The Witcher World: The Path to Domination Begins in Velen

The recruits completed their formation while advancing forward.

Without any commands or instructions, they were unaware of what they were doing. Their steps did not stop, and their weapons were already adjusted to the most suitable positions to repel the enemy.

Their bodies found the most suitable positions among their companions, forming groups of three, five columns, echoing each other, like five spears deeply driven into the sand.

Miko stood in the leftmost group's spear position, holding the spear shaft in his hand, the spear butt against the inside of his right foot, and the spear tip pointing diagonally forward.

The angle was even more precise than what Captain Karl had required during training; the three of them formed a stable triangle, with the shield and sword in front and the long weapon on the side.

Miko suddenly realized something; it wasn't like this when they were practicing at the camp.

Just a few days ago, Karl was yelling at the recruits in the courtyard: "Spear tip is too low, move to the left, you fucking stick close to the shield bearer, don't make me repeat myself, the shield is your life, if the shield bearer falls, you're next."

At that time, his body was stiff, his mind was filled with tactical commands, and he had to think through every action before he could react slowly.

Gripping the spear shaft too tightly causes sweaty palms and tripping over one's feet, often resulting in several teams bumping into each other.

Spears pierced their own men's backs, shield bearers were tripped up, and chaos ensued.

Karl stood on the sidelines, the fresh wound on his face still scabbed over, and the veins bulging from his forehead to his neck.

But now it's different; he wasn't even thinking about it when his body started moving.

The spearman next to him, Cole, was a blacksmith's apprentice. His arms were thicker than Miko's thighs. During training, he could never remember his position. If you told him to go left, he would go right; if you told him to retreat, he would charge forward.

Now he stands to Miko's right, the tips of his spears forming an angle with Miko's spears, at the same height and angle, even the angle of the spear shafts is the same.

Fifteen new recruits simultaneously formed ranks, the sound of shields hitting the ground ringing out at the same time.

Ron didn't look at the bandits on the beach. The battlefield command interface was hovering in the upper right corner of his field of vision. The formation interface was lit up, but only one icon was lit up. "Shield and Spear Assault Formation" was the standard basic formation.

All the other icons are gray—the wedge array, the circular array, the cone array—all gray, like a row of unlit lanterns.

"Currently available formation: Shield and Spear Assault Formation," he read, shifting his gaze from the interface back to the backs of the fifteen recruits.

It seems that due to insufficient time, they only had time to practice the raid formation.

But that's enough.

The bandits opposite had already dispersed from around the campfire.

Some people were crouching behind the side of the boat, while others were kneeling on the sand. The crossbows were snatched from the cabin. The crossbowmen were crouching behind overturned wooden barrels, with the butts of the crossbows against their shoulders and their fingers on the triggers.

"Hold"

The scarred man who was rolling the dice grabbed a curved knife from the sand.

The word "army" was forced out through clenched teeth: "This is the fucking army."

The bald man was dead; his body lay beside the campfire, but no one paid him any attention.

"Nonsense!" said an old bandit behind them, resting his crossbow on the side of the ship, his one eye pressed against the trigger. "Besides soldiers, who the hell would use this kind of force to fight us?"

He pulled the trigger, and the crossbow bolt shot out with a short, sharp hum in the air. The arrow flew across the beach, grazed the heads of a group of new recruits, and embedded itself in a tree trunk behind them with a muffled thud, veering at least three feet off course.

The old bandit cursed, put the crossbow on the side of the boat, and bent down to touch the quiver.

"Too fast!" Scarface gripped his scimitar. "When I served in the Temurian army, I only ever saw such terrifying formations and coordination with the King's Royal Guard."

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing.

"Who did we offend? Did some bastard kidnap a nobleman?!"

No one answered him. Fiona's bowstring twanged.

It wasn't a volley, it was a sniper shot. With a twang of a bowstring, a bandit crossbowman fell backward, the arrow tip piercing through the front of his neck and exiting diagonally through the back.

The second twang of the bowstring aimed at a shirtless bandit who was about to draw his bow. The arrow pierced through his open mouth, the fletching still trembling uncontrollably.

At the edge of the bushes, five Fiona champion strikers knelt in a row.

The archer on the far left released the bowstring, which snapped back. He then drew another arrow from his quiver, nocked it, drew the bow, and released the arrow without any hesitation.

"We've been called here to be babysitters," he said, his lips touching the arrow's fletching, his voice slightly muffled.

"We never had this kind of treatment when we were soldiers," the second archer said, his hand still reaching for the quiver without stopping.

"Nonsense," Fiona on the right replied.

"How can you compare? We only have a few kids now, and we're counting on them to become veterans and mentor new recruits in the future."

"Be careful," the third archer said, reaching into his quiver and touching the remaining arrows.

The leftmost archer, with an "inexhaustible supply," rested his hand on the bowstring. "Look at those little brats."

---

Miko's group was the first to engage the enemy. Three bandits rushed out from behind the campfire, two with short knives and one wielding a one-handed axe.

The axe struck the shield, and the shield bearer's body trembled. The axe blade became embedded in the shield and could not be pulled out. The bandit who swung the axe pulled back with all his might, and the axe got stuck. At this moment, his chest was completely exposed.

Mico's spear thrust out in the same direction.

The spear tip pierced through the leather armor and emerged from the back. Thousands of repetitions had etched the movement into instinct, and the wrist twisted and pulled out smoothly.

A spray of blood gushed from the spearhead, like a light rain.

Miko's face was deathly pale, but his body did not pause. He sheathed his spear, leaned forward again, and aimed at the next target.

He remembered what Carl had said: hit the target, immediately reset, next.

Cole's spear pierced the thigh of a bandit from the side.

The man screamed and fell to his knees. The shield bearer took the opportunity to step forward, thrusting his sword out from the edge of the shield, piercing the man's throat, then retreating, and the shield returned to its original position.

The three robbers collapsed to the ground after three breaths.

The beach was filled with the sounds of clashing metal and screams of agony as spears pierced flesh.

A soldier was hit by an arrow. The bandits' crossbowmen had been mostly dealt with by Fiona. This arrow came from the shadows at the stern of the ship, at a tricky angle, and pierced the thigh of Pet, a spearman in the rightmost group.

The shield bearer reacted quickly. He immediately turned his shield to the side, blocking where Pete had fallen. But a gap still appeared in the formation, and the bandits in that direction saw it and began to press forward.

At the edge of the bushes, the Fiona archer released his bowstring. A muffled thud came from the shadows at the stern of the ship, and a crossbowman fell from behind the mast with an arrow stuck in his throat.

The archer on the far left slung his bow behind his back, stood up, and crouched low as he ran across the beach.

He ran to the wounded recruit, grabbed him by the back of his collar, and dragged him behind the nearest dead tree.

The archer lifted his leg, glanced at the spot where the arrow had landed, and said, "He won't die."

He pulled a dagger from his waist, cut the arrow shaft, separated the fletching from the arrowhead, and the archer tore a strip of cloth from the hem of his cotton coat, folded it in half, pressed it against the wound, and tightened it with another strip of cloth.

"Hold on." He pressed the recruit's hand onto the strip of cloth. "Don't let go."

The recruit nodded, his lips still trembling.

The archer glanced at him, said nothing more, turned and ran back to the bushes, knelt down again, nocked an arrow, and drew his bow.

There weren't many bandits left. Their eyes shone frighteningly bright in the campfire, their pupils constricted, like a pack of wild dogs cornered against a wall.

Spears surrounded them from three directions. The spear tips gleamed coldly in the firelight, and just then, the cabin door opened...