[Boom!]
A portal tore open in the void with a deafening roar. Gale-force winds ripped away a layer of blood and turf from the battlefield below.
Out stepped two witchers, both grim-faced, jaws clenched tightly. One was clad in full armor—an elegant, white-haired warrior who, despite his age, radiated undiminished strength. The other wore only a simple robe, his black hair drifting in the wind, eyes perpetually shadowed by melancholy.
Their gazes swept across the scene. In mere seconds, they took in the silver-haired princess lying unconscious in the distance, the ominous-looking sorcerer not far from her, and—
Coën.
Collapsed on the ground, his limbs twisted at unnatural angles, unconscious.
The faces of the two witcher grandmasters darkened even further.
A storm whipped around them, stirred by the rampaging djinn above. The sudden appearance of new enemies sent alarm bells ringing in Vilgefortz's mind. He raised both hands in sync with the tempest, releasing arcs of blinding white lightning that lashed out from his position.
But the two witchers—combined age over four hundred—moved faster than the strike of lightning.
Keldar dove toward his fallen student, raising a hand to conjure an ochre-colored shield. Bolts of lightning slammed into it without leaving so much as a ripple.
Jerome was even more direct. He formed the Aard Sign with both hands, two palms dense with psychic force, and shattered the oncoming lightning. Then, like a hunting hawk diving on prey, he lunged straight for Vilgefortz.
[Boom!]
The scattered lightning bolts condensed once more. Spells clashed violently in a storm of dust and smoke within a span of ten paces.
Taking advantage of the distraction, Keldar quickly assessed his disciple's condition. Upon confirming Coën was no longer in mortal danger, he let out a deep breath of relief—and then yanked the twin swords from Coën's back.
"Jerome!"
Jerome burst through the smoke just as Keldar called his name. Without breaking stride, he reached back and caught the thrown griffin-head steel sword. Runes along the blade pulsed with power. With a twist of his body, he cleaved an incoming torrent of flame neatly in two.
Keldar kept the remaining griffin-head silver sword in hand—once his own weapon. Like Jerome, he had passed his best gear down to his student. Now, it had simply come full circle.
"I'll take the one in the sky. You handle the sorcerer!" Keldar's white beard and hair whipped wildly in the wind.
"No problem," Jerome replied flatly.
"No problem?!"
Vilgefortz was incensed. "Mere witchers?!"
He began chanting rapidly, his words sharp and urgent. Dense, chaotic energy visibly coalesced in his hands as powerful magic surged toward Jerome like a tidal wave.
But Jerome did not yield. Purple lightning, crimson flames, and icy blue psychic waves burst to life around him. Without hesitation, he charged straight into Vilgefortz's onslaught.
And suddenly, Vilgefortz realized—
The world around him was retreating at high speed.
...
Witcher Signs were a curious invention.
When the legendary sorcerer Alzur discovered that witchers lacked the ability to cast conventional magic, he simplified the foundational manipulation of elemental forces into something new—Signs. These required no incantations, no communion with nature. A simple hand gesture was enough to channel their inner energy into combat assistance.
It was meant as a temporary solution. Back then, other sorcerers still believed witchers might one day develop true spellcasting capabilities. But when it became clear that Signs were all they could manage, the sorcerers turned their backs on the witchers entirely.
To the sorcerers, true magic meant grandeur: altering the heavens, healing the gravely wounded, creating illusions, communing with the dead. Signs—limited, utilitarian, purely combative—were little more than party tricks in their eyes.
For most witchers, even today, Signs remained a secondary tool. At best, the Griffin School had gained a reputation for 'effectively integrating Signs into tactical combat'.
Until Jerome appeared.
...
'Damn it, damn it! That's not a witcher! That kind of power—this kind of frequency! That is definitely not a Sign!'
Vilgefortz scrambled back to his feet, but found himself barely able to maintain a defensive spell. His lips murmured the incantation continuously, leaving no room to cast anything else.
A violet magic circle bound him in place. Blazing white lightning lit up the night. Fire, storm, and frost attacked his shield from three distinct directions. The surrounding foliage had long been carbonized and shredded, sucked into the swirling air. Even the rocks beneath him melted and resolidified repeatedly.
If he stopped chanting for even a single second, his shield would shatter.
He—a member of the Brotherhood of Sorcerers, one of the most powerful mages on the continent—was being overwhelmed by a witcher using Signs!
Jerome didn't chant. He didn't even bother to make hand gestures to activate his Signs. Magic flowed into him like a high-level source, supplying endless energy. Without needing to commune with the heavens, he had forcibly condensed the fury of natural disasters into the space of a few dozen square meters.
Ciri stood by, utterly stunned.
Not even Mousesack, Yennefer, Triss—no one she had seen—could wield magic with such ease and fluidity. Spellcasting was supposed to be a delicate, dangerous art. Even high-level mages could be consumed by the slightest misstep.
But this witcher grandmaster was flinging it around as if he were merely swinging a blade.
With the enemy suppressed, Ciri struggled to stand and offer support.
Keldar appeared at her side, stopping her.
Her eyes widened again. Wasn't he supposed to be dealing with the djinn?
Only now did she realize—the storm around them had ceased entirely.
"Take a breather, young lady," Keldar said with a heavy exhale. He tossed her a clay flask and freed both hands for combat once more.
...
Ciri anxiously examined the clay jar in her hands. It looked fairly new—far better than the cracked old bottle that had previously been used as a seal. A wooden stopper carved with a six-pointed star was wedged into the mouth of the jar, its surface covered in hastily etched runes.
This jar was originally intended to hold gunpowder for use in bomb-making. But now, it had become the prison of something even more volatile.
After the cataclysmic avalanche in Kaer Seren, Keldar had spent the past century alone in the old keep, living like an empty-nester. His only pastime was the study of magic. For someone like him, crafting a sealing array like this was hardly a challenge.
"Be careful. This seal is rough—barely enough to temporarily trap that djinn and keep it from causing more trouble."
Keldar said, "Keep a close watch. As for the mage, we'll handle him."
Meanwhile, Jerome was furiously pummeling Vilgefortz.
In truth, Jerome knew that if both sides had the time and space to unleash their full arsenal, it would be hard to say who would win.
But Jerome's combat experience was vast. Just from the djinn rampaging in the skies, it was clear this mage's command of magic far outstripped his own. So Jerome made sure not to give him even the slightest opportunity to cast.
Witchers were masters at tactical preparation, capable of amplifying their strengths to the limit.
After the initial magical clash at the start, Jerome relied solely on the speed advantage granted by his Signs to lock down the mage, using his deep reserves of source-level energy to hold out until his comrades dealt with the elemental spirit in the sky and could come to his aid.
He had faith in his old battle brother, who had survived since the golden age of the witchers.
Sure enough, before long, a bomb—its safety pin already pulled—came soaring through the air. It exploded right as Vilgefortz's eyes went wide in horror.
[Boom—]
A cloud of green powder instantly filled the confined space.
[Dimeritium Bomb]
Vilgefortz might not have been the most powerful living mage in terms of raw magical might, but when it came to battlefield instincts, he was unmatched among his peers.
To create an opening for the bomb, Jerome had momentarily exposed a gap in his Signs—barely a sliver, but it was enough for the mage to seize.
With a furious roar, Vilgefortz tapped into his innermost reserves, bursting forth with all his remaining magic. He shattered the protective field, summoned his metal staff, and dove headfirst into that fleeting opening—
—straight into the dimeritium bomb.
In the next instant, fire, frost, and storm engulfed the spot where he had stood. The violent explosion sent shockwaves ripping through the air, rupturing his eardrums in a rush of blood.
The last remaining layer of magical defense on his body held off the worst of the impact just before the dimeritium reached him. But it couldn't stop the explosive force. The blast flung him more than ten meters away.
Choking down a mouthful of dimeritium, Vilgefortz felt his chest seize up. But he knew there was no choice—he had to break through in this direction. If he didn't, he'd be pulverized by those terrifying Signs.
Before he could recover, before he could even catch his breath, sword-light once again filled his vision.
The steel blade spun fluidly around Jerome's body. In Vilgefortz's eyes, he looked like a demon—swift, precise, deadly.
His body felt as if it had fallen apart. It was only through muscle memory that he managed to lift his iron staff and barely block the strike. He was stunned—this witcher was far stronger and faster than that Griffin School witcher from before. Overwhelmed, Vilgefortz was forced down on one knee. The metal in his hands let out a mournful screech.
[Swish!]
Another flash of the sword.
Keldar's power and speed didn't match the younger Jerome, who had undergone two mutations. But Keldar made up for it with technique.
His left hand feinted a punch, tricking the mage—tense with nerves—into dropping his guard. Then the sword's tip slashed deftly past the man's ribs, twisted, and landed firmly on his upper arm.
With a bounding step, Keldar dashed past the mage. The force of his movement pulled the blade through the flesh, slicing through nearly half the arm with ease—exposing bone beneath the wound.
"That's for Coen's arm!"
The mage let out a high-pitched, almost womanly shriek. Before he could even steady his breathing, his rear took a solid blow that nearly sent him sprawling to the ground.
He dodged Keldar's strike to his left leg, but his right Achilles tendon was caught by a sudden thrust—blood gushed once more, accompanied by another scream of agony.
"That's for Coen's leg!"
After over a century of disciplined meditation in the far north of the world, Keldar rarely lost his temper—but now, fury erupted from him like a flame. And Jerome deliberately played along with his old friend.
Before the mage could collapse completely, the two of them raised their longswords. One on the left, the other on the right, they simultaneously pierced through the mage's collarbones, nailing him to the tree behind him.
Blood poured from the fullers of the blades like a spring, soaking into the damp grass.
Vilgefortz lifted his head and glared at the two swords embedded in his body, letting out a shrill, tormented wail.
"Witchers… you…"
"Is that your final statement?" Keldar asked coldly.
Jerome wasn't one for wasting words with enemies. With a slight shift of his wrist, he pressed against the sword hilt, preparing to slice the mage in two like a fish on a cutting board.
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