After saying goodbye to the Rose Knight Siegfried, Angoulême and Victor continued on the road back home.
Victor asked, "How many did you feel?"
Angoulême: "…Two… five… six… six of them. Four in front, two behind."
He touched the scorching-hot anti-jinx charm inside his coat and silently thanked Bras of Ban Ard for recommending it so enthusiastically. It might have looked like a joke trinket when he bought it, but for preventing ambushes, it was genuinely useful.
A little farther ahead, the street narrowed into a tight alley—an ideal place for an ambush. Conveniently, it was also the spot where they'd agreed Siegfried would go call people over to meet up.
One advantage of having fewer enemies was not needing to wonder who they were. From the look of it, Count Falwick's men weren't stupid. After seeing that Victor not only hadn't fled Vizima but had actually come back into the city, they weighed the risk of being counter-scouted and made a quick decision: stage one ambush, then leave the city afterward no matter whether they succeeded or failed.
If Victor were planning in their place, he'd probably do the same.
When the Phantom Troupe reached the edge of the kill zone, Falwick's hired blades were poised to strike. Unfortunately for them, the "prey" stopped to talk—and after a few minutes, suddenly spun around and bolted.
"We've been spotted! Move, now!" the leader barked.
Four crossbows immediately leveled—two and two—aiming for the troupe's backs in a coordinated volley. The twang of the triggers sounded at the same time as Angoulême slammed into Victor, knocking him down. Both hit the ground and the bolts screamed overhead, missing what would've been fatal shots. They scrambled up and kept running.
Figuring they were still close enough to catch them, the mercenaries tossed their crossbows aside, drew swords, and surged in to surround them. But as they chased, something felt wrong—because the two men who were supposed to be blocking the escape route never appeared.
When they finally skidded to a stop, they found the reason.
A face that froze their blood.
Short golden hair. Sharp, defined features—Siegfried of Denesle, and several support knights he'd brought with him.
All six mercenaries already had warrants on them. They'd only been living comfortably in the Moën region under Falwick's protection, and under normal circumstances they couldn't show their faces anywhere else.
Because the moment city guards or an organization like a knightly order caught them, the gallows would be their last destination.
So the remaining four split and ran in different directions.
But everyone knew it was a death rattle at this distance. The "knights" of this world weren't the slow, lumbering image people imagined from old stories. Their equipment—and the way they fought—was built for a world that had to contend with magic.
In a world where knights might face sorcery, marksmanship wasn't just encouraged—it was expected. Even crossbows were acceptable arms. So the moment those mercenaries had the Order's attention, their end was already written.
It was the same pattern as the mercenaries' own: crossbow bolts first, then a sword drawn as they rushed in to cut the target down. Heavy armor made knights look sluggish, but the truth was their first strike in a charge was faster than any outsider would believe.
Watching the knights carve through the hired blades like chopping kindling, Victor made a quick internal estimate. If it was pure swordsmanship, one-on-one he'd win. One-on-two he could drag it out for a long time, but he'd inevitably have to flee. One-on-three was just suicide.
So, aside from the occasional outlier, the world's baseline seemed to be: "a one-man army is possible—if you're a mage," and "invincible against ten thousand—only in your dreams."
Neither Victor nor Angoulême joined the killing. In moments like this, it was enough to be a good, law-abiding citizen. Two waves of enemies eliminated in one day with borrowed force—without burning potions or bombs—was a result Victor found deeply satisfying.
Unfortunately, even a scene this one-sided still had room for an accident.
Because among the six mercenaries, one of them was a mage.
He hurled a fireball that thundered outward and blasted back the knight closing on him, then sprang up onto the roof of a nearby building.
Under the bright moonlight, the masked mage's features were impossible to make out. Victor only caught the shape of narrow eyes. The mage clapped soundlessly—praise for Victor's caution—then brought his hand flat like a knife across his own throat.
Before the knights could loose a second volley of crossbow bolts, he opened a portal and vanished into the night sky.
Siegfried watched him disappear from the rooftop, then turned back to Victor with a pained, crooked smile.
"Eternal Fire… you should've told me there was a mage among the ones hunting you."
Victor gave him an even more bitter smile. "Believe me—I only found out just now."
Understanding it wasn't Victor's fault, Siegfried let out a breath. "…If I'd known, I would've brought an anti-magic metal net—no, with a mage who can teleport, I'd need to file for a dimeritium bomb."
The moment Victor heard "dimeritium bomb," his heart sped up.
In the bomb formulas at Kaer Morhen, he'd only found Grapeshot and Dancing Star. When he'd asked Vesemir about it, the answer had been simple: that was all there was.
Later, digging through old texts, Victor discovered dimeritium—an anti-magic metal chiefly sourced from Kovir and Poviss. Meaning it was rare, imported, and ruinously expensive.
And yet he'd never seen a single book describe any such thing as a dimeritium bomb—until now, hearing it from the mouth of a Rose Knight, the last person he would've expected.
Victor couldn't help himself. "What is this 'dimeritium bomb' you're talking about?"
Siegfried glanced at him and shook his head. "That's confidential, Vic. Truthfully, I shouldn't even have said the name. Just possessing something like that is considered an extremely unfriendly act toward mages—though, if I'm being honest, some mages make it very hard to stay friendly."
Then he spread his hands toward the Phantom Troupe. "Let's go. The appearance of a wandering mage changes a great many things. Now I must formally invite Victor and Angoulême—both Corions—to the headquarters of the Order of the Flaming Rose.
After what happened in Vizima tonight, the Order needs to understand the cause and the chain of events.
Six fully armed mercenaries carrying crossbows—one of them a mage. If the two of you insist you 'know nothing,' you'd be insulting both our intelligence."
…
An hour later, inside the reception room of the Order of the Flaming Rose headquarters, with the six knights who'd participated tonight serving as witnesses, Siegfried took the transcribed statement from a clerk and handed it to Victor for confirmation.
"…At this point, Mr. Victor Corion, I must confirm once again: you are accusing a respected noble, an honorable knight—former member of the Order of the White Rose, Count Falwick of Moën—of dispatching mercenaries in an attempt to murder you and your companion, Ms. Angoulême Corion."
Victor read the statement carefully, then signed his name.
"As much as I don't want to say it, that is the truth. Yes. For everything that happened in Ellander, and everything I encountered after entering Vizima, I swear all I've stated is true. Long live King Foltest."
As the witnessing knights all sighed softly in unison after hearing Victor's accusation, a deep, rumbling sound filled the room—the unmistakable opening of a portal.
A pale golden ring of light appeared in the center of the chamber, drawing every gaze.
Then a woman stepped out of the portal, and the first thing anyone would notice was her glossy, flowing hair hanging loose over her shoulders.
In the witcher's world, common women usually tied on headscarves, while noblewomen wore lavish hats.
Only two kinds of women wore their hair down like that—courtesans, and sorceresses.
By doing so, they declared to the world that they were free women—women who held their own fate in their hands.