Chapter 12: The Untouchable
POV: Viktor
The word tore from Viktor's throat like a piece of his soul being ripped away:
"DAGGER!"
[TEMPORAL SENSE ACTIVATED]
[DURATION: 120 SECONDS]
[MANA: 100 → 0]
[PRECOGNITIVE WINDOW: 1-60 SECONDS ACTIVE]
Reality became fluid. Time became negotiable. And suddenly Viktor could see the next two minutes of violence laid out before him like a tactical map written in blood and possibilities.
Geralt's head turning toward the sound, 0.3 seconds.
Recognition in amber eyes, 0.7 seconds.
Renfri's dagger throw interrupted, 1.2 seconds.
Witcher's rage building as interference detected, 1.8 seconds.
Target switch: Geralt abandons Renfri, focuses on Viktor, 2.4 seconds.
First sword strike aimed at Viktor's head, 3.1 seconds.
"GERALT, IT'S THE LESSER EVIL!"
Viktor's second shout carried across the marketplace like a thunderclap, his voice breaking with desperate urgency. He could see the exact moment when Geralt's combat rhythm shattered, when the Witcher's focus shifted from Renfri to this new variable that had inserted itself into their deadly equation.
Geralt's sword was already in motion, a silvered arc of death that would have taken Renfri's head clean off. But the blade faltered as Viktor's words penetrated the combat haze, as the Witcher processed the impossible fact that someone was interfering in his duel.
The princess stumbled backward, her dagger throw ruined, blood flowing from a shallow cut across her shoulder where Geralt's deflected strike had tagged her. She was wounded but alive—the first deviation from canon that Viktor had managed to achieve.
Unfortunately, he'd also managed to redirect a toxin-enhanced Witcher's homicidal attention directly onto himself.
Geralt spun toward Viktor with inhuman speed, his amber eyes blazing with the kind of cold rage that had made his reputation a thing of legend. The sword in his hands wasn't just a weapon anymore—it was an extension of his will, and that will was focused entirely on the mad prophet who'd dared to interfere.
Horizontal slash targeting chest, arriving in 2.7 seconds.
Viktor threw himself sideways, feeling the wind from Geralt's blade part the air where his torso had been. The cobblestones scraped against his palms as he rolled, his enhanced precognition the only thing keeping him ahead of death by microseconds.
Vertical strike downward, 4.2 seconds.
Left dodge required.
Recovery pirouette, blade coming around horizontal, 6.8 seconds.
Drop and roll backward.
Viktor moved like his life depended on it, because it absolutely did. Every muscle in his body screamed with effort as he ducked, weaved, and rolled through a sequence of attacks that should have turned him into very small pieces. Geralt fought with the kind of relentless precision that made Viktor understand why Witchers were legends—and why most people who crossed them ended up as cautionary tales.
"Stregobor is watching!" Viktor gasped between dodges, his voice carrying across the marketplace where shocked townspeople had gathered to witness the impossible. "He wins if you kill her! He's forcing you to be the Butcher!"
Aard sign building, 8.1 seconds.
Telekinetic blast targeting center mass.
Dive left, behind overturned cart.
The sign hit the space where Viktor had been standing with enough force to crack the cobblestones. Chunks of stone flew in all directions, and Viktor felt something sharp slice across his cheek as he rolled behind cover.
"You're being manipulated!" Viktor shouted, his words punctuated by the sound of Geralt's boots on stone as the Witcher circled his improvised barricade. "This is exactly what he wants! Princess dies, you become the villain, and he gets to call it justice!"
Sword thrust through cart, aiming for Viktor's predicted position, 11.4 seconds.
Roll right, exit cover.
Overhead swing as you emerge, 12.7 seconds.
Duck and sprint.
Viktor burst from behind the cart like a man possessed, his legs pumping with desperate speed as Geralt's blade whistled through the air where his head had been. The marketplace blurred around him as he ran, jumped, and slid through a deadly obstacle course of Witcher violence.
The crowd was silent now, transfixed by the sight of an ordinary human dancing through attacks that should have killed him a dozen times over. Viktor could see their faces in his peripheral vision—shock, disbelief, the kind of awe usually reserved for watching miracles or disasters.
Pirouette attack, blade spinning in horizontal arc, 15.3 seconds.
Jump backward, blade passes under feet.
Landing will be off-balance.
Secondary thrust follows immediately, 16.8 seconds.
Twist right, sword passes left shoulder.
Viktor's feet touched down on bloody cobblestones, his body already moving into the twist that would save his life for the fifteenth time in thirty seconds. Geralt's thrust missed by inches, close enough that Viktor could smell the sword oil on the blade.
"He's in his tower!" Viktor screamed, his voice cracking with exhaustion and terror. "Watching through his mirrors! Counting on you to prove his prophecy right!"
For just a moment—barely a heartbeat—Geralt's rhythm faltered. Not from physical fatigue, but from something deeper. Viktor's words were getting through, planting seeds of doubt in the mind of someone who'd spent his life trying to choose between evils.
Confusion creating opening, 18.2 seconds.
Opportunity for escape?
Negative: Witcher recovers quickly.
Renewed assault in 19.1 seconds.
Faster. More aggressive.
Anger replacing cold calculation.
Viktor realized he'd made a tactical error. His words were working—too well. Instead of stopping Geralt, they were making him angrier, more determined to end this interference quickly and permanently.
The next wave of attacks came faster, harder, with the kind of lethal intent that spoke of a professional deciding that subtlety was no longer required. Viktor dodged a thrust that would have opened his throat, rolled under a swing that would have split him in half, and came up just in time to avoid a pommel strike that would have caved in his skull.
Complex combination attack beginning, 22.7 seconds.
Seven-strike sequence.
Requires perfect timing to survive.
Error margin: Zero.
Viktor's world narrowed to the knife-edge of survival, his enhanced foresight the only thing standing between him and very messy death. Strike, dodge, roll, duck, twist, jump, slide—a deadly choreography that pushed his body beyond every limit he'd thought he possessed.
Somewhere in the background, he could hear Renfri shouting something, but the words were lost in the roar of his own pulse and the whistle of steel through air. The princess was alive, wounded but mobile, and that was all that mattered.
Final strike in sequence, 28.9 seconds.
Overhead chop with full Witcher strength.
Dodge left, strike will shatter stone.
But...
Timer running low.
47 seconds remaining.
System efficiency decreasing.
Warning: Temporal Sense ending soon.
Viktor could feel it happening—the gradual decay of his precognitive advantage as the skill approached its time limit. His foresight was becoming less precise, his reaction time slowing by microseconds that might as well have been eternities in combat against an enhanced human.
30 seconds remaining.
Witcher adapting to movement patterns.
Prediction accuracy declining.
Survival probability dropping.
Geralt's eyes had taken on a calculating gleam, the kind of look that belonged to someone who'd figured out his opponent's trick and was preparing to counter it. The Witcher's attacks were becoming more unpredictable, incorporating feints and misdirection that tested Viktor's ability to distinguish between real threats and false ones.
15 seconds remaining.
Multiple possible attack vectors.
System struggling to process.
Warning: Temporal Sense failure imminent.
Viktor could see the end coming—not just of the skill, but of his miraculous survival. When Temporal Sense ended, when he lost his supernatural foresight, Geralt would cut him down like wheat. No more impossible dodges, no more perfect timing. Just a very dead prophet who'd tried to rewrite destiny and failed.
5 seconds remaining.
4.
3.
2.
1.
TEMPORAL SENSE DEACTIVATED
Viktor's enhanced perception cut out like someone had flipped a switch. Reality crashed back into normal speed, normal time, normal human limitations. His legs, pushed beyond endurance for two full minutes, simply gave out beneath him.
He collapsed in the middle of the marketplace, his vision graying around the edges, his lungs burning as they fought for air that tasted of blood and sweat and the metallic tang of fear. Above him, Geralt's sword hung motionless, its point resting against Viktor's throat with surgical precision.
The Witcher stood like a statue of divine judgment, his amber eyes studying Viktor with an expression that might have been confusion, respect, or simple bewilderment. Around them, the marketplace had gone silent except for the sound of Viktor's ragged breathing and the distant weeping of someone who'd lost too much blood.
"What are you?" Geralt asked quietly.
Viktor tried to answer, but all that came out was a wheeze. His MP was at zero, his body was broken, and his brain felt like someone had been using it as a percussion instrument.
[TEMPORAL SENSE DEACTIVATED]
[MANA: 0/100]
[MENTAL STRAIN: SEVERE]
[RECOMMENDED ACTION: IMMEDIATE REST]
Through his blurred vision, Viktor could see figures approaching from the edge of the marketplace. Townsfolk, guards, and...
"No..." The word came out as barely a whisper. "Marilka... cellar..."
Stregobor emerged from the crowd like a specter of vindication, his robes pristine despite the carnage around them. The wizard's face wore an expression of smug satisfaction, the look of someone whose carefully laid plans had come to fruition exactly as predicted.
Viktor tried to warn them, tried to explain about the girl locked in the cellar, tried to make someone understand that this wasn't over. But consciousness was slipping away like water through his fingers, and the last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was Stregobor's smile.
The smile of someone who'd just won a game that had been decades in the making.
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