When the Princess of Cintra arrived on the battlefield riding a warhorse like the wind, the balance of the fight was instantly shattered.
The Cintrans visibly panicked—their previously disciplined formations turned wild and erratic. Every one of them desperately tried to break free from the enemy in front of them and rush to their princess's side, terrified that the enemy might reach her first.
The Nilfgaardians fared even worse. Unlike the well-trained Cintran city guard, the mercenaries lacked discipline. Their barely-maintained formation disintegrated as over half of them abandoned their posts, with those on the outskirts of the battle charging straight toward Ciri.
The target of their mission had just walked right into their arms!
This put the mercenaries on the frontlines in a miserable position. Faced with Cintrans suddenly fighting with reckless abandon, the pressure intensified—while their own allies behind them were running off mid-fight.
Worse still, if the Cintrans hadn't been so difficult to deal with, they themselves would've run to catch the princess too!
Amid the chaos, one man lost all reason—Grey Owl.
Not only did he order all Nilfgaardian elites under his command to charge toward Ciri, he also shouted at Bonhart: "Bounty hunter! Get the Young Lioness! Grab her first!"
To Grey Owl, victory in this battle meant nothing. As long as Ciri was in his hands, he could use the magical communication device to contact Vilgefortz and get himself teleported away immediately.
Bonhart, however, ignored Grey Owl's shouting entirely. His eyes were locked onto Coën, and his attacks only grew fiercer.
But Nilfgaard's chaos gave Cintra the perfect opportunity. With the Empire's elite distracted, the city guard surged onto the battlefield and quickly closed in around the three commanders.
Faced with this overwhelming number of foes, not even a master like Bonhart could fight them all alone. Gritting his teeth, he cursed under his breath and disappeared into the crowd, his eyes lingering unwillingly on the griffin medallion hanging from Coën's chest.
…
It must be said—Ciri's appearance had an immediate and devastating effect.
And now, facing the onrushing mercenaries and Imperial soldiers, Ciri didn't hesitate. She gave Blackwind's neck a firm pat.
"Blackwind, charge!"
The battle's fury had long stirred the stallion's blood. With astonishing acceleration, it launched from stillness into a full gallop, smashing the first two mercenaries in its path like rag dolls.
The saddle's jolts were nothing compared to the balance beams and giant pendulums of Kaer Morhen. Ciri gripped the reins with one hand, moving atop the saddle like a storm-swallow—a blur in the chaos. Her lightweight estoc darted forward in precise strikes, leaving cold gleams and blossoming blood where it reached foes that Blackwind had missed.
Seeing their comrades fall, some mercenaries tried to bring her down with spears or arrows—but before they could even raise their weapons, they were struck on the back of the head by Nilfgaardian elites behind them.
"Capture the Young Lioness alive! Don't harm her!"
Just as Ciri had anticipated.
To the Nilfgaardians, this should have been an easy task—just capturing an underage princess.
But none of them expected they'd be facing a lioness.
What kind of princess fights like this?
Under completely unfair conditions, Ciri still managed to draw the majority of enemies out of the battlefield, charging and piercing as she went. Then, leveraging Blackwind's incredible speed, she pulled off a sweeping arc and smashed into the other half of the enemy ranks.
"Blackwind!" Ciri cried out as she thrust her sword into a soldier's neck. "We're amazing!"
The stallion snorted dismissively and picked up speed again.
The last enemy was trampled underfoot—and suddenly, the battlefield opened up. Only the tense faces of Cintran soldiers remained ahead.
From afar, having realized the princess's intent, the city guard had gone berserk—slaughtering their entangled enemies with suicidal fury to break free, then retreating rapidly to form a protective ring, waiting for their princess to cross through enemy lines.
But Ciri didn't ride into their protection.
Instead, she tugged the reins and turned around, her back facing her soldiers—showing them only her flowing silver hair, the fluttering griffin cloak, and her blood-streaked but elegant armor.
Coën and the others quickly gathered around Ciri. House and Levin stared in disbelief at the girl atop Blackwind. If not for her height, they would've sworn the Lion of the Eastern Front had returned unexpectedly.
Among the Cintran ranks further back, several veteran soldiers wore even more emotional expressions.
The enemies that had been scattered by Ciri and Blackwind's charge began regrouping again. Their target was right before them, and their bloodshot eyes burned with fury.
Grey Owl clutched the silver box in his arms tightly. After a moment's hesitation, he chose not to activate it. Instead, he shouted at the top of his lungs: "That's Cirilla—the Young Lioness! Catch her!"
[Thwip!]
An arrow came whistling out of nowhere, embedding itself deep in Grey Owl's collarbone and slamming him to the ground.
Seeing the sudden panic ripple through the enemy ranks, Ciri let out a faint laugh. She raised her Swallow-head estoc—not to strike—but to brandish it high above her head like a banner.
"Nilfgaardians! I hear you've been looking for me."
Though it was night, her sword seemed to shine.
"I am Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Princess of Cintra!"
"I know the nickname you've given me… the 'Young Lioness'... Heh."
…
She looked just like her.
From behind, from her bearing—everything.
Among the city guard were retired veterans—men who should have been enjoying peaceful twilight years, yet chose to take up their blades once more at the kingdom's moment of crisis.
And now, as they looked ahead at this child of Cintran blood, they were struck by the uncanny resemblance—even her armor was nearly identical: chainmail underlayer, a white robe draped on top, broad but light pauldrons, a crimson waistguard, and buckled deerskin straps.
They remembered a queen.
A queen who, at just fourteen, inherited the throne from her deceased father—and at fifteen, led her first campaign and earned her first victory, birthing a legend.
That battle was at Hochebuz. The enemy: the Narzairians.
And standing in front of them then… had looked exactly like this.
And they had felt exactly like this.
What had that figure said to them back then?
…
"I am the Lioness of Cintra!"
Ciri slashed her estoc downward with force.
"Cintrans—charge with me!"
"For Cintra! For the Lioness!" the veterans roared—the very same battle cry from years ago!
Blackwind surged forward first, thundering ahead in a blur and smashing apart the enemy's freshly formed vanguard. The Cintrans went wild, charging in behind Ciri like a tide. The Nilfgaardians could no longer stop them.
"Hold the line! Hold—dammit—hold it!" Grey Owl scrambled to his feet, clutching his wound. His thick armor had saved his life—barely.
Staring at the figure atop the horse, he screamed, "Grab the Young Lioness… the Lioness… I don't care what she is—just catch her!"
[Rumble—rumble—RUMBLE!]
The sound of thunderous rolling echoed out. Grey Owl turned in alarm toward the noise—only to see three massive boulders, each taller than a man, barreling toward them from one of the nearby buildings, as if guided by some unseen force.
Behind those boulders came more Cintran fighters—fully armed, well-coordinated.
It was the town's guerrilla unit. Each of them bore alchemical harnesses slung over their shoulders, now emptied of alchemical grenades.
They had finally finished clearing out the monsters in the town—and now they had come to join the fight!
"Rear attack!" Grey Owl shrieked, voice cracking. "Hold the line! As long as we capture Cirilla, we can still—"
[Thwip!]
Grey Owl, who hadn't learned his lesson, was once again 'singled out' by Milva. This time, the huntress took her time to aim—and the arrow pierced straight through his throat.
And thus, Grey Owl died.
…
Perched on the rooftop, Regis spread his wings to steady himself.
Even someone as powerful as he was needed a moment to catch his breath after the chaos of tonight's events.
But as he surveyed the battlefield below, it seemed he might not need to intervene after all.
"Truly incredible," Regis murmured—he'd lost count of how many times he'd said that tonight. "Even with Elder Blood... but she's so young. Still just a princess."
"Are all your Cintran princesses this ferocious? And no one stops them?"
Beside the vampire, emerald-green flames flared to life from a nearby poster. Iris emerged from the fire.
She glanced at the portrait of Ciri on the wall, then at the image beside it—a young man, his posture proud and leonine.
"Cintra has never lacked for leaders who lead from the front," Iris said. "Their people are simply used to following such figures."
Regis sighed. "What a marvelous nation… In that case, I can't very well let too many of its people die."
And just like that, the vampire vanished from the rooftop—like a gust of wind.
A massive, bat-like shadow descended upon the battlefield, breaking what little resolve the Nilfgaardians had left.
One by one, Regis snatched up soldiers—two at a time—hauling them into the sky. From high above, he would release one, letting the man fall screaming to his death. Then he'd drive his sword-length claws through the other, painting himself with blood and sending the shrieks echoing across the field.
Again and again.
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