"The situation in Kaedwen doesn't look too good…"
Vesemir, leading his dark mare in line along the muddy path, remarked with a complicated expression.
Allen glanced back.
Through the line of seven witchers disguised as mercenaries—nervous yet with a flicker of excitement in their eyes—he could see a long wooden bridge.
On the bridge, merchants, mercenaries, doctors, refugees, and...
Wounded soldiers.
One wagon after another passed by, each loaded with soldiers wrapped in bandages.
Some had lost limbs, others bore broken bones or devastating injuries. Some even had skulls with large indentations…
Clack, clack, clack.
The wheels of the wagons jolted over the muddy ground, and the wounded trembled with each jolt, their lifeless forms swaying.
If not for the faint rise and fall of their chests, it would be hard to tell if these wagons were carrying the dead or the wounded.
Although the rumors they'd heard were mixed—some suggesting victories, others defeats—Vesemir wasn't wrong. This scene clearly didn't resemble the aftermath of a triumphant battle.
"We could already tell a few days ago, couldn't we?" Allen muttered, keeping his eyes on the path to avoid stepping in the piles of animal dung.
Vesemir sighed, not denying it. "I wonder how many more have died on the frontlines?"
The School of the Wolf had always adhered to neutrality, their witchers eradicating monsters across the Northern Realms. But those witchers stationed in Kaedwen had undoubtedly shed the most sweat and blood for this land.
How could they not feel something for it?
Sadly, the people of this land had increasingly distanced themselves from the School, whether intentionally or not, and some had even grown hostile toward them.
The group reached another checkpoint.
Soldiers stood guard at the end of the muddy road, inspecting the people passing through with strict vigilance before the pinewood palisade.
Yet neither Allen nor Vesemir seemed fazed, blending into a caravan hauling grain and fodder as they moved forward without a hitch.
In recent days, the witchers had grown accustomed to Kaedwen's so-called "strict vigilance."
There were many checkpoints and numerous soldiers conducting inspections.
At first, the witchers had been genuinely alarmed, thinking they'd need to take a massive detour around the battlefront to reach Vergen.
But after observing for a while, they realized…
Despite the sheer numbers, the patrols at the frontlines and the soldiers at the checkpoints were surprisingly lax.
For instance, right now: "Who are you? What's your business here?"
A bearded officer holding parchment and a quill asked out of habit. But upon seeing the weapons and leather armor on Vesemir, Allen, and the witchers behind them, he didn't even wait for an answer before waving them through.
"Mercenaries, huh? Move along, move along. Don't block the way for others."
Not a single word needed to be spoken.
The "mercenaries" of the School of the Wolf passed through the checkpoint under the watchful eyes of the soldiers.
Notably, the oak-built watchtower by the palisade had two or three mages stationed atop it, but they didn't even glance downward.
Of course, these low-level sorcerers wouldn't have been able to see through the illusory enchantments created by the mirage pearls.
Even so, it reflected the frontline's desperate need for soldiers, the new king's strained relations with the sorcerers, and his limited control over his subordinate nobles.
After passing the checkpoint, the group quietly diverged from the main force heading toward the military camp.
Not far ahead, the scars of war lay stark and unhidden on the land.
Corpses hung from trees, villages burned in black smoke, and bodies were strewn haphazardly across the ground—soldiers, farmers, men, women, the elderly, and children alike. Some were clothed, while others lay naked.
Every hundred meters or so, the landscape felt like descending further into hell.
Having just crossed the checkpoint and still riding the high of excitement, the younger witchers grew silent at the sight of such carnage. A somber atmosphere settled over the group, slowing their pace.
Initially, they'd stopped to bury one or two corpses on the side of the road. Later, they'd only bury women, the elderly, and children. But when they reached a burned village, finding it filled with smoldering ruins and brutally slain villagers, the witchers stood silently at the entrance, gazing at the devastation before reluctantly turning back and skirting around the ruins.
Houghton was still in Vergen, his fate uncertain. Pursuers from Ban Ard might still be trailing them…
Their manpower was limited.
Allen, averting his gaze from the corpses along the roadside, asked, "We haven't reached the border between Kaedwen and Aedirn yet, have we?"
"No." Vesemir nodded. "The place we just passed was called Alys. Before the war, the entire village survived by supplying grain and fodder to the Ban Glean fortress at the border between the two kingdoms."
"So... no, we're still in Kaedwen."
"That's odd," Allen frowned. "If the fighting's already reached this far into Kaedwen, then Aedirn must be dominating the frontlines. Why would Houghton send us a plea for help? Is Vergen really surrounded by Kaedweni forces, as he said in his letter?"
Vesemir tugged on his reins, pausing for a moment with furrowed brows.
"Could it be that Kaedwen held the advantage at the start of the war?"
"Aedirn was the one who initiated the conflict," Allen reasoned, shaking his head. "Remember, we almost got trapped in Vengerberg when they started arresting mercenaries and vagrants, throwing them into prison, and sending them to the frontlines."
"At the same time, Kaedwen was still busy with King Henselt's funeral and crowning the new king."
"Besides…"
Allen surveyed their surroundings.
"Vergen isn't too far from Kaer Morhen. A carrier pigeon would've taken at most two days to reach us."
"But these scars... they weren't caused in just a week or two."
"Kaedwen might've been caught off guard at the very start of the war and forced back all the way to this point."
"Fair point." Vesemir fell silent for a moment before nodding in agreement. "Regardless of whether Houghton lied, or why he might've lied, it doesn't matter now. We're not far from the Smugglers' Path. In half a day, we'll reach Vergen. Then we'll know."
After a pause, Vesemir glanced at the younger witchers behind them and lowered his voice.
"When we get there, we should be cautious and find a place for Erni and the others to hide."
Allen could only nod in response.
What choice did they have?
They were already here.
Such delays in communication were just how things were.
Kaer Morhen might've felt like a haven amidst the chaos of war.
But at the same time, it was completely reliant on the returning witchers for news, making the ancient stronghold an isolated island.
Even a potentially misleading plea for help had to be verified across hundreds of miles.
"I really need to find a way to work around the School's rigid neutrality and establish an intelligence network for the School of the Wolf," Allen thought to himself with a frown. "This kind of experience—crossing vast distances only to verify false information—is just terrible."
While Allen was mulling over how to create an intelligence system for a School of fewer than a hundred members, the wind suddenly shifted.
The next moment, both Allen and Vesemir sniffed the air and abruptly raised their heads.
A thick stench of blood, mixed with a foul odor, wafted in from the east.
The two master witchers immediately discerned that this wasn't the typical smell of death lingering on a battlefield.
Their senses sharpened instantly, hearing becoming hyper-acute.
"Someone's calling for help!"
Vesemir shouted in alarm, yanking his reins to turn his horse. In a loud whinny, the steed charged towards the eastern forest.
Allen and the other witchers followed closely behind.
The wind howled past their ears as the low birch trees blurred by in a rush.
The stench of blood, mixed with rot, grew increasingly potent.
"Fresh blood from the living... and the stench of necrophages... ghouls are here!" Allen shouted back.
Upon hearing this, all the witchers reached for the red necrophage oil from the pouches at their waists. On the bouncing horseback, they deftly drew their silver swords and began coating them.
Vesemir shot him a surprised glance.
The scent carried by the wind was strong enough for Vesemir to distinguish fresh blood and the foul odor of necrophages, but he couldn't identify the exact type of monster. Yet Allen had already figured it out.
"Allen's abilities have grown again!" Vesemir thought to himself.
"Ahhh!"
A piercing scream tore through the sky, startling the birds in the forest into flight.
The witchers instinctively pressed their legs tighter against their horses, urging them to go faster.
"Get away from me, you damn monsters..."
"Mom! Mom!"
"Sally... Dona, hide quickly... Ahhh!"
The voices grew clearer, punctuated by strange pop pop sounds like balloons bursting.
These eerie noises were followed by blood-curdling screams.
"Rotfiends!" Vesemir's face, set in stern concentration against the wind, twisted as he shouted back a warning: "Do not use Igni!"
"Understood, Master Vesemir!" the younger witchers responded immediately.
Rotfiends were a type of necrophage often found in groups near battlefields, plague-stricken cities, sewer systems of towns, or famine-stricken villages.
Even experienced witchers preferred to avoid dealing with them en masse.
Their decaying bodies were filled with poisonous gas, which could even harm witchers despite their resistance to most toxins.
More troubling was that the gas was highly flammable—any spark could cause massive explosions.
And as all witchers knew, the Igni sign's range was typically short. A careless move could land one directly in a rotfiend explosion.
Even without Igni, Rotfiends would explode upon death, leaving behind no useful materials. This made them a nightmare for witchers with limited attack range.
However, Vesemir and Allen were far from ordinary witchers.
"Allen, we'll use Igni to clear the Rotfiends first, then deal with the other monsters!"
"Got it."
As Allen responded with focus, a glimmer of light suddenly appeared between the trees ahead.
"Whoosh~"
The birch branches were swayed wildly by the gale generated by the witchers' speeding horses.
They were close.
The stench of blood and decay became a hundredfold stronger.
The group arrived at a hollow.
In their view were broken banners, rusted swords, shields and armor emblazoned with various family crests, and even shattered carriages with snapped axles.
It was an old battlefield.
A battle had taken place here long ago, but it had ended at least two weeks prior.
One to four weeks was the prime time for necrophages to feast. The remains were sufficiently decayed to offer that distinct rotting flavor while still retaining enough meat to enjoy.
Seriously?
What kind of foolhardy convoy dared venture through this area?
While mentally grumbling, Allen squinted from his galloping horse, straining to see the source of the commotion at the far end of the battlefield.
"Hmm?"
He thought he saw a familiar figure.
Not entirely sure, he focused for another look.
"Ghouls, rotfiends..."
"Damn it!" The witcher cursed under his breath.
Among the carnage in the distance, an old "friend" stood out.
A grotesque large head, massive body, and black spikes covering its frame. Most memorable of all was Allen's "fond memory" of racing this beast for nearly an hour once before...
"Damn it! It's an alghoul." Vesemir's expression darkened.
This cunning monster wasn't participating in the main battle. Instead, it prowled around the outskirts of the battlefield.
The ghouls and rotfiends seemed to be operating under its command, like a well-trained army.
"So many necrophages!" one of the younger witchers exclaimed in shock, unconsciously slowing his horse.
Indeed, there were a lot.
Allen scanned the scene. At least forty to fifty ghouls, their dark forms blotting the landscape. Among them were about fifteen rotfiends, judging by the smashed carriages ahead, though there might have been over twenty-five initially.
Honestly, if it were just Allen and Vesemir here, no matter how much they cared about their witcher duties, they would have turned and fled.
But now...
Allen glanced back at the group of witchers he had brought along.
[Name: Erni]
[Loyalty: 100]
[Attributes: Strength 16, Dexterity 10, Constitution 14, Perception 18, Arcane 8]
[Skills: Wolf School Two-Handed Sword LV3 (1/1000), Ice Spear Curse LV2 (7/500), Quen Sign LV3 (1/1000)↑…]
Although they hadn't encountered many ghouls on this journey, the abundance of drowners they had slain—over a hundred—had bolstered the group's strength considerably.
While attributes hadn't improved much due to the saturation of drowner essence, the witcher corps had spent over a thousand battle points upgrading Erni and Claral's Quen Sign.
With Erni and Claral leading, the younger witchers—already well-coordinated after six months of training—could easily hold their formation against dozens of ghouls. Even in emergencies, the upgraded Quen could buy them time.
Not to mention, the convoy being attacked appeared to have well-armed guards...
"We can fight!"
Allen and Vesemir exchanged a glance and nodded.
With their decision made, the only question left was how to fight.
"The alghoul is cunning and cowardly. It won't attack easily, but we can't make it our first target either. If it calls back the necrophages for a full-scale assault, we're done for..."
Under Vesemir's approving gaze, Allen cautiously laid out the plan:
"Erni, Claral, take the others and hold your formation. Only attack the ghouls. If rotfiends or the alghoul engage, evade them—don't fight head-on."
"Understood!" Erni and Claral responded.
"Master Vesemir," Allen continued, turning to him, "we'll use Igni to clear the rotfiends first, then focus on the alghoul."
"Agreed!" Vesemir nodded but then asked, "After we deal with the other necrophages, the alghoul will likely flee. You're not planning to hunt it?"
"Don't worry, it won't escape!" Allen grinned confidently.
The corps' battle points, attributes, and loot depended on it!
Allen's gaze burned as he eyed the black-spiked creature in the distance.
.....
📢20 advanced chapters on p@treaon📢
For advance chapters: p@treon.com/Uchiha_Itachi007 (replace @ with a)
332. The Envoys of the God Kreve.
333. A Bountiful Harvest!
334. The Dwarf Princess in Need of Rescue.
335. A Unique Grandmaster Wolven Armor Set.
336. A Stalemate.