The Witcher World: The Path to Domination Begins in Velen

Ron opened his eyes

No, he wasn't awakened by opening his eyes, but by the pain. His wrist felt like it was on fire. Ron instinctively raised his hand, and the chains rattled, pulling him out of his daze.

A damp, musty smell filled his nostrils, mixed with a rotten, fishy odor. Ron looked up but bumped into a wooden stake behind him. He squinted to adjust to the dim light—torches, stone walls, huddled figures, a dungeon.

Ron looked down at his hands; they weren't his original hands.

The huge hands had thick knuckles covered with fine old scars. He raised his hands to his eyes, slowly opening and closing them. The unfamiliar, abundant power sent a chill down Ron's spine. This was not his body.

The muscle density is wrong, and you can feel that the height doesn't match at all.

He bent his knees slightly, his muscles taut beneath the ripped trousers, the fabric straining into tense wrinkles. He instinctively straightened his back, bumping into the low beam above his head.

Ron quickly shrank back. The instant he stood upright allowed him to roughly estimate that he was at least 2.2 meters tall. This was the character he created in the game, the second playthrough character whose height was set to the maximum and all combat attributes were grinded to over 300.

The virtual flesh and blood in the game have become reality.

Ron closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and memories surged like fragments: games, storms, death, logging off—but this wasn't the login screen.

"Friend, don't bother."

A hoarse voice came from the other side.

Ron looked in the direction of the sound and saw a thin man leaning against the opposite wall.

His robes were filthy, their original color unrecognizable. His face bore the marks of a beating, and dark red scabs covered the corners of his mouth. Yet, his eyes still shone, with an unconscious habit of observation and analysis.

"This is the dungeon of the slave-trapping camp," the voice stated calmly. "Every few days, they would capture a group of refugees from outside, and once they had enough people, they would send them to the mines to sell those who could make money, and those who couldn't be sold..."

He glanced at Ron with a restrained curiosity—the kind of curiosity that says, "I know I shouldn't stare, but I just can't help it."

"Who are you?" The voice had a metallic quality, echoing slightly against the dungeon walls.

The gaunt man seemed startled by the voice, but quickly regained his composure. He straightened up and spoke in a slightly arrogant tone.

"Erwin von Herder, lecturer and doctoral scholar in the Department of History at Oxenforth University, specializes in the history of the North-South wars and the celestial conjunction."

He paused, then tugged at the corner of his mouth, seemingly aggravating the wound on his face, turning it into a grimacing expression.

"I had intended to refine my research, document the war in detail, and compile it into a book, but I was captured by these bastards in Velen."

My research notes, manuscripts, and funds are all gone. Now I'm here waiting to be sold to some damn mine, who knows where. If I'm lucky, I might live a few more months. If I'm unlucky...

Erwin shrugged.

Ron's heart skipped a beat. When the words "Ossenford-Willen" hit his ears, it felt like someone had hit him on the head with a hammer.

He knew the name, the game called "The Witcher," but if this was Velen, if there was a war going on here...

"The Third Civil War?" Ron blurted out.

Erwin raised an eyebrow, seemingly surprised that Ron could use the term: "You know it? These bandits said they found you near a wrecked ship on the beach. Where are you from?"

Ron opened his mouth but didn't speak. He knew the Northern Kingdoms and the Nilfgaardian Empire were at war, Velen was the battlefield, and he knew this land was full of monsters, bandits, charred villages, and desperate peasants.

He knew there was a witcher named Geralt, a sorceress named Yennefer, and a princess named Ciri, but these were like things seen through frosted glass.

The Witcher was an old game he played more than ten years ago. He remembered the main storyline roughly, but had forgotten most of the details...

I was transported to a world I was only partially familiar with.

Ron closed his eyes and sighed deeply. Erwin thought he was about to faint and tentatively called out, "Feed?"

"I'm fine." Ron opened his eyes. "Continue, where are we? I mean, exactly where?"

Erwin pushed up his glasses, one of the lenses broken: "The former province of Velen in the Kingdom of Temeria, specifically in southwestern Velen, near a tributary of the Pontal River..."

This area is currently a gray area between Nilfgaard and the scattered forces; there are no regular armies, no laws, only bandits, monsters, and starving farmers.

How many bandits were there?

"From what I observed, there were about thirty to forty people," Erwin said. "The leader's bedroom was on the second floor, with guards around him, and seven or eight crossbowmen on the perimeter. The others were poorly equipped, but their numbers were considerable."

Ron nodded and fell silent, not because he was tired, but because he sensed something.

Interface appears

It wasn't a hallucination; it was a semi-transparent interface floating in the upper right corner of his field of vision, just like the one in the game. Ron focused his attention on the interface, and the panel rippled outwards, revealing more information.

Name: Ron Arenicos

Identity: Prince (Callad Empire)

Level: Lv.31 Experience: 12450/19000

----------------------------------------

【attribute】

Strength 10 | Agility 8 | Constitution 7 | Perception 5 | Charisma 4 | Intelligence 5

----------------------------------------

【Skill】

One-handed weapons 325, two-handed weapons 310, polearms 305

Archery 330, Riding 315, Running 78

Crossbow 5 Throwing 30 Forging 0

Reconnaissance 55, Tactics 85, Charisma 42

Command 52, Transactions 35, Management 50

Medical Project 38 20

----------------------------------------

【force】

Imperial Elite Cataphracts: 16/16

Fiona's top scorer: 6/6

Troop strength: 22

----------------------------------------

【System Functions】

Unlocked: Battlefield Command, Personal Attributes, Unit Information

Unlocked: Companion System (requires recruiting companions to unlock), Territory Management (not activated), National Policy (not activated)

Battlefield command available

Gray Area Management of Land Fief

National policy gray area

Ron stared at the two grayed-out options for two seconds, then looked away—that was a matter for later, if there was a later.

He turned his attention to the twenty-two halos scattered around the camp. He could sense their state, their emotions—confusion, unease, and a deep-seated loyalty.

Then, the "memories" behind the emotions came flooding in.

In the imperial capital of Paraven, the imperial coat of arms fluttered on the stone walls of the palace. The first in line to the throne, the emperor's eldest son, led his army towards Nord. His flagship encountered a sea storm; the hull shattered, and the entire ship was swept into a massive whirlpool.

Then they arrived here.

Ron knew these memories were part of the game's storyline, part of his script in the newly released immersive virtual reality game.

But he could sense that for these soldiers, these were real things: the evening breeze blowing over the walls of Paraven, the dust from clashing with the Khojas cavalry on the steppe, their fingers frozen in the snow—these were their lives.

"Are you alright?" Erwin's voice came from the other end, tinged with a cautious concern. "You seem...confused?"

"Thanks, I'm fine," Ron said, cracking his wrists, the chains rattling. "Erwin, no matter what happens, stay put."

The scholar was taken aback for a moment: "Huh?"

Ron did not answer; he focused his attention on the battlefield command interface.

He gave his first order: six archers moved eastward to the top of the abandoned tower, taking control of the high ground; sixteen men spread out to eliminate enemy ranged units, while three-man shield-wall spearmen advanced the battle formation.

He could feel as if twenty-two sophisticated machines were being awakened simultaneously and then began to move, silently and swiftly, seeping into the crevices of the camp like a gentle breeze in the night.

Everything is ready

Ron turned his attention back to his body, looking down at the shackles on his wrists. The chains were about the thickness of a finger, the rivets at the joints were rusty, and the wooden stakes that held them in place were rotten and black. He tried to pull on them, and the stakes creaked and cracked, with cracks extending from the rivet holes to both sides.

enough

Ron didn't rush to break free, but waited quietly as the torchlight flickered at the dungeon entrance.

The sound of guards' footsteps came from above, followed by shouts—not orders, but curses—and the clanging of metal from afar, accompanied by a short scream.