[Boom!]
Another mercenary was slammed into the ground by sheer force, his body exploding into blood and viscera, raining down upon a troll's massive form.
The trolls—usually known in Brokilon for their dim-witted docility—had finally revealed why they were officially classified in bestiaries as a branch of the ogroid family.
"Protect… home!" the three giant beasts roared. Their assault was unstoppable.
No one could stop their charge.
…
Suddenly, Coën felt something shift inside him. A weight was lifted, a suppressed energy breaking free.
The dimeritium bomb's effects had finally worn off!
He raised his hand and cast a Quen Sign, wrapping himself in a shimmering protective shield. Then he called out to the nearby city guards to reform around him.
Without hesitation, he downed a vial of Golden Oriole, speeding his magic recovery.
He stretched out his hand—flames burst forth once again.
…
Ciri could feel it too—there were more and more Cintrans around her, because there were fewer and fewer enemies left.
Blackwind was swift and fierce, allowing her to dart in and out among the scattered remnants of the enemy.
Suddenly, the gaudily armored mercenaries ahead vanished, replaced by Cintra's guerrilla fighters—trained personally by Witchers—emerging from both flanks and converging in the chaos of the enemy lines.
"The Lioness of Cintra!"
…
Milva took a deep breath and drew her bow.
She'd fired so many arrows tonight that the leather guard on her fingers had worn down to the point of near bleeding.
At this point, the battle no longer needed her scattered support. But one thing still troubled her—
Where was that bounty hunter who'd fought Coën, House, and Levin all on his own?
—
Psionic Kenna was curled up tightly, trembling.
She looked up in panic—only to meet the dead-fish eyes of Leo Bonhart, the bounty hunter.
"The little lion was unexpected. Grey Owl? Even more so. Who knew a group like that could fall apart so easily?"
"You're smart, though. Hiding out here from the start."
His catfish-like beard was matted with blood and shredded flesh. His weapon—a standard-issue lion-headed longsword—was clearly looted off someone else, its original blade chipped beyond use.
Though he was off the battlefield now, the killing intent radiating from him hadn't dulled one bit.
"Shhh... Don't speak, lady. I know what you're thinking," Bonhart said, raising a finger to his lips.
"You're a psionic—rare talent. Even as a prisoner, you're one of the most valuable, right?"
"Don't worry. Don't worry. I don't plan on doing anything to you. I respect people's choices. See? I'm a reasonable man, aren't I?"
"But before that," Bonhart said, "I need a little favor from you. You've always been the one everyone's looked after in the group—don't you think it's time you pulled your weight?"
He raised both hands. In his left was a silver iron box etched with intricate runes and splattered with blood; in his right, a ceramic jar sealed with a hexagram-shaped stopper, covered in even more elaborate markings—and even more blood.
"Grey Owl promised me enough pay to last a lifetime. But he's bowed out early," the bounty hunter shrugged. "So I'll need someone else to cover the bill. And sorcerers—well, they tend to pay handsomely."
"I… I'm a psionic, not a mage. I don't know any magic, I can't use that magical communicator…"
Kenna gave the same answer she had when Grey Owl had asked her to do this.
The next second, Bonhart shot out his hand like lightning and grabbed the arrow still embedded in her shoulder. In her terrified gaze, he began slowly twisting it—pressing it in, bit by bit.
"Listen, psionic. You're not the only one who can read minds, you know? I've met your kind before. And I've traded them in—for a good price."
"Aaah—no, stop…! Aaaah!"
"They screamed just like you," Bonhart said, almost nostalgically. "I still remember those cries. But I'd rather you earn me the same payout they did, alright?"
He released the shaft briefly. Kenna, pale and shaking, slumped forward and placed her hand weakly on the magical communication box.
After a ripple of chaotic energy, a distorted, inhuman voice echoed from the iron box.
"Grey Owl?"
"No," Leo Bonhart licked his lips. "It's the bounty hunter."
"…I see," came a thoughtful voice from within. "Have you seen Cirilla?"
"Of course. She's about fifty meters behind me, on horseback, cutting people down... I have to admit, that little lioness is something else! And her horse—what a fine beast."
"Good."
The silver box quivered slightly. The voice grew urgent.
"In addition to the communicator, I gave Grey Owl a ceramic jar. Find it—and place it next to the communicator."
After clearly hearing the voice coming from the silver box, Bonhart glanced at his left hand, then his right.
In one, he held the magical communication device; in the other, the djinn's sealed jar.
"Can you believe it, sorcerer? I'm actually doing it right now."
…
The enemy appeared to have been completely wiped out—an overwhelming victory.
The Cintrans had never been ones to take Nilfgaardians as prisoners. Aside from a few clad in higher-grade armor who were kept alive for interrogation, not a single one escaped the Cintrans' swords.
Ciri was panting heavily, her chest and abdomen flooded with a strange, chilling emotion.
In that moment, she finally understood why her grandmother—and Lann—had always insisted on leading from the front lines. The sensation of commanding her own forces in battle and personally leading them to victory… it was intoxicating.
But suddenly—boom!—a sound that had no business occurring at this moment shattered the mood and drew everyone's attention.
Ciri turned toward it, and the euphoria that had just surged in her heart instantly froze over.
A portal—deeper than night, yet blazing with crimson energy—burst open in midair. A figure cloaked in a heavy mantle emerged from it, levitating above the ground, buoyed by chaotic magical currents.
With a flick of his wrist, a ceramic jar flew from behind a shattered wall into his hand. With a clench of his fist, the jar lit up with tiny glimmers… and then disintegrated into ash.
A torrent of overwhelming energy poured out, making everyone's scalp tingle.
"Djinn! Here is my third wish!"
Vilgefortz shouted at the top of his lungs.
"I want you to unleash your full power—with the mindset of destroying the world. Release your might upon everything in your sight!"
"Except for me," Vilgefortz added, pointing to himself.
Then he shifted his finger and pointed at Ciri among the crowd. "And her."
No need for overly complicated clauses or conditions—this was the simplest and most direct designation possible.
Aside from those two, everyone else would become targets of the djinn's unbridled wrath. And for an elemental spirit of air that had been sealed in a jar for who knows how long, this was exactly the kind of freedom it craved.
A new portal—many times larger than the one Vilgefortz had appeared from—materialized in the sky, gleaming brightly and expanding chaotically in every direction.
…
Ciri felt her whole body go cold.
She heard the sorcerer shout the word 'djinn', and she instantly knew what it meant.
She suddenly recalled how, not long ago, after Lann returned from Mahakam, he had immediately finalized plans for a counteroffensive against Nilfgaard. But Ciri had noticed the unease in him. The Daughter of Destiny, ever sensitive to the currents of fate, could sense that Lann wasn't afraid of Nilfgaard itself… it was more like… he was afraid for her.
When Ciri tried to console Lann and offer the Lion some peace of mind, she heard a truth so shattering it nearly broke her:
The Emperor of Nilfgaard… was her biological father.
He had indirectly caused her mother's death, directly caused her grandmother's death, and now… he was still scheming to conquer her homeland.
And then there was a sorcerer—this one—who had corrupted her father's mind, directly caused her mother's death, and indirectly caused her grandmother's demise. And now, he too was plotting against Lann and herself.
For three full days after learning the truth, Ciri was in a daze. She could hardly recall anything that had happened around her during that time.
But she had quickly pulled herself together. When Lann defeated the Western Army Group, she was the first to arrive and share in the victory—not just to celebrate, but to reassure him that she was fine.
Even so, that deep, unspent hatred still festered inside her—nowhere to go, yet impossible to suppress.
The djinn roared from the sky. A blinding bolt of lightning tore through the night, followed by deafening thunder. Then came a torrential downpour.
As for the Emperor of Nilfgaard, Emhyr var Emreis… Ciri's feelings were complicated. She hated him—but had nowhere to vent that hate.
Yet in the face of the sorcerer floating in midair, something within Ciri stirred—as if a voice inside her was guiding her, helping her make a choice. Thick, chaotic energy surged through her brain, her veins, and across her skin—far beyond what she was normally capable of controlling. The sheer intensity of it resembled the chaos of an awakening magical source, raw and untamed.
[That's him! That's the sorcerer! He's the one behind all of this! Kill! Him!]
Hatred nearly tore Ciri's heart to pieces.
A deafening crack of thunder split the sky above.
Ciri spun around. Behind her stood terrified common soldiers. Though loyal and brave, their bodies still quivered with instinctive dread in the face of this approaching calamity—a terror too primal for human willpower or social cohesion to overcome.
Hatred nearly tore her heart to shreds.
And yet, she gave this command: "Retreat! As Princess of Cintra, I order all of you to fall back to Brokilon Forest! This is not a battle you can win—hell, it's not even a battle you should be part of! Fall back!!"
The moment she shouted those words, the power within her was fully unleashed.
---
I will post some extra Chapters in Patreon, you can check it out. >> patreon.com/TitoVillar
---