Black smoke rose from the earth, darker than the night itself.
It wasn't the smoke of burning wood — the forest hadn't caught fire.
Nor did that black haze drift with the mountain winds; instead, it hung in the air, thick and unmoving, as if solid, slowly seeping upward to join a faintly glowing green sky.
Pale maggots crawled over the ground, writhing in endless lines toward the eastern horizon.
Only by looking closer did one realize — those weren't maggots. They were human beings, or rather, what had once been human.
Now, swollen and silent faces, bones piercing through decayed flesh, and twisted, crawling postures had stripped them of all resemblance to humanity.
Among them floated half-transparent specters, each carrying a lantern glowing faintly with sickly green light.
Clusters of corpse-eaters shuffled along the edges of the horde, drool dripping from their cracked lips as they greedily watched the reeking mass of the living dead.
From his vantage point atop a high ridge, the Witcher could see everything.
Across the sparse, withered woodland, the land crawled with the undead — walking corpses, zombies, and ghostly wraiths.
A suffocating dread pressed upon his senses, sending waves of warning through his nerves. His scalp tingled, as if his skull rested against a bed of needles.
He could no longer tell whether it was his heightened Witcher senses reacting to hidden danger, or simply his human instinct recoiling from what he saw.
Now he finally understood why the road here had been so silent — not a single patrol, not even a stray soldier.
Ban Ard's army — nearly ten thousand living men — had all been transformed into undead, zombies, and wraiths through necromancy.
And of course, the dead did not rebel. They could not feel loss or fear. They existed only to obey.
The stench of blood and decay filled the air. Allen clenched his fists so tightly his gauntlets creaked.
"These damned bastards…" he hissed through his teeth.
-----------------------------------
While the Witcher stood upon the hillside, fury boiling in his chest at the sight of such horror — moved not by duty but by sheer human empathy —
Under the same faint green sky, deep within a cave concealed by illusion and surrounded by the undead horde, a group of black-robed warlocks embroidered with six-pointed stars were celebrating their triumph.
Goblets clinked together, crimson wine spilling over the rims like blood.
"The fools of the Brotherhood of Sorcerers cherish their sacks of rags," croaked an old warlock, his flesh clinging thinly to his bones, scarcely more alive than the wraiths wandering outside the cave.
His eyes gleamed feverishly as he gazed at the dim green light shining through the entrance. He inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of decay as though it were perfume, and slammed the table with delight. His voice rasped like sandpaper:
"Necromancy — that is the true jewel on the crown of the goddess of magic! What art could be more divine than the mastery of life and death itself?"
"None!" the others roared in unison, raising their goblets high and drinking deeply.
They had no fear of being discovered. There were no ritualists on the entire Northern Continent who understood concealment and protection better than these masters of forbidden rites.
"Malachi," one of the elder mages said, holding up his glass and peering through the crimson liquid toward the world outside, "look at those pale bones… what a beautiful hue. Those filthy peasants have finally found the attire that truly suits them."
Malachi, the warlock so named, nodded in agreement.
"War has finally returned to what it should be."
"A month has passed since ten thousand men marched as an army, yet they couldn't even find where those long-eared bastards hide."
"But ten thousand corpses," he sneered, "can scour every rabbit hole clean within a week—drag every last elf into the light, and add them to our necromantic legion."
"It won't even take a week," said the middle-aged warlock beside him, draining his cup in one breath. He raised a finger and wagged it lazily. "I wager three days at most—no, two. Within two days those long-eared cowards will crawl out of their burrows, and then they'll die gloriously and pointlessly."
"That's true efficiency!" another cackled.
"All those monsters the Rissberg Group engineered—those uncontrollable war beasts that don't even know friend from foe—what are they good for?"
"Ortolan, so-called legend of Chapter of the Gift and the Art, spent his life forging toys that barely worked."
"This is how war should be fought!"
"To die magnificently—and helplessly…" Malachi nodded slowly. "That's the kind of death that suits those long-ears."
He set down his goblet, his sunken eyes sweeping across the faces of his companions—men who had spent their brightest years maintaining magical barriers, divining trinkets for nobles, locating runaway lovers and lost pets. Bitterness crept into his voice.
"I used to look down on Sunny," he said. "Thought he was an ambitious fool with no talent. Never imagined he'd have such… audacity."
"Only someone like him could lead warlocks to build a true kingdom of our own."
"We, the children of magic—why should we bow to mortals?"
"Exactly!" the others shouted, voices echoing through the cave.
"Master Ignaz," Malachi said after a pause, swirling the wine in his cup before setting it on the conjured stone table. He tilted his head as if casually. "Aside from cleansing the long-ears, has our king issued any other command?"
The raucous celebration stilled in an instant.
Malachi didn't seem to notice the sudden tension. His gaze fixed on the old warlock, sharp and burning. "Ten thousand undead to wipe out a few half-starved elves… doesn't that seem a little wasteful?"
Ignaz froze, the cup halfway to his lips. He avoided that scorching stare, choosing his words carefully.
"Sunny has given no further orders," he said finally. "He only told us to remain hidden—and not to reveal ourselves before those useless nobles."
"Nobles…" Malachi gave a low, cold laugh. "And what if they do find out? The true warriors of the realm already perished between Kaedwen and Aedirn. The ones left outside are nothing but scraps."
He rose from the perfectly cut stone he'd been sitting on, surveying his peers with a faint, crooked smile.
"You really think they don't know what we're doing?"
"Of course they know. They just fear we might extend our ritual to them as well."
"Those so-called subjects—just a bunch of peasants dragged from some nameless village near Ban Ard—are nothing compared to their lives, their gold, their power."
"And such creatures—born vile and low—are we supposed to fear them?"
He jabbed a finger toward the cave's mouth, where the faint green light seeped in from the necrotic army outside. His veins stood out on his forehead.
"Look at what we command, my brothers… It is they who should fear us!"
Silence filled the cave.
No one answered.
A chill ran down their spines as the scuttling footfalls and the wails of the wraiths crept in from outside the cave — but instead of frightening the gathered warlocks, the sounds were like dry tinder snapping into flame, fueling their ambition.
This was their power, a force capable of toppling a kingdom's rule. And those who held such power had no desire to remain forever subject to another's command.
A greedy throat was heard swallowing.
Ignaz was one of the oldest of the ritualists in rank — and, not coincidentally, Sunny's planted agent. That wasn't a secret; everyone here "coincidentally" came from the same family. It wasn't something to hide: exterminating the mountain folk was a momentous task and Sunny would naturally send his own confidants.
But Malachi's words had already tilted the tone of the meeting.
What kind of monster had Sunny unleashed…? Ignaz felt a chill. Still, he pretended not to notice. He set his goblet down, looked up as if pondering, and then said, "It seems… there's truth to this."
"What truth?!" The long table erupted with eager questions.
Ignaz did not prolong the suspense. "Sunny hates the freaks of the Wolf School. Before I returned, he sent Shaquiel and Valeriu along with the Rissberg Group's Civil Cooperative Organization's war beasts toward Kaer Morhen."
"What does that have to do with us?" Malachi frowned.
"Its not enough for Sunny to rely only on Rissberg's half-baked creations to wipe the Wolf School out," Ignaz replied. "Besides, the wolf witchers haven't all returned to the fortress yet."
"Sunny planned to clear out the elves first, then turn his sights to Kaer Morhen. Considering we just fought a war, he intended to send us back to Ban Ard to rest." He leaned in. "But since many of you still bristle with unused fury, why can't we be the ones to exterminate those disgusting Witcher monstrosities?"
Sunny had never confided the post-cleansing plan to him. Still — dragging a bloodthirsty lion back into a cage carries a price: either the prey's flesh, or the tamer's.
"The Wolf School…" Malachi and the other warlocks exchanged glances.
"We have nearly ten thousand undead. How many witchers does Kaer Morhen have?" one warlock snapped.
"Even a hundred would be something — and they'd be eating Rissberg's leftovers," another, more informed voice spat.
Ignaz heard the restless complaints, his expression outwardly calm, but sweat had already silently formed on his brow.
"All right," Malachi waved a hand, cutting through the squabble. "At least we'll have food. A few witchers stuffed into the stew is better than starving as before."
Ignaz let out a breath of relief and shot Malachi a grateful look — only to meet Malachi's burning gray eyes at that instant. It was not a look of compromise. Ignaz felt it in his bones.
"But —" Malachi raised a finger, fire glittering in his pupils, "the Wolf School can only be the beginning, not the end."
"We can play a far greater role!" he went on.
"Does Sunny only desire a sorcerer-kingdom confined to Ban Ard?" Malachi spat. "That would be small. Cidaris and Cintra — they at least have coastal wealth. Kaedwen is huge; Aedirn, Redania, Temeria and the rest of the Northern Realms… if there are people to rule, Ignaz — if there are people, we can help Sunny conquer all he sets his sights on!"
Malachi's feverish words whispered like a demon to Ignaz's ear.
He almost blurted out the question that burned at the edge of his mind—after conquering the Northern Realms with an army of undead, what exactly would Sunny rule over?
A pile of bones and corpses?
What kind of monster had Sunny unleashed this time…? Ignaz felt a chill crawl up his spine.
But surrounded by hungry, wolfish eyes, he held his tongue. He simply nodded slightly and said softly, "I understand. I'll have a good talk with Sunny."
Could a lion that had tasted blood ever truly return to its cage?
At that moment—
One of the young warlocks beside Malachi, who had just been laughing heartily while envisioning their future, suddenly froze mid-laugh.
"What's wrong, Lyotard?"
The young warlock's expression shifted uncertainly. "The Feast of Flesh… just fluctuated for a moment."
"What's strange about that?" another warlock scoffed, taking a casual sip of wine. "Probably a few of those long-eared bastards tried sneaking out or launching a night raid again—"
"No," Malachi interrupted, frowning as he set down his cup. "Lyotard's post isn't near the ritual's core."
"It's near the entrance," Lyotard confirmed, frowning slightly. "Malachi, you did tell those nobles that once they come in, there's no way out… right?"
"Those nobles don't have that kind of courage," Malachi replied coldly. After a moment's thought, a cruel smile crept across his face.
"It seems… we have a new guest."
-----------------------------------
The "new guest," Allen, had no idea he'd already been discovered.
At that moment, he was darting through the sparse forest like a headless fly.
The undead—ghouls, zombies, and wraiths—were far more perceptive than he had expected. Even Nightshade couldn't conceal his scent from their keen sense for the living.
And once a single one of them noticed him, an entire swarm would come rushing toward him, as if all of them were connected by some invisible net.
Yet to call them truly intelligent—or even consciously controlled—would be a stretch.
Every time they were "triggered," they'd revert to their usual mindless wandering within minutes. It was all instinct.
After several cautious tests, Allen found the situation increasingly troublesome.
Even worse, such a massive, deranged ritual had to be sustained by a coven of spellcasters—but no matter how hard he searched, he couldn't locate them.
The undead in his line of sight were scattered, erratic—completely devoid of pattern.
Tracking footprints was useless; the ground was a chaos of prints.
Scent failed too; the heavy stench of decay blotted out every trace of a distinguishable smell.
Even Whisper of Life told him that the undead, in some twisted sense, still counted as living beings…
And Beast Speech yielded nothing—the foul magic of the ritual drowned out nature's voice entirely.
An interplanar convergence ritual of this scale would only react to sapient life. A few hundred uncontrolled corpse-eaters scattered across this blighted woodland were like needles lost in the sea.
"Do I really have to contact Francesca?"
Perched on the branch of a thick oak, Allen frowned and muttered under his breath.
Even suppressed, the Free Elves' knowledge of this forest would far surpass his.
But he didn't want to expose the existence of the Conjunction of the Sphere—not even the slightest chance of it.
Just then—
"Bzzzz—"
The wolf-head medallion on his chest suddenly began to hum with a deep, low vibration.
.....
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