The heart-piercing screams tore through the sky, shaking the shattered ruins.
In the distorted blaze, the tattered cloak instantly burned to ash. The skeletal illusion of the war armor vanished, and the rust-covered armor melted into molten iron.
The molten metal fused with flesh and blood, burning and carbonizing as it flowed along the gaps between ribs into the internal organs.
Finally, the flames surged not only from outside but also from within. The seven orifices covered by molten iron spurted out white-hot fire.
Inside the shattered golden shield, dozens of human torches suddenly appeared.
Melitele, Kreve, Freyja… the infernal abyss that the Northern Continent's Orthodox Church reserved for the most wicked seemed to have descended at this very moment—right within a space of just a few meters.
Perhaps due to an instinctive outpouring of magic at the moment of death, the golden shield lasted barely another second before it swelled from within and burst apart, ignited by the dragon's thick, burning breath.
The blinding light of the flames completely obscured the horrific scene.
"Boom!"
The dragon's breath erupted, expanding in an instant, burning air, smoke, and everything combustible, triggering a violent explosion.
Within the range of the shockwave, towering ruins collapsed, and even intact buildings could not withstand the onslaught of wind and tremor, quickly becoming part of the wreckage.
In the blink of an eye, nearly the entire upper district of New Ban Ard, including most of the artisans' quarter, was utterly devastated.
"The power… is this strong…"
The cloak of war armor flapped violently in the gale.
Allen slightly opened his mouth, shaken by the dragon's all-out breath.
Hm?
The witcher's instincts suddenly warned him. Never once lowering his guard, Allen reacted instantly.
The black dragon turned sideways, jaws closing, wings retracting—
A sharp, cold flash of light shot up from the burning cloud on the ground. The black dragon tried to dodge, but the edge of its wing was still sliced open, leaving a gap.
"Ah!!!"
The source of that chilling light was a man burned completely black, his features unrecognizable. In his hand gleamed a rune sword shining with azure light. He passed the black dragon and shot into the sky.
Renakins!
The witcher immediately recognized him—no, he had expected it.
Under the dragon's breath, no one could have survived except that alderman whose sword strikes Allen couldn't even see—Renakins.
He had surely surpassed "Limit: Initial" and entered the next stage of power.
Perhaps in the entire Northern Continent, only the five members of Chapter of the Gift and the Art—Hen Gedymdeith, Ortolan, Tissaia de Vries, and others—could compare to him, at most you could add Sol, and only Sol after his second mutation.
Allen found it hard to believe that such a powerful being, who once gave him such a strong sense of danger, could have died as easily as the other members of the Wild Hunt under the flames of dragonfire.
And that was precisely why he managed to evade Renakins' strike in the first place.
Allen fixed his gaze on Renakins, who was falling freely, slowly at first, then faster.
It wasn't that the effect of Beast Roar: Forbidden Sky had worn off—it was that Renakins had jumped using his own physical strength.
Though this height, at least fifty or sixty meters, was somewhat absurd.
Still, he had guessed correctly: Renakins indeed possessed the power to threaten him—even while he was mounted on the black dragon.
Yet until now, Renakins had been restraining himself—maintaining the cohesion of the Wild Hunt, acting as the nexus that linked their silver sword-qi and golden magic barrier, even protecting his subordinates and allies.
Otherwise, once the commander Renakins detached from the Wild Hunt army like this, the entire force would have collapsed and been annihilated far sooner.
It sounded foolish.
That the strongest force in a team would be shackled—just to protect his companions.
But in reality, Renakins and his nearly hundred well-trained Wild Hunt warriors, in most cases, far outmatched Renakins fighting alone.
A golden shield that was almost indestructible, and silver-white sword energy with sheer, overwhelming power—together, they could handle most enemies.
No matter how strong Renakins was, his stamina had limits.
And when it came to defense, even he couldn't compare to the combined magic barrier of a hundred Wild Hunt warriors.
It was just that Allen, with his tactics—summoning the black dragon, enhancing Hanged Man's Venom, combining dragon's breath and Ice Spear—had completely ignored the Wild Hunt's solid defenses, turning Renakins's allies into nothing but burdens.
The battle tempo was so fast that before they could even react or find a countermeasure, the Wild Hunt's morale had collapsed, and one dragon breath had wiped them out completely.
Otherwise, Renakins commanding the Wild Hunt would have been far more than a simple "one plus one equals two."
To be honest, even during this fight, Allen had been watching—learning from the Wild Hunt's combat structure.
Because the Witcher Corps of the Wolf School was, in fact, quite similar to the Wild Hunt—but much less effective.
The power gap between Allen and his comrades wasn't necessarily greater than the one between Renakins and the average Wild Hunt warrior.
Yet during their battles, his army members often could only deal with scraps on the sidelines. He and Vesemir even had to spend effort protecting Erni and Klar...
Thus, in most fierce battles, the Witcher army had been more of a burden to Allen than a help.
But Renakins's Wild Hunt troops truly gave him much inspiration.
Of course—
Now was not the time to think carefully about reforming the Witcher corps...
Allen noticed Renakins in midair, waving his limbs, trying to control his fall.
The witcher focused his will.
"Whoosh—"
The black dragon's massive wings flapped forcefully, and in an instant, a violent gust tore through the sky, blowing the not-yet-adapted "skyborne" Renakins away.
Not only was he hurled far into the distance, but he also lost his balance, spinning wildly and losing control of his body.
"Despicable thief! I'll kill you! I'll kill you!!"
Renakins roared in fury, his raging spiritual energy rippling through the air stirred by the dragon's gale—but that only made it harder to stabilize his balance. The world spun; he couldn't even tell if he was rising or falling.
Clearly, even among the Alder Folk, those who owned magical tools like skeletal steeds capable of traversing sky and land weren't expected to learn how to control themselves in midair.
Moreover, after witnessing his comrades die one after another, seeing his entire army annihilated and burned alive in mere moments, it was uncertain how much reason Renakins had left.
"Whizz—"
"Whizz—"
"Whizz—"
Dim silver sword-lights, weaker than before, cut through the air again and again, scattering and crackling sharply.
The black dragon hovered motionless in the sky, and not a single strike landed on its body—making Renakins look like a mad clown.
"Phew—"
The witcher silently watched Renakins reach the peak of his flight, then begin to fall. He recalled his own thoughts months ago, when Beast Roar: Forbidden Sky first appeared among the Beast Roars.
Should he kill Renakins here—or capture him alive and take him to Kaer Morhen?
If possible, keeping one Wild Hunt alive for interrogation—about Aen Elle's history and the White Frost—would be invaluable.
On the ground below, where the Wild Hunt had stood, there was now only a deep pit filled with molten metal mixed with charred remains. Under the dragon's breath, the Wild Hunt army had been completely annihilated—only Renakins remained.
Allen had only one choice.
Though Renakins was powerful, he was badly wounded by the dragon's breath, and Allen—mounted on the black dragon—had the means to capture him alive.
If this were before today, he would have flown straight at him without hesitation, exhausted Renakins's strength, then knocked him unconscious.
But now, knowing that the Wild Hunt seemed to possess some way to track him, Allen hesitated.
"Once this group of Wild Hunt is destroyed, Eredin Bréacc Glas will surely send another batch through the Spiral."
"If they can locate me without Renakins, what happens if I bring him back to Kaer Morhen—and they follow us there?"
Allen murmured to himself, thoughts racing.
The Wild Hunt led by Renakins was, at most, a reconnaissance force—it was by no means the full might that the Aen Elle could deploy.
Not to mention the King of the Wild Hunt, Eredin Bréacc Glas, or the Alder Folk's elven sage Avallac'h, or Auberon Muircetach, King of the Alder; even under Eredin Bréacc Glas, there were still the likes of the chief commander Imlerith and the head navigator and counselor Caranthir.
Those with such names and titles would never be as weak as portrayed in the games.
Reality, compared to the games, was closer to the original novels—and in those, Geralt, Yennefer, and Ciri had always been forced to flee in desperation. They were never as powerful as in the games, where they not only killed Imlerith and Caranthir but even defeated Eredin Bréacc Glas himself in the end.
Therefore—
Allen would never base his calculations on the game's logic that: Geralt killed the King of the Wild Hunt, Geralt isn't that much stronger than Vesemir, Allen is far stronger than Vesemir, so Allen can also kill the King of the Wild Hunt.
If he did that, both he and the School of the Wolf would die miserably.
So, long ago, he came to a realization—
The Wild Hunt was never a problem he, the School of the Wolf, or even all witchers combined could solve. They would need to unite most of the extraordinary forces of the Northern Continent—especially those with top-tier powerhouses—if they wanted to stand a chance.
The Wild Hunt was not just a group of monsters. It was a civilization—one that had survived the White Frost again and again, preserved its legacy, and waged war across worlds.
"If only I'd learned Ida Emean's mental illusion technique back then…"
Allen sighed, carefully steering the black dragon toward Renakins.
The Wild Hunt member spinning uncontrollably through the air had already lost his armor to dragonfire, and the illusion disguising him had been burned away. Nothing of the once-handsome elf could be recognized now.
What lay bare was scorched, blackened flesh.
Under the force of rotation, scarlet blood mixed with other fluids seeped out from the cracks between the charred, clotted skin, spraying outward.
The closer Allen flew, the more intense the air's unique psychic turbulence became—the frenzied, agitated mental waves belonging to Renakins pricked at the witcher's brow, making the psychic barrier in his mind tremble violently.
"Despicable thief! I'll kill you! I'll kill you!"
The words came both as hoarse shouts from a throat seared by flame and as raging psychic echoes in the air.
Fortunately, although Renakins still clutched his sword—Iflé, a runic longsword said to have once severed fate itself in some distant myth—its glowing blue runes had dimmed, and the sword's energy no longer lashed out in cutting beams.
Had he… gone mad?
The witcher wasn't sure. Keeping some distance, he used the black dragon's wings to control the airflow, preventing Renakins from plummeting.
He thought for a moment, extended his right hand, and pressed his index and middle fingers together to trace a quick inverted triangle.
Axii Sign.
A streak of silvery light, like a guided arrow, shot toward Renakins.
He didn't know Ida Emean's mind-bending arts, but since Renakins seemed deranged, perhaps the Axii Sign might have some effect.
And almost the instant the silver light seeped into Renakins's scorched body, the frenzied cries and mad ravings abruptly ceased.
Allen's eyes brightened. He quickly asked,
"Renakins, how did you track me down?"
Amid the roaring winds, the psychic field around Renakins trembled faintly.
The witcher urged the black dragon to stir the air, slowing his descent.
Even though Axii seemed to have taken hold, the dragon didn't approach. It stayed at a distance—close enough to react to any sudden change, yet far enough to stay safe.
Renakins's lingering instincts caused him, as the loss of balance lessened, to reflexively adjust his body, gradually steadying himself.
Allen grew wary. Since the elf's psychic waves hadn't changed much, he only backed off slightly, remaining cautious but taking no further action.
The next second—
Renakins's charred and crimson-stiffened lips quivered.
"I… am…"
The witcher held his breath, watching that ruined face, ears straining to catch his words over the roaring wind.
The world itself seemed to fall silent.
"I… found you through…"
Renakins paused. Then, before the witcher could react, his eyes snapped open.
What eyes they were—bloodshot veins covered every inch of the whites, and the once-emerald pupils, now dull and murky, suddenly flared with a clear, commanding light.
The steady psychic field in the air shuddered violently.
No…! Allen's body stiffened, a chill shooting up his spine to his scalp.
Without hesitation, the black dragon opened its jaws. With no time to gather energy, it unleashed a sudden torrent of crimson dragonfire toward Renakins.
"Hahaha!"
Renakins laughed madly within the searing flames.
"I found your location through what method, you ask?"
"Have you forgotten, stranger? I told you…"
"Soon! Soon! Very soon!"
"Soon… we'll meet again…"
Allen's heart froze in terror.
Because that voice—was not Renakins's.
It was Eredin Bréacc Glas—The King of the Wild Hunt.
....
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