The fierce wind swept across the grassland, setting off ripples that made the hawthorn bushes and tall nettles rustle violently.
Clouds drifted past the moon, and its pale light occasionally spilled down onto the silent field below.
Everything was asleep—until an orange-red vortex descended and shattered the stillness.
From within the swirling light stepped a witcher, hooded in black, a long sword sheathed at his waist.
His black leather boots pressed into the uneven grass, crushing a clover beneath them into green pulp that squelched with a faint crack.
In that instant, the once-slumbering meadow awoke.
Countless crimson eyes bloomed within the dense treeline, spreading outward until they filled every corner of sight, all fixated greedily upon the lone intruder.
The witcher paused, scanning his surroundings, raising a brow.
"So the welcome ceremony is this grand, huh?"
A deafening roar tore through the night sky.
From the forest surged a horde of dark shapes, crashing through slender trees, uprooting hawthorn and nettles in their frenzy.
The next moment—
Clang!
A silver blade flashed free, gleaming like moonlight fallen from the heavens.
In the blink of an eye, the witcher stamped the ground and spun, tracing a web of radiant silver lines that bound the monsters together.
Hot, foul-smelling blood sprayed outward, spattering the green field in crimson arcs.
Then white-hot fire burst from his palm, blazing across the night.
Boom!
Boom!
Boom!
The chain of explosions sent gales rippling outward, snapping saplings and flattening the wild undergrowth.
By the time the hidden controller realized the danger and tried to flee, not a single monster remained standing upon the field.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
A towering creature bristling with black spikes trembled, swallowing hard as its heart thundered like rolling stormclouds.
It couldn't comprehend—how had its vast army been wiped out in mere seconds by a single, small figure it had mistaken for prey?
No.
That was no prey.
That was the hunter.
It was the prey.
But by the time realization struck, it was already too late.
Step… step… step…
The footsteps of death approached.
With a soft swish, the creature felt a sudden chill across its throat—and then the world spun upside down.
The witcher turned smoothly, twirling his blade to flick away the blood before sheathing it once more.
A scarlet line slowly spread across the emerald grass.
He straightened.
All around him stretched a landscape both familiar and strange.
This was the heart of Passolon Forest.
After being severely wounded by the explosion from the Wild Hunt commander Parnoys, Allen had barely managed to seize the Void Crystal of Ard Gaeth's Gate and its Guiding Stone, before activating a portal to escape here.
He had fallen unconscious soon after, and the "Good Girl" had carried him back to the Temple of Melitele.
The battlefield where the Wild Hunt clashed with the sorcerers of Ban Ard was only about three kilometers from this spot.
"Didn't expect the old coordinates would still come in handy now…"
Allen sighed, surveying the grassland, though no trace of the "Good Girl" remained—only the corpses of ghouls and rotfiends scattered everywhere.
"Seems I should stop leaving portal coordinates in the wild. You never know what's waiting when you come back through them next time."
He thought so to himself—and couldn't help but feel a pang of nostalgia for the "Good Girl," now away on her "maternity leave."
If the "Good Girl" were still around, there would be no place in the Northern Continent that Allen couldn't go.
But it wouldn't be long now — the mental link between them pulsed stronger and livelier with each passing day.
She'd be back from "maternity leave" soon enough.
Allen didn't hurry toward the Free Elves Camp.
The forest here was unfamiliar — towering trees rose so high they blocked the moonlight, making it difficult to tell direction. Sometimes, he couldn't even tell whether he was climbing uphill or descending.
He narrowed his eyes, gazing up at the glittering constellations — the Seven Goats, the Water Jug, the Sickle, the Dragon, and the Winter Maiden. Then, he mentally traced the shape of the continent, the density of the surrounding woods, and the depth and width of the streams he'd crossed on his journey.
"A witcher who travels the Continent to slay monsters will always find himself walking through the night. But the stars will always guide the righteous."
That was one of the lessons Vesemir had once taught him.
Ding!
[Monster Group: Alghouls — Lv.59 Defeated!]
[Reward Calculation: Victory Achieved. Base Rating: D. Beheading Intimidation +3 → C. Outnumbered Triumph +3 → B. Bullying the Weak –9 → E.]
[Final Rating: E]
[Loot Acquired: Alghoul Heart Essence ×2, Ghoul Heart Essence ×27, Rotfiend Heart Essence ×12]
[Ding! Hunting Quest: Ghouls II (Kills: 250/250) — Ready for Completion!]
[Ding! Hunting Quest: Rotfiends II (Kills: 100/100) — Ready for Completion!]
[Hunting Quest: Alghouls II (Kills: 17/20)]
-----------------------------------
The cold, mechanical chime of the system interrupted Allen's thoughts.
"Should've saved the Deception privilege for this one…" he sighed softly.
An E-rank hunt rating meant no treasure chests, no experience orbs. At F-rank, even the heart essences would be deducted — leaving nothing behind.
Still, he had used Deception not long ago, and it hadn't been wasted.
-----------------------------------
[Deception]
Effect: Once per Elven Moon, the user may erase any one evaluation result from a hunt's settlement.
-----------------------------------
Unlike the cooldown of Conjunction of the Spheres, Deception didn't count thirty days from use. Instead, it refreshed on fixed dates — the end of each of the eight Elven Moons: New Year, Winter Solstice, Candlemas, Spring Equinox, May Day, Summer Solstice, Harvest Festival, and Autumn Equinox.
Unused chances didn't carry over to the next moon — they simply refreshed.
Conveniently, today was September 22nd.
Four hours from now… would be the Autumn Equinox.
But Allen didn't expect an actual large-scale battle.
According to the message Francesca had sent through her messenger bird, Ban Ard's ten-thousand-strong army sounded terrifying, but at first, the Free Elves had fought them evenly — even gaining the upper hand for a time.
It was only later, when Ban Ard defied the Brotherhood's ban and unleashed vast necromantic magic — reviving the dead and summoning controllable wraiths — that the Free Elves' defense finally collapsed.
So…
His goal wasn't to defeat Ban Ard's army outright.
A single witcher couldn't do that.
All he needed to do was disrupt the battle — throw both sides back into their original balance.
Still… if the Conjunction of the Sphere spell landed in just the right place, Ban Ard might well suffer devastating losses.
"Hmm… this should be the eastern side," Allen muttered, orienting himself before stepping into the dense woods.
Behind him lay a field of corpses — the air thick with the stench of blood.
He didn't bother cleaning up.
Nature itself would cover his traces — just as it had once hidden the presence and footprints of a mighty griffin…
-----------------------------------
Pasolon Forest lay not far from Ban Ard — in fact, directly east of it, seamlessly connected to the Blue Mountains. So, the place where Allen was teleported should have been very close to the Free Elves' camp.
Crossing the Liksela River, which originates from the Blue Mountains, winding through Ban Ard, Ard Carraigh, and the elven ruins of Shaerrawedd, he then passed through a small patch of forest.
A massive valley suddenly blocked his path.
However, he didn't rush to find a way across. Down in the valley below, countless scattered fires illuminated a sprawling encampment that covered the entire basin, glowing as bright as daylight.
Switching to the Wolf Medallion's elemental sight, he saw a faint blue magical barrier enveloping the entire camp.
Further beyond, at the gorge's entrance where the mountains hid the horizon, a sinister green magical light pulsed and flickered—like the smoke of war rising into the sky.
The mountain winds carried with them a stench of rot and decay, mingling with faint cries and screams that echoed in the distance.
"The numbers don't match…"
Allen narrowed his eyes, carefully observing the camp's layout.
Although the campfires blazed high, the number of patrolling soldiers and tents was nowhere near the size that a ten-thousand-strong army should have had.
He glanced from the brightly lit valley to the faraway canyon where the green glow writhed, visibly conflicted.
If he released Conjunction of the Sphere here, it should still have an effect.
Cutting off enemy supplies and logistics had always been a crucial tactic in warfare, no matter the era.
The problem, however, was that while Conjunction of the Sphere would undoubtedly devastate the camp—killing many of the stationed soldiers and shaking the morale of Ban Ard's forces, forcing them to retreat and regroup—it came with complications.
The monsters it summoned would likely rampage through the camp and then scatter after the destruction, not bothering with supplies or resources.
Even if the spell summoned a hundred monsters, they would disperse across the vast Blue Mountains, no more than a drop in the ocean.
It wouldn't be enough to break Ban Ard's blockade. Once the army recovered and reorganized, the Free Elves would still face annihilation.
Worse still, this Convergence of Spheres might draw even more unwanted attention and hostility.
And yet…
Infiltrating the camp, tracking Ban Ard's movements, and locating their next encampment would be far more dangerous.
After all, while Francesca had described this army as a rabble of mercenaries and conscripts, after enduring countless ambushes from the mountain folk, they were surely now battle-hardened and on high alert.
Moreover, the mountain folk were naturally gifted in magic—far beyond ordinary humans—and among them were powerful adepts like Ida Emean and Simlas Finn aep Dabairr, true masters of the arcane arts.
The surviving Ban Ard forces surely had powerful mages or warriors among them — individuals of exceptional strength.
The blue glow of Allen's cat-like eyes reflected the flickering firelight below. Torn between two impossible choices, the witcher's expression darkened and softened by turns.
-----------------------------------
On the other side of the world.
A portal of burning orange-red light suddenly flared open at the foot of Kaer Morhen, near the end of the Killer's Path — the treacherous trail that led up to the witcher fortress.
Two hooded figures in black cloaks stepped out of the portal. The moment their boots touched the earth, they waved their hands, dispelling the gate and cloaking themselves in invisibility with a soft whisper of spellcraft.
Then they slipped into the tall grass beside the trail, holding their breath as they watched in silence.
The mountain winds stirred the grass, making it whisper faintly.
Under the bright moonlight, the Killer's Path, half-hidden beneath the shadow of trees, remained empty for a long while.
"Master Shaquiel, I told you there wouldn't be any danger,"a young man's voice finally broke the stillness from within the grass.
"I investigated before coming here. Every witcher school only gathers at Kaer Morhen around the winter solstice — that's when they start returning one by one."
"At this time of year, the best we'll find in Kaer Morhen is a bunch of old crippled witchers and maybe a few apprentices…"
The mage called Shaquiel said nothing. He looked left and right, scanning both ends of the Killer's Path, before stepping out of the brush and dusting off his cloak. As he did, his form shimmered into view.
"Valeriu," he said suddenly, turning to the younger man, "do you know what kind of magic I specialize in?"
Valeriu blinked, caught off guard.
"Tracking and divination, of course. Everyone at the Ban Ard Academy knows that — even the apprentices. You're a master of both."
"Then do you know what those two disciplines have in common?"
Valeriu scratched his head.
"Uh… what?"
"They both tend to get you killed," Shaquiel said flatly.
Valeriu fell silent.
He couldn't argue — mages who specialized in divination rarely lived long, burning their life away to pry into fate. As for trackers… their line of work was even more perilous.
"Do you know how old I am?" Shaquiel asked next.
Valeriu shook his head, bewildered.
"Two hundred and thirty-one! I've lived for two hundred and thirty-one years!"
Shaquiel jabbed a finger into the young man's chest with each word.
"There are mages more skilled at divination, and some better trackers — but none who are both and have lived longer than I have. Not a single one!"
"Do you know how I survived this long, Valeriu? Caution. Sheer, bloody caution."
"So if you ever want to live as long as I have — and keep living beyond that — you'll do exactly as I say. Understood?"
Valeriu looked into the older man's eyes, visible through the slit in his black mask — eyes filled with cold, murderous intent, as if to say Disagree with me, and I'll kill you right now just to lengthen my life.
He swallowed hard and nodded.
"Good!"
Shaquiel patted his shoulder, letting the menace fade from his eyes.
"Now let's finish this damned mission — and get out of here alive."
"Follow my footsteps exactly. Do not take even one wrong step."
"The Killer's Path is riddled with traps."
Without another word, Shaquiel muttered a few quiet incantations toward the ground, then began advancing slowly, each step deliberate and measured.
Valeriu regained his focus and followed cautiously behind him.
After a long stretch of silent climbing, the oppressive quiet became too much for the young mage.
"Master Shaquiel," he whispered, "since the Academy already has Kaer Morhen's coordinates, why not just open a portal directly inside? It'd be safer and faster than walking this cursed path."
Shaquiel didn't turn around.
"Because the most dangerous place is often the safest."
"For us, these traps are harmless enough. But if a portal's spatial fluctuation is detected by anyone alive…"
He glanced back over his shoulder, his voice dropping to a chill whisper.
"Would you survive the speed of a witcher — or his steel sword?"
Valeriu froze, realization dawning on his face. He opened his mouth to ask another question—but Shaquiel, anticipating him, cut him off sharply without looking back.
"Quiet. Kaer Morhen is just ahead."
....
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