective magic, he now realized what had just happened beside him.
Behind Vanhemar, the mage-soldiers who had witnessed their leader's death let out sharp, woman-like screams.
Menno took a deep breath. He did not panic. He was a veteran officer of pride and discipline. And now, he fully understood the situation.
He was prepared to die.
"Lannister!" Field Marshal Menno roared, drawing his sword and charging at Lann.
[CLANG!]
Lann raised the Sword of the Lady of the Lake, effortlessly blocking the overhead slash. His arm didn't budge an inch.
With a soft chuckle, he reached behind him and drew his other weapon—a black, cursed scimitar—and began to spin around Menno as if dancing.
In the eyes of Nilfgaard's supreme commander, his opponent vanished completely. Lannister hadn't used any form of teleportation—just footwork. But how could he move so fast?
Blades of red and gold light spun through the air, cutting so close that the rushing wind grazed Menno's armor. Blood sprayed like fountains in a royal garden—luxurious, wanton. Cries of agony rose and fell in rhythm all around him.
[Thud. Thud. Thud.]
Menno looked around in stunned confusion, only to see that his entire guard unit had been wiped out in just a few breaths. Their heavy plate armor had proven no sturdier than cardboard against the enemy's blades.
"AAAH—!"
Another scream sounded a few steps away. Menno turned toward the noise and saw more mage-soldiers being executed—those who had fled after losing their commander.
The poor magic specialists couldn't even open a portal. They had to run on foot—and of course, at that level, a thought was all it took for them to be hunted down.
He watched as Lannister withdrew his sword from the final soldier's chest. Sensing the Marshal's gaze, Lann glanced back with a cold smirk.
Then—another golden flash. Gone.
[Drip.]
The blood sprayed from the fallen guard splattered across Menno's armor, then began dripping from underneath.
Why didn't he kill me?
[CRACK!]
The Black Sun command banner behind him snapped and collapsed, raising a cloud of dust.
"Why didn't he kill me?" Menno's stunned expression turned into one of shock, then flushed red with fury.
"LANNISTER! WHY DIDN'T YOU KILL ME!!"
…
"God!!"
The ice giant hurled his massive anchor—and even a fortified stone wall could've been shattered by such a blow.
But this time, it landed squarely in the midst of Nilfgaard's dimeritium archer regiment. The result was self-evident.
Beyond sheer destructive power, the ice giant's enormous body had also drawn the majority of incoming arrows and magical fire just moments earlier—providing Lann's allies with the perfect conditions to strike.
Offense, defense, and aggro control—he was a super support doing the job of a main DPS!
With a flash of golden light, Lann appeared on the frost giant's shoulder. The raging beast immediately quieted down.
From his elevated position, Lann scanned the battlefield in all directions.
The enemy sorcerer units had mostly been wiped out. Those who needed capturing were already cuffed. Once the supernatural forces finished their part, he could open a portal and return to the rear lines.
The outcome here was already sealed.
Lann patted the ice giant's neck.
"Let's move. Head around back and smash through the Nilfgaardian cavalry from the rear."
"That's where we're needed. That's the battlefield I truly chose for you."
...
"Oh my gods, that's Yarpen!" Shani cried out. "I know him! He was one of the first dwarves to follow Lann—we once traveled to Oxenfurt together!"
"Silence, Shani!" Rusty barked at his apprentice. "It doesn't matter who the patient is—don't let it affect your surgical focus. Do you understand?"
"Answer me clearly. Do you remember the technique I taught you, Shani?!"
"Red thread for red, yellow thread for yellow, white thread for white…"
"Then we'll be fine," Rusty declared firmly. "Now help me open up this dwarf's abdomen. We may need to remove part of the colon or spleen—and possibly suture the liver. Dwarves have denser muscle than humans, so you'll need to use more force. Got it?!"
"…Yes, sir!"
Just as the scalpel was about to make contact, the pain brought Yarpen back to partial consciousness.
"Who won?" The dwarf's eyes bulged wide. "Is the battle still going… Who won?!"
"Buddy," Rusty muttered, leaning over the gaping, bloody, and still-pulsing abdominal cavity, "If I were you, that'd be the last thing on my mind right now."
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