The mist had almost swallowed the entire fortress.
Because of the magical barrier, it couldn't seep inside.
But the main gate had already been breached.
It was only a matter of time before the terrifying black-clad army poured in.
The ten mages who had been sent out were being surrounded and hunted by the Nilfgaardian troops, their magic nearly spent.
From atop the wall, John watched as the witches were chased through the chaos.
He noticed streams of chaotic particles surging toward the shattered gate. His duty was to guard the wall—technically, the gate wasn't his concern.
But then he heard a voice calling to him.
"John, I need you at the gate."
It was Yennefer. In the end, she had decided to trust him.. Even though they'd known each other for less than a single night.
But now, there weren't enough hands left to hold the line.
John glanced down toward the gate, then leapt from the wall.
It looked like an act of suicide.
The black-clad soldiers spotted John and charged toward him.
Without even glancing their way, John flicked his left hand, sending a shockwave that blasted them off their feet.
He strode straight to the gate, striking down every soldier who tried to approach.
The mist was drawing closer.
And when he looked carefully, he saw that it wasn't just mist—it was a person.
Chaotic particles drifted constantly from the figure's body, whose face was gaunt and lifeless.
A white robe hung over a frame that looked more like a skeleton than a man.
That figure walked with deliberate, steady steps toward the gate.
John didn't reach for his wand. Instead, he drew his sword.
The runes along the silver blade shimmered faintly as he lifted his gaze to the approaching figure.
The Nilfgaardian mage seemed to sense him as well.
The mage spread both hands, and the mist surged forward, rolling toward John.
John whispered to his sword, "Tell me… is it you?"
The silver sword trembled faintly, as if it were alive.
John smiled knowingly.
A flicker of flame burst from the blade—Woosh! as though a fire dragon slumbered within it, carrying a power that could rend the heavens and shatter the earth.
When the seventh rune ignited, the sword finally revealed its true nature to him.
A low, guttural whisper rose from John's throat—ancient, draconic, and incomprehensible.
||I am the fire dragon.||
As the words fell, flames surged along the silver sword.
The mage's mist had already reached him.
From within the rolling fog, fire tore free—forming the shape of a flying dragon that dove straight into the mage's body.
The Nilfgaardian mage reached out toward John, his skeletal face twisted with unwillingness.
"The White Flame… will cleanse the world!"
With that final, bitter roar, the mage perished.
From the center of the mage's brow, a thin red line split open—flames burst forth from within.
Crimson fire engulfed his entire body, consuming him completely.
A rectangular box with jagged, tooth-like seals fell from his remains.
John stood alone beneath the city gate, sword in hand.
The blood-red light sank into the blade, igniting the eighth rune.
The flames subsided.
The sword's appearance changed—as if the dust of ages had been washed away, revealing its true, intricate form beneath.
The Silverwick Sword.
This was what the silver sword truly looked like.
John ran his fingers across the slot where a gemstone was missing, a hint of emotion flickering in his eyes.
The white wolf appeared once more.
Standing in the mist, its icy blue eyes fixed on John, baring its fangs in challenge.
John tightened his grip on the sword, as his eyes slowly turned pale grey.
"Looks like you're part of the trial too."
He stepped forward slowly, one measured stride after another, approaching the white wolf.
"Tell me—who are you?"
The tip of the Silverwick Sword touched the ground.
Wherever it passed, golden flames trailed behind, leaving a burning mark.
From the sea of white mist, a line of gold cut through like fire tearing the heavens.
Yennefer, overseeing the entire battlefield, caught sight of this scene.
"John, come back," she called his name, trying to summon him back to the defenses.
But his mind gave no response.
"John!"
After calling several times in vain, Yennefer turned to the others.
"Triss—hold the gate!"
Triss received the order and hurried to the gate.
She saw the golden flames on the ground—flames that refused to fade, burning endlessly.
The Eternal Fire.
"John! Come back!" Triss shouted at the top of her lungs.
But John kept walking toward the white wolf, as if he hadn't heard her voice at all.
...
Night passed.
Ciri stepped out of the house.
Outside, the world was shrouded in thick mist.
Through the haze, she saw a white wolf.
It looked the same as the one she'd seen yesterday—yet somehow, it wasn't.
She froze, whispering, "What is that?"
Yes… what was it?
She was the second person able to see the white wolf.
From it, she felt a presence unlike anything she'd known.
It wasn't a monster, nor was it an animal.
It was something unspeakable—like a harbinger of calamity, draped in white frost, as if it sought to devour the entire world.
A wave of immense terror struck Ciri's heart. Her breathing quickened, and her vision turned pale and blindingly white.
It was as if endless snowflakes were filling her eyes—burying her alive.
Then—
A spark of flame.
Golden.
Burning eternally upon the earth.
It melted the storm of frost before her eyes.
Ciri gasped for breath, collapsing where she stood.
Chaos flooded her mind; the Elder Blood within her stirred, and she began to murmur words in an ancient, forgotten tongue.
...
John saw winter itself. Endless white dust blanketing the entire continent.
That scene was like—
An eternal freeze.
In his mind surged memories of that thing he had once brought into the world beyond the Gate of Things/Worlds.
"The Box of Eternal Ice—frozen forever—the White Frost descends."
Scenes flickered and shifted endlessly. From within the mist, John heard a voice.
"Know this—The Wolf's Blizzard approaches, the time of the sword and axe.
The Time of the White Frost and White Light, the Time of Madness and Disdain, Tedd Deireadh, the Final Age.
The world will perish amidst ice and be reborn with the new sun.
Reborn of the Elder Blood, of Hen Ichaer, of a planted seed.
A seed that will not sprout but burst into flames!
Such is destiny!"
The voice was strangely familiar—something he felt he had heard before.
The gray-white hue completely engulfed his eyes, though his consciousness remained clear.
Unlike the usual trance brought by prophecy, this sensation was… different.
A strange clarity amidst chaos, as though his mind had stepped into a primordial age.
Chaotic particles coiled around him, drifting close—yet none dared enter his body.
John looked at the White Wolf, his voice grave as he murmured, "The Age of the Frost Wolf and the Howling Snow."
Golden flames ignited along the blade of his sword.
"So that's why it's been feeling more and more real," John murmured. "The blood of a witcher… has allowed this world to find me."
"The Child of Surprise of this world."
He glanced at the golden fire burning on the Sword of Silverwick and muttered to himself, "Destiny, huh."
The ninth trial—The White Wolf before him.
The calamity of this world, and also its destined fate.
"The Child of Surprise who once defied the destiny of magic… now arrives in this realm to bear destiny once again."
John slowly lowered his sword, his expression cold. "So they're treating me like a pawn."
Just like before—
Stregobor and Renfri.
They too had forced John to make a choice.
And now, this world was doing the same.
If he failed to complete the trial, he would never be able to return to his own world.
His classmates, his friends, his family—All would remain forever out of reach.
If he killed the White Wolf, he would bear the curse of calamity—becoming the vessel of the White Frost, leading the disaster away from this world and into another.
To call it killing was wrong—it was more like a sacrifice.
"I see… so the so-called trials should've ended long ago." John lifted his head toward the battlefield, where life itself was as fragile as paper.
Accept fate?
Then he wouldn't be John Wick.
He gripped the witcher's medallion and tore it from his neck.
As it came loose, a magic circle of lines and rings shimmered into view in his palm.
Planting the Sword of Silverwick into the ground, John brought his hands together with a sharp clap.
The medallion began to shift rapidly in his palm.. Melting into a pool of silver light.
He caught the glowing liquid in his left hand and drew his sword with his right.
Then John pressed his palm against the ninth rune engraved on the blade.
Heat seared his skin, burning even through the hide of a dragon.
Bit by bit, the silver medallion sank into the sword's body.
When John released his hand, the spot of the ninth rune was filled with silver.
John said coldly, "Don't think you can control me."
Slytherin would not be swayed by anyone else.
The world would bend for him instead.
The White Wolf gradually vanished, and with it went the witcher's medallion.
John imprinted a circle in his left hand.
It meant that Yadani the Witcher was dead. Here, in this world, he existed as John Wick, a wizard of Hogwarts.
A man unbound by rules.
…
John slowly sheathed the Sword of Silverwick.
He exhaled a long, heavy breath.
"The final trial, huh."
Having forcibly broken the ninth trial, only the last one remained before he could return to his own world.
He looked back. Triss was summoning vines to seal the city gate.
A group of Nilfgaardian soldiers were chasing the witches, closing in not far from him.
"Coral, come back! Don't linger!" Yennefer's voice rang out.
John looked over. The witch was in grave danger.
Seeing John return to normal, Yennefer connected with him.
"John, go save her!" Yennefer's voice echoed in John's mind.
Coral's steps faltered. She saw one of their male wizards being attacked.
She had to help him, even as Yennefer's voice in her mind nearly screamed itself hoarse.
As Coral raised her hands to cast a spell, a soldier in black armor swung his sword down at her.
Her arm was severed, and with it, the spell was interrupted.
Yennefer closed her eyes in pain—she couldn't save her companion.
As the soldier advanced, ready to torment Coral to death, he raised his weapon—and to his horror, the sword in his hand disintegrated into dust.
He wasn't the only one.
Nilfgaardian soldiers near the city gate found their weapons turning brittle and fragile.
A ripple of white light spread outward.
John raised his hand and swung his wand.
Since he had abandoned his Witcher identity, John no longer needed to follow those rules.
His gaze swept over the battlefield—he was still missing the final trial.
Then Nilfgaard would serve as the final period.
His expression was cold. In his eyes, these soldiers were now nothing more than chips in his game.
He strolled toward the outskirts of the city, his voice ringing out like a chant.
"Black soldiers, remember this moment.
Those who stand before the army;
For the Lord of the Stars, the maker of Johnny Silverhand.
The King of Green Glass, the new sovereign of the magical world.
One who has endured eternal freeze, the wielder of the golden flame.
The second to forge a magical stone, the one who touches the Gate of Things.
Jovonovich's Yadani.
Black soldiers, remember this man."
"The one who will pierce the Black Army… John Wick."
His voice reverberated across the battlefield.
As the last word fell, thick black clouds rose into the sky.
John soared into the air, reaching above the city.
He raised his wand, and a white bolt of lightning shot into the heavens.
Boom!
The thunder transformed into a massive white sword, plunging into the heart of Nilfgaard's territory.
The earth was torn apart.
The black forces were shattered.
A flash of black lightning streaked through John's eyes.
His body greedily absorbed the surrounding magical energy.
The once-pressing Nilfgaardian army came to a halt, all eyes fixed on the dark-haired figure hovering in the sky.
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