The Witcher World: The Path to Domination Begins in Velen

The edge of the breastplate protrudes from the door frame first, followed by a tall body clad in full plate armor, including breastplate, shoulder armor, arm armor, and leg armor.

Each piece fits the contours of the body perfectly. The iron-gray plate armor looks like an unfinished product without any paint, but it already possesses the defensive capabilities of full-body plate armor.

"Wait, who's in charge? Let's talk. There's no need for a fight to the death. What do you want?" A rough voice rang out.

Ron raised his left fist, and all the soldiers stopped at the same time, but remained on guard.

Ron walked slowly forward, the iron rings of his chainmail making a soft clatter as he moved. His 2.2-meter frame cast his shadow on the beach, stretching all the way to the feet of the plate-armored leader.

The man raised his head; he had to. He was already considered tall among the bandits, towering more than half a head above his henchmen huddled behind the side of the boat. Standing there, he looked like a section of iron tower.

But Ron was much taller than him, and when he looked up, the edge of the neck brace caught his chin, preventing him from fully tilting his neck back; he could only see Ron's chin.

The plate-armored man was silent for a moment, then he pushed up the visor of his helmet, revealing a fawning smile.

"Sir, I am Walter," he said, his voice tinged with barely concealed nervousness.

"The owner of this ship, and these men are the sailors I hired. I'm a legitimate businessman, the kind who pays taxes according to the law."

He paused, glancing at the bushes behind Ron, where five Fiona champions stood, their bows half-drawn, the tips of their arrows gleaming coldly.

Walter looked away, then laughed again, this time even harder, his cheeks puffing out even more.

"You see, enough of my men and your soldiers have died; continuing this will not benefit either side."

"How about we talk? I'd be happy to pay some taxes to compensate you for your loss, sir."

He emphasized the word "taxes," as if it could change their relationship.

Ron did not answer.

He took a step forward, and Walter instinctively took a few steps back. After realizing what he had done, he felt ashamed and angry at his actions, and a dark red flush rose on his face, even deepening the color of the old scar.

But he didn't dare touch the weapon. The soldiers standing around him stared at him warily, their eyes conveying a clear message: if you dare touch the weapon, you'll be riddled with holes.

Ron walked to the edge of the spear formation and stopped. The soldiers' spears parted to the sides, and Ron stood at the gap, looking down at Walter.

"Talk? Fine, I enjoy negotiating, but shouldn't you show your sincerity beforehand?"

As soon as Ron spoke, the beach fell silent.

Walter's Adam's apple bobbed behind the plate armor's neck guard.

"Of course," he said, "I'm willing to pay all the payment as taxes. I only have one request: let us go."

Without waiting for Ron's reply, he waved behind him, and two bandits carried a wooden box and placed it heavily on the beach.

Walter gently opened the box, revealing a whole box of brand-new Nilfgaard Florin, radiating an alluring glow.

"I am not a Nilfgaardian, and this ship is just an ordinary merchant vessel; it's not worth your trouble, sir."

He stepped aside, allowing the box of gold coins to be fully exposed to Ron's view.

"If you agree, it's all yours."

Ron looked at him, and Walter looked at Ron.

"I'll consider having your men lay down their weapons," Ron said calmly, like still water.

Walter's hands hung at his sides, his fingers curling up and then opening again.

He was still smiling, but the smile had faded, leaving only the upward curve of his lips on his face.

"My lord," he said, his voice a shade deeper than before, "let me tell you the truth."

"This ship is indeed a slave ship, and these people are indeed not sailors, but what does that have to do with me?"

The iron gauntlet landed and patted its own breastplate.

"I'm just doing my job. My superiors told me to bring the ship here. Why? I don't ask, and I don't want to know. The less you know, the longer you live. You certainly understand this better than I do."

His voice calmed down: "If you kill me, they'll send someone else tomorrow."

"The ships will still sail the day after tomorrow, the goods will still be transported, nothing has changed. How many people can you stop?"

He paused, as if swallowing, then raised a finger.

"Keep me alive. I can provide you with equipment and keep you informed about which ship will arrive, when it will arrive, and how many men it will bring. You can ambush it if you want, or avoid it if you want."

"I have connections in the Nilfgaardian army camp. I'm not a big shot, but I'm well-informed. I know about troop movements, patrol routes, and which areas are being heavily inspected recently."

I knew in advance that you were leading people in Velen; these things are worth more than gold coins.

"You see, I'm telling the truth," Walter said, spreading his hands out, palms up.

He took half a step forward, his foot sinking into the sand with a slight squeaking sound.

"But weapons—"

He shook his head slowly: "I can't put down the weapon."

His right hand hung down, not gripping the sword hilt, but simply resting beside it.

"I've lived for decades, and all I've learned is one thing."

He looked into Ron's eyes.

"Don't entrust your life to others."

"So, sir, you can take the money. As for the equipment, I can agree to it right now. As for the messages, just give me a contact method, and I'll deliver them every two weeks. As long as you agree, they're all yours."

"But I won't give up the weapons. If you think we can talk like this, then we can talk. If you don't think so..."

Before he could finish speaking, Ron moved.

Without drawing his weapon, Walter merely took a step forward; Walter's reaction was a beat too slow, and Ron's hands were already upon him.

Two enormous hands gripped Walter's neck guard on both sides, and with a burst of force, the iron rings of the chainmail snapped under the strain.

Walter's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. He suddenly raised his hands and grabbed Ron's forearms, then pushed off the ground with his legs, his iron boots digging two sand pits in the sand.

But Ron's movements were not affected at all; his arms were tense, and his palms twisted in opposite directions.

Click!

Ron let go

Walter's body fell backward, his expression frozen in disbelief.

Ron looked down at the corpse.

The firelight danced on his face, casting half of it in shadow.

First: I don't negotiate with the dead.

Second: Information that cannot be trusted is worse than no information at all.

Third: If you die, your money and equipment will still be mine.

Everyone on the beach froze, the recruits' spears still pointing forward, their tips trembling slightly.

Erwin stood next to the box, his glasses slipping down his nose, but he didn't bother to fix them; everyone was watching him.

"What are you waiting for? I said, leave no one alive!!"

Miko was the first to move. The spear tips were raised again, the shields were lowered, and the spears were crossed again. The five groups of men went from stillness to advance in just one breath.

The sounds of clashing metal, spears piercing flesh, screams, and curses echoed across the beach once more.

Ron stood beside the box of gold coins, no longer looking at the corpse.

All that remained on the beach behind them was fire and blood.