Chapter 11: The Market Massacre
POV: Viktor
Steel sang its deadly song as Geralt's sword cleared its sheath, the morning sunlight catching the blade like captured lightning. Viktor crouched behind an overturned cart, his heart hammering against his ribs as the marketplace transformed from a scene of peaceful commerce into an arena where legends were born in blood.
The Witcher moved like death itself had taken human form, his enhanced reflexes turning violence into an art form that was both beautiful and terrible to witness. Toxins flowed through his veins—Viktor could see it in the way Geralt's pupils had contracted to pinpricks, in the subtle tremor of barely contained power that radiated from his frame.
Tizzy died first.
The wiry bandit had been reaching for his throwing knives when Geralt's blade opened his throat in a spray of arterial red. No dramatic final words, no heroic last stand—just a wet gurgle and the sound of a body hitting cobblestones that would never be clean again.
Streak charging from the left, axe raised, 2.1 seconds to contact.
Viktor's Premonition Sense fed him information he didn't want, painting the massacre in horrific detail before it happened. He watched Streak's muscular frame barrel toward the Witcher with all the unstoppable force of an avalanche, watched Geralt's left hand rise in a gesture that looked almost casual.
"Aard."
The sign hit Streak like an invisible battering ram, lifting him off his feet and hurling him backward into the stone wall of the baker's shop. The sound of impact was wet and final—bones breaking, organs rupturing, life ending with the efficiency of a professional execution.
[PREMONITION SENSE WARNING]
[DANGER LEVEL: EXTREME]
[RECOMMENDED ACTION: REMAIN CONCEALED]
Viktor didn't need his system to tell him to stay hidden. The marketplace had become a charnel house, innocent vendors fleeing in terror as their morning routine dissolved into nightmare. Blood spread across the cobblestones like spilled wine, and the air filled with screams that would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life.
Nohorn lasted longer than the others, his massive frame and veteran's instincts serving him well against lesser opponents. But Geralt wasn't a lesser opponent. The Witcher fought with the kind of surgical precision that came from a century of practice, his blade finding the gaps in Nohorn's guard with mathematical certainty.
The big man's head separated from his shoulders in a fountain of gore that painted the nearby stalls crimson. Viktor felt bile rise in his throat as he watched the body take three more steps before collapsing, nerves still firing in a mockery of life.
Three men dead in as many heartbeats. Viktor had watched the show, had seen the aftermath, but witnessing the actual violence was a different experience entirely. This wasn't choreographed stage combat—this was butchery performed by someone who'd been engineered to kill.
That's when Vyr spotted him.
Viktor had been so focused on the massacre that he'd forgotten about the fourth member of Renfri's band, the one who'd been circling the marketplace while his companions died. Vyr's scarred face appeared around the edge of Viktor's hiding spot, his eyes blazing with the kind of rage that came from watching friends die.
"You!" The word came out as a snarl, thick with hatred and recognition. "The prophet!"
Viktor's Premonition Sense exploded into urgent warning:
Axe swing targeting head, 0.7 seconds.
Drop. Now.
Viktor threw himself flat against the cobblestones, feeling the wind from Vyr's axe part the air where his skull had been. The bandit's swing carried him off balance, and for one crucial moment, he was vulnerable.
That's when Geralt arrived.
The Witcher appeared behind Vyr like a nightmare given form, his silver sword taking the bandit through the spine with surgical precision. Vyr's eyes widened in shock, then went glassy as death claimed him with the same efficiency it had shown his companions.
Geralt's amber gaze flicked to Viktor, taking in his prone position and terrified expression with predatory assessment. For one heart-stopping moment, Viktor thought the Witcher might decide he was a threat worth eliminating.
But Geralt simply stepped over Vyr's corpse and turned toward the center of the marketplace, where Renfri waited with the kind of patient inevitability that belonged to someone who'd accepted her own death.
"Just you and me now," the princess called across the blood-soaked stones. "The way it was always going to be."
Viktor dragged himself upright, his whole body shaking from adrenaline and horror. Four men dead in less than a minute, and Geralt looked like he'd been doing nothing more strenuous than morning exercises. The Witcher's breathing was steady, his stance relaxed, his sword held with casual readiness.
Renfri drew her own blade—a slender length of steel that gleamed like captured starlight. She moved with the fluid grace of someone who'd been trained to kill since childhood, but Viktor could see the desperation beneath her confidence. She knew how this would end. She'd always known.
"You don't have to do this," Geralt said, his voice carrying across the marketplace with surprising gentleness.
"Yes, I do. You know I do."
They began to circle each other, predator and prey in a dance that was older than civilization. Viktor watched from behind his overturned cart, mesmerized by the deadly ballet unfolding before him.
When they finally clashed, it was with the kind of violence that redefined the possible.
Steel rang against steel in a symphony of destruction, sparks flying as their blades met and parted and met again. Renfri fought with desperate skill, her sword moving in patterns that spoke of years of training and natural talent. But Geralt fought with something beyond skill—he fought with the kind of enhanced reflexes and supernatural strength that made him more than human.
Viktor could barely follow the combat, his normal vision struggling to track movements that blurred together in streaks of silver and steel. Renfri landed a cut on Geralt's thigh, drawing blood that only seemed to fuel the Witcher's focus. Geralt's counterstrike sent Renfri's sword spinning away, the blade clattering across cobblestones slick with morning dew and human blood.
The princess stumbled backward, disarmed but not defeated. Her hand moved toward something at her waist—something small and sharp and deadly.
Viktor saw it happening as if in slow motion: Renfri's fingers closing around the hidden dagger, the blade sliding free of its concealment, her arm drawing back for a throw that would either kill Geralt or seal her own fate.
This was it. The moment from his visions. The point where the tragedy reached its inevitable conclusion.
Unless Viktor stopped it.
His hand was already moving toward the mental trigger that would activate Temporal Sense, his mana pool ready to drain itself in service of the impossible. Two minutes of perfect foresight. Two minutes to change everything.
[TEMPORAL SENSE READY]
[ACTIVATION CONFIRMED]
[WARNING: THIS ACTION WILL DRAIN ALL AVAILABLE MANA]
Viktor looked at Renfri's hand closing around the dagger, at Geralt's sword rising for what would be the killing blow, at the crowd of terrified townspeople who would remember this day as the birth of the Butcher of Blaviken.
"Now or never," he whispered.
Time held its breath, and Viktor made his choice.
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