The moment his fixed mindset broke, Allen immediately closed his eyes. His consciousness entered a pitch-black space.
There was no up or down, no left or right — countless bottles and jars floated in mid-air.
[Name: Spiral]
...
Storage Hole: Consumes 100 Experience Orbs. Carves out a storage hole in the corner of the Spiral. It can store dead matter.]
It was something Allen had unlocked ahead of time to rescue Hen Gedymdeith. He hadn't expected the underground palace to have so few monsters, but it turned out to be useful here.
Fortunately so.
Since mages had always stood on the opposite side of witchers, ever since Allen obtained the formula for sword oils, he would occasionally make a few bottles at Kaer Morhen. His Storage Hole contained plenty of enhanced Hanged Man's Venom.
[Name: Enhanced Hanged Man's Venom]
[Type: Sword Oil Formula]
...
[Effect: When applied to a weapon, greatly increases damage against humans and nonhumans.]
[Note: Friend, once you use this oil — forget sorcerers — you'll be the bane of all humanoid beings…]
Actually, ever since obtaining both normal and enhanced versions of Hanged Man's Venom, Allen had never used it in real combat.
Because, unlike in the game — where guards in different regions had differences in level, health, and defense — reality was different.
Generally speaking, all humans and nonhumans were physically fragile.
Be it peasants, knights, soldiers, sorcerers, witchers, or kings — regardless of race, whether human, dwarf, or elf — even without sword oil, killing them only required a single strike to a vital spot.
In fact, even without aiming precisely, a random strike could cause infection, bleeding, fractures, poisoning… Humanoids were just too fragile, dying in countless ways — far less durable than monsters born blessed by magic.
Even someone as powerful as Ronnie Dickinson, a mage of the Rissberg Group's Civil Cooperative Organization in Drakenborg known throughout the supernatural world for his mastery of air magic, had fallen to a single sword strike when caught off guard.
Even the magic barrier of the Source-Mage Vilgefortz couldn't withstand a witcher's whirling sword dance.
So for Allen, fighting humans and nonhumans wasn't troublesome because of defenses — as with monsters — but because of closing the distance and killing them within the close-combat rhythm witchers excelled at.
That's why Hanged Man's Venom had never really found a chance to shine.
Of course, he hadn't had it for long either — nor any test subjects.
If he accidentally poisoned Vesemir, Mary, or Vera — and couldn't find a cure — that'd be a disaster.
"Phew—"
The gale above howled like blades and axes, slicing against flesh.
Taking out a large bottle of Enhanced Hanged Man's Venom, Allen focused his will. The black dragon immediately climbed higher, crossing its front claws before its chest to shield him.
Ziiiip—
Its pitch-black talons scraped against its back, throwing sparks.
Each of the dragon's claws had three talons — each longer than a witcher's forearm, sharper than a human's forged spear.
Allen shivered at the sight, goosebumps rising on his arms.
He had neither patience nor time to coat each talon carefully. He simply uncorked the entire bottle of eerie green oil and poured it over both claws.
The raptor-like talons gleamed with a sinister green sheen.
Then he tied two more bottles of sword oil to the base of each middle talon, ready to crush them mid-attack — both to prevent the oil from drying in flight and to increase surface contact.
Zzzlaa
The dragon folded its claws in, curling them before its chest.
It slowly leveled out of its climb, like an arrow shot high into the sky — then whistled downward again, diving straight at the Wild Hunt army galloping through the ruins of Ban Ard.
ROAR!
From the dragon's open, ferocious jaws blazed the radiant light of its breath.
The Wild Hunt army didn't try to dodge or scatter. Instead, they stopped immediately — and raised once more the familiar golden magic barrier.
That was the hallmark of Renakins' command.
No fancy tricks, no complex or varied formations — just gold and silver, defense and attack. Simple yet efficient, honed to perfection in both offense and defense.
But also leaving no obvious weakness.
This kind of united offense and defense, combining the power of all into one, strangely reminded Allen of the Corps Skill – Resonance that had never shown much effect.
Perhaps what he saw before him was what the Witcher Corps might one day become.
Thinking that, as the black dragon dove to a certain height, Allen took another bottle of Enhanced Hanged Man's Venom from his Storage Hole, slightly opened his mouth, and began to chant softly and rhythmically: "Guala gualala gua-gua-la…"
In the blink of an eye, faint blue motes of light gathered — a sharp ice spike formed in Allen's outstretched right hand.
He was no longer the Allen of old. With one hundred twenty-four points of Mystery, the ice spear he conjured was far beyond his former power.
The icicle thickened beyond two thumbs' width, continuing to grow longer and heavier — until it became a spear thicker and longer than the pikes wielded by human soldiers in war.
It was even several times larger than the ice spike once fired by the Drowner King in the caves of Kaer Morhen — the one that pierced through his illusory chest.
He had to link his Mirage Pearl to mask its glow.
This is the true Ice Spear Spell!
Once the spear was complete, Allen poured the open bottle of Enhanced Hanged Man's Venom over its tip and shaft.
The sword oil spread over the crystalline, frost-gleaming surface, soon solidifying into a semi-solid oily layer.
The entire ice spear gleamed an eerie green.
Yes.
The dragon claws were only for backup — because to use them meant being too close to the Wild Hunt.
A single mistake, and they could target his weak points — too risky.
The Ice Spear Spell coated with Enhanced Hanged Man's Venom — that was Allen's true trump card.
By the time everything was ready, the golden barrier above the Wild Hunt was already within reach.
"Watch the fall point of the Silver Blades!"
"Pay attention to the mana flow of the Golden Shield!"
Renakins' gaze locked on the diving black dragon. His spirit flared violently, stirring fierce winds out of thin air.
"This time — we'll bring down that black dragon daring to rampage over the Alders!"
The Wild Hunt warriors, blue-gray flames flickering in their hollow sockets, roared in unison:
"Lámhaighé síos! (Shoot it down!)"
"Lámhaighé síos!"
"Lámhaighé síos!"
-----------------------------------
Amidst the roar of the ancient tongue interwoven with the bellow of a dragon, a dazzling torrent of dragonfire erupted once more from the creature's maw.
It struck the golden magical barrier like a massive siege ram, causing the shield to ripple like flowing water, flickering with unstable light.
Boom!
Flames filled with immense power spread outward, searing along the edges of the magical barrier, scorching the ground and collapsing a statue of a robed mage holding a thick tome.
Even the shattered stones caught fire, clattering across the stone tiles of the plaza as black smoke billowed skyward.
"Scaoileadh! (Release!)"
As the black dragon's massive body soared directly above the Wild Hunt, the crimson soul-fire within Renakins' eye sockets flared violently. Amidst the blistering heat, he raised his longsword and roared!
In that instant—
A silver-white flash ignited across half of the Wild Hunt, swiftly converging onto Renakins himself, turning him into a blazing white sun, radiating boundless light.
His azure blade followed immediately, slashing through the air.
In a flash of lightning and flame, the silver edge carved through the sky like a crescent moon.
Even though the black dragon sensed it and tried to evade with all its might, the strike still slashed across its chest, shattering its black scales.
Scalding dragon blood gushed out from the wound.
"Gloir aen Ard Aen Elle! (Glory to the People of Alder!)"
Renakins bellowed, bathed in dragon blood.
But then—he realized no one answered.
Something's wrong… Renakins sensed it immediately. Just as he began to turn his rusted helmet, his motion froze—the crimson flames in his skull contracted sharply.
Reflected in the golden light of the barrier, a spear of ice as thick as a man's arm and as tall as a man's height had pierced straight through Shupros, their navigator—smashing his teeth and jaw, driving through his mouth, impaling his torso, and finally bursting out through the belly of his skeletal steed—pinning both rider and horse to the stone pavement.
Shhrrkk—!
A surge of crimson blood sprayed from the ice spear, hissing as it struck the scorched ground, steam rising into the air.
What… what happened?
Renakins froze. Instinctively, he looked up at the golden barrier—completely intact, not a single crack or gap visible—then back down at Shupros.
That ice spear seemed as if it had completely ignored the Wild Hunt's strongest shield, manifesting directly inside Shupros' body.
No… that's not right!
With such a fatal wound, his Warlord Armor should have immediately activated its resurrection protocol and transported Shupros back to Tir ná Lia.
Why… why didn't it happen this time…
A torrent of questions crashed through Renakins' mind, shaking his very spirit.
And then—
A far more terrifying realization shattered his thoughts completely.
The navigator was dead. Without him, how were they supposed to traverse the Spiral and return to Tir ná Lia?
And even if the ice spear somehow bypassed the golden barrier and impaled Shupros from within, with his physical and spiritual resilience, there was no way he could have perished this quickly...
Wait!
The morale of the Red Cavalry…
Renakins suddenly thought of it and whipped his head around.
As expected—the gray-blue flames in the Wild Hunt's eye sockets had shrunk to the size of a fingertip, trembling violently.
No signals were being sent out. The spiritual turbulence at the center of their ranks stirred up a gale, making their tattered cloaks whip wildly.
Even worse—
The rider maintaining the golden shield had noticed the same problem Renakins had realized. The glow of the barrier began to waver.
Though no attack had struck it, its light now flickered even more erratically—dark streaks spreading across its surface.
It was the omen of collapse.
"Stay alert!" Renakins yanked on his reins, his skeletal steed rearing back as he turned toward his riders and shouted, "Hold the shield steady! Do you all have a death wish?!"
"B-but… Lord Renakins…" one of the Wild Hunt riders stammered in terror, pointing at his side.
Renakins had never encountered such a situation before—no, not just him, but throughout all of history, the People of Alder had never faced anything so mad and unprecedented.
This made Renakins pause for a brief moment, but his rich combat experience quickly made him realize something, and he shouted loudly: "That is the power of the Gate of Ard Gaeth—it is the hope for the People of Alder's survival!"
"The miracle that the People of Alder take pride in will, of course, possess special properties!"
"Or are the oaths you swore before the Crimson King's throne in Tir ná Lia all false?!"
The Wild Hunt fell silent—but the pale-blue soul-flames burning in their eye sockets steadied.
Seeing this, Renakins' heart settled. He spoke in a deep tone, "For the White Ship, light the Red Soul's Lantern."
Upon hearing this, the Wild Hunt grew solemn. Each lifted their left hand and reverently touched their brow.
"For the White Ship, light the Red Soul's Lantern."
The phrase meant: to offer loyalty and life to the People of Alder.
The White Ship was the legendary vessel upon which the Aen Elle, descendants of the Aen Undod, fled through the worlds under pursuit of the White Frost.
The People of Alder were born from the White Ship—it was their cradle, their mother vessel.
Legend said that after death, all souls of the People of Alder would return to the White Ship, to protect their kin.
Thus, in all contexts, the White Ship symbolized both the unity of the Alder spirit and their final resting place.
The Red Soul's Lantern carried a similar meaning—it was the guiding flame that led the People of Alder away from the White Frost, its fuel being the very souls of their kin.
It also referred to the Red Cavalry, whose ultimate mission was to find a world most suitable for the People of Alder to live in.
Every Red Cavalry rider, upon joining, would stand before the remnants of Tir ná Lia's White Ship and swear the "Oath of the White Ship" by pressing their brow in reverence.
Renakins finally let out a sigh of relief.
He pulled the reins. His skeletal steed trod over the shattered stones, turning its head forward.
His gaze paused briefly upon Shupros' mangled corpse before he took a deep breath and declared:
"Lord Eredin Bréacc Glas watches over us. If we slay that despicable thief and reclaim the treasure of the People of Alder, there will surely be those who welcome our triumphant return."
"And now…"
"Let us avenge Shupros!"
"Omhíoc! (Vengeance!)"
Renakins raised his sword high. The golden barrier's glow stabilized.
"Omhíoc!" The Wild Hunt echoed his cry, the ghostly flames in their skulls flickering with hatred as they raised their gaze to the sky.
But then—suddenly, everything darkened. A vast shadow engulfed them.
So fast?!
Renakins' expression changed drastically. He jerked his head up, completely forgetting to send out the order via psychic wave, and screamed out loud like a madman: "Cosaint! (Defend!)"
In the next instant—
A pillar of blinding white fire tore through the shadows, descending like divine punishment from the heavens, piercing into the earth.
The golden shield, as before, held firm against the dragon's breath—but then—
Shhrrkk!
Renakins felt heat flash across his face. Instinctively, he raised his hand to touch his rusted helmet.
A sticky trail of blood slid between his fingers and dripped to the ground.
He slowly turned his stiff neck—
Another "human pillar" had been nailed to the ground.
Right beside him. Only one step away.
....
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