The huge portal in the sky above the city of Brokilon vanished, replaced by a vast, indistinct face of the void itself. It quivered its upper lip and let out an earsplitting roar, the sound sharp enough to rupture eardrums.
The sky poured down as if an entire lake had been upended from above, while the sand-covered ground churned like ocean waves.
Thunder and storms crashed down like a divine prison upon the entire town of Brokilon, shredding everything in their path—living or otherwise. Even fortified war structures that could withstand armies were helpless before this disaster. The sounds of the end times blurred into the howling storm.
Vilgefortz leisurely flexed his fingers within the maelstrom, calmly admiring the obliteration of everything around him.
Not a single gust of wind touched his body.
Suddenly, his eyes narrowed. He had seen something… something utterly unexpected.
—Amidst the storm, a faint and almost imperceptible emerald shield had been raised. It was thin, fragile… yet unshakably firm.
It was as though a miniature sun had been crammed into Ciri's body. Tangible beams of light poured from her eyes, divine and commanding.
"The Elder Blood…" Vilgefortz's expression lit up with glee. "The Elder Blood!"
…
"Retreat! Everyone retreat, that's an order from the princess! Lann will still need you when he returns!"
Among those remaining, the most respected figure aside from Ciri—Coën—was urging the Cintrans to flee into the forest, glancing back anxiously every few steps.
The young girl was already drenched in sweat, and Coën could see that her fingers—wrapped in magical radiance—had started to seep blood.
The witcher knew—this wasn't power Ciri should have. Worse still, it wasn't power she could control. The longer she held onto it, the more danger she was in.
"Ciri!!" A sharp, desperate cry suddenly pierced the storm.
Bright, emerald-green flames burst forth from a nearby painting, taking form and hurling themselves recklessly at the massive face looming above like a celestial barn.
The purest form of emotional energy slammed violently into the outerworldly spirit.
A second, even more agonizing scream echoed out. The figure in the black dress exploded into a flurry of sparks. A phantom silhouette shot out from the flames, then was drawn into a nearby poster—never to be seen again.
Above, the djinn let out a furious roar. The storm and thunder paused for just an instant.
The crushing pressure bearing down on Ciri abruptly vanished. Her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed, limp, from her saddle.
Strong arms caught her.
Then gently repositioned her securely on Blackwind's back.
"Blackwind—run. Take Ciri and get her out of here," Coën took a deep breath. "Leave the rest to me."
The warhorse snorted, locked eyes with Coën for a brief moment, then galloped off with a mighty whinny.
The witcher rolled his wounded shoulder, turned around, and braced himself.
Behind him, three trolls let out a synchronized roar.
In front of him, the cloaked sorcerer descended slowly from the sky. His wide sleeves rustled softly in the wind as he landed gracefully upon the earth.
...
A few days later, having narrowly survived, Coën tried to analyze the battle he had fought against the unknown sorcerer—hoping to learn something from the experience, to avoid falling into the same trap again in the future.
But he had nothing to show for it. In that battle, he had pushed his combat abilities to the absolute limit.
If there was one takeaway… it was this:
Never fight someone like that again.
…
The fight began with Coën.
Sword in his right hand, a dimeritium bomb gripped in his left, he attempted to drag the battle into close quarters—terrain where sorcerers typically fared poorly.
But the one before him didn't retreat to widen the gap. Instead, as he advanced, he reached out to the side. The griffin medallion around Coën's neck began to tremble. Accompanied by the surge of chaotic energy, a staff two meters long materialized in the sorcerer's hand.
No, not a staff. It looked more like a war club. For a moment, the stance and presence reminded Coën of the druids from Skellige.
The sorcerer was unbelievably fast. That war club in his hands moved like lightning. On the first clash—when Coën parried with his sword—metal struck metal, the screech echoing in his ears. The sheer force of the impact made Coën release the alchemy bomb and grip his sword with both hands—just to stop his skull from splitting open in the very first exchange.
That damned weapon was made of iron. And it was enchanted.
What was even more damned was the fact that—aside from the enchantment on the club—the sorcerer didn't use any other magic at all during the entire duel.
With a sharp crack, Coën's protective Quen Sign shattered. He seized the opening and pressed forward.
Four times in a row, he found himself in a position to strike—vulnerable openings, the perfect chances to retaliate.
Four times, he hesitated not at all. His sword lashed out at the sorcerer's temple, throat, armpit, and thigh.
Every strike was a potential killing blow.
And all four were blocked.
No one should be able to deflect attacks like that.
Gradually, Coën realized something was wrong. He began to summon the Aard Sign in his left hand—
—but it was too late.
He never even saw the blow that landed. The impact smashed him into the ground, bounced him up, and left him breathless.
He couldn't stand. Couldn't even roll away. Couldn't breathe.
The next strike landed on his shoulder.
He was flung backward and slammed into the trunk of a tree, one that had already been half uprooted by the storm.
The sorcerer glided forward like a phantom. The next strike landed beneath Coën's ribs. This one was especially brutal—it made him curl up in pain, only for another blow to strike the side of his skull.
He tried to lift his sword to defend himself, but his hands were empty. The blade had already flown from his grip.
He tried to grab another alchemy bomb—
—but the next iron strike crushed the bones in his left arm.
Another followed—this time shattering the bones in his legs, to keep him from escaping.
The pain turned his vision into a blur.
Faintly, through the haze, he heard a voice: "Witchers… make excellent test subjects. And these trolls shouldn't go to waste either."
Then came the trolls' roars—the whole family of them—and a tremor through the ground.
But Coën's griffin medallion vibrated even more violently. That meant one thing:
The sorcerer had begun casting spells.
Sure enough, the trolls' roars quickly faded… replaced by faint, miserable cries.
How far had Ciri gotten? Coën could no longer open his eyes.
He strained his ears, hoping—just maybe—to hear hooves in the distance.
Instead, he heard the flapping of bat wings.
…
Everything had happened too fast. When the storm broke out, Regis had still been in the air—and was hurled far away by the force.
By the time he returned, it was already over.
An ancient vampire, older than memory, Regis was utterly enraged. Before the sorcerer could cast a single defensive spell, Regis' claws had already raked across his face.
The hood that covered Vilgefortz's cheeks was instantly shredded, revealing half a face so bloodied and distorted it was impossible to make out any features. If not for Vilgefortz's uncanny battle instinct, that strike would've split his head in two.
The ambushed sorcerer screamed, flailing his arms in shock, trying to bat away the massive bat before him.
"Watch out," Coën shouted with what strength he had left.
"Regis… be careful…"
"Careful? You're telling me to be careful?" the vampire snapped back.
"I didn't come here to be careful."
"Don't worry, Coën—this will all be over soon!"
Regis appeared out of nowhere, gliding in with astonishing speed. In an instant, he was in front of the sorcerer, clutching his throat. The vampire's fangs gleamed coldly.
Vilgefortz screamed in a mix of rage and terror.
For one fleeting moment, it looked as though his end had finally come.
But it was only an illusion.
As one of the Continent's most powerful sorcerers, Vilgefortz wielded a vast arsenal of spells—enough to deal with any situation, any opponent… including vampires. Even higher vampires.
The sorcerer suddenly twisted his arms upward, grabbing Regis in return. His palms radiated searing heat, like glowing iron.
The vampire shrieked.
Coën cried out as well, forcing his swollen eyes open just a sliver. Through blurred vision, he saw the sorcerer tearing at the vampire's body.
He tried to get up, to help—
—but the searing pain in his numb arms and legs left him completely immobile.
Regis was screaming.
His voice was so loud it ruptured Coën's eardrums, drawing blood. The leaves in the trees around them trembled with the same wailing resonance.
With a horrible rip, Regis was torn clean in two. Vilgefortz now held half of the vampire in each hand.
And even that wasn't enough.
Eyes wide with bloodied madness, the enraged sorcerer found a large rock nearby. He slammed the two halves of Regis down onto it—again and again—scorching both stone and flesh with blazing heat.
He didn't stop until the rock began to melt, its surface forming translucent crystal.
'Stop…'
Coën screamed wordlessly in his heart, overwhelmed with despair.
And then… the sorcerer really did stop.
Suddenly, Coën could no longer feel the pain in his body.
Though he lacked even the strength to open his eyes, his attention was instinctively drawn in one direction—desperate to sense what had changed.
There stood the succubus, Nanomi, staring at the mutilated Regis in Vilgefortz's hands with eyes full of sorrow… pity… and something dangerously close to pleading.
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