The Witcher World: The Path to Domination Begins in Velen

The deck is larger than it appears from the shore.

The mainmast stood in the center of the deck. Erwin walked onto the deck, his eyes moving between the mast base, the bow bollard, and the hatches on the deck.

He tapped his fingers lightly twice on the wooden board, then spoke.

"Standard trade-type Coq, single mast, square sail, 15 meters in length, 5 meters in beam, with a deadweight tonnage of approximately 150 tons above the waterline."

His finger pointed to the square hatch in the middle of the deck.

"The standard configuration for this type of ship is two levels: the bottom level is for ballast and heavy cargo, and the upper level is for personnel or light cargo."

Miko stood half a step behind Ron, looking at Erwin with his mouth slightly open.

He tapped his toes again and moved to the left.

"This deck has been replaced. The original deck should have been laid longitudinally, but this one is laid laterally. It was replaced halfway through the project."

He looked up, shifting his gaze from the deck to Ron.

"This ship has suffered at least one serious deck damage incident, and its hull is covered with countless old arrow marks. It seems that Walter, this seemingly respectable businessman, also has some less-than-reputable maritime business dealings."

"No wonder, apart from Walter, none of the others in this group are wearing heavy armor." Ron nodded.

Erwin tucked the plank back under his arm: "In naval boarding operations, wearing heavy armor means you'll sink faster than a stone if you fall into the water."

Ron walked toward the hatch and reached out to pull it open.

The stench of sweat, urine, and an indescribable odor mixed together, causing Ron to stumble back two steps.

Down the gangway, it was pitch black.

"Torch"

It illuminated the rows of wooden cages inside the ship's cabin.

The cabin was quiet for about the time it takes for one heartbeat to pass.

Then a sound emerged, not a shout, but rather the sound of someone finally seeing someone who wasn't carrying a whip approaching after being imprisoned for so long.

The sound came from the chest at the same time. Someone was lying on the wooden fence, their hand sticking out from the gap, pointing towards the firelight, their fingers trembling.

Ron stood on the steps, torch held in front of him.

The first thing he saw were eyes, dozens of eyes, shining behind the wooden fence. Some eyes were blinking, some were not blinking, and some did not move even after the firelight shone on them, clinging to the wooden fence in a gripping posture, their bodies already stiff.

Ron's gaze lingered on those eyes for a moment before shifting away.

"Open the cage."

Miko was the first to move. He took the battle axe handed to him by his companion, walked to the nearest wooden cage, and used the axe to break the iron lock.

But no one came out.

The person in the cage shrank back, their eyes fixed on the sword in Miko's hand and on the two-and-a-half-meter-tall giant in chainmail behind him.

Ron took two steps forward.

He raised the torch higher, shining it on his face.

"Everyone," he said, his voice echoing through the cabin, "my name is Ron, this ship is mine now, everything on board is mine, the weapons are mine, the gold coins are mine."

He paused for a moment.

"But you are not mine."

Someone in the cage moved, leaning forward.

"You have two choices," Ron said in a deep, clear voice that everyone could hear.

"Go now, no one will stop you. Once you leave this beach, going east leads to a swamp, going west to a river mouth, and going north to a dense forest. How far you can go depends on your own abilities."

He raised his right hand and pointed his thumb behind him.

"Or come back to camp with me. There are walls, food, and beds in the camp, but you can't leave for a while. This ship is backed by the military forces of Nilfgaard."

You saw their faces, and you saw our faces. Before this is resolved, anyone leaving the camp could expose its location, and then it won't just be you who die.

His gaze swept from the front of the cabin to the back.

"Those who come with me will exchange their labor for food and shelter. Those who know how to farm will farm, those who know how to blacksmith will blacksmith, those who know how to cook will cook, and even those who know nothing can carry things. No one can eat for free."

He stuck the torch into the iron ring on the bulkhead, illuminating the entire cabin.

Choose one.

The cabin was quiet for a moment. Then a middle-aged woman in a gray robe stood up. Her hair was a mess. She was holding a child in her arms. She walked up to Ron, looked up at him, and didn't say anything. Then she walked past Ron with the child and went up the gangway.

The second person to stand up was a young man, so thin that his collarbone protruded from his collar. He walked toward the hatch behind Ron, followed by a third and a fourth, who came out one after another and walked onto the deck.

The last one to emerge from the cage was a dwarf.

When he came out, the entire cabin could hear him. Not because of his footsteps, but because his shoulder bumped into the frame of the cage door, causing the wooden bars to tilt to the side.

He cursed, his voice rough like the anvil being hammered in a blacksmith's shop. He was only up to Ron's waist, but his shoulders were unbelievably broad, and his arms, hanging at his sides, were thicker than Miko's thighs.

He stood at the cage door, squinting as he scanned the cabin. His gaze lingered on Miko's sword for a moment, then he looked up at Ron's face.

"You said if I go with you, there will be food?" His voice held a hint of hope amidst his doubt.

"Yes," Ron said.

"Is there a blacksmith shop?"

"There's iron, but no shops."

The dwarf snorted.

"As long as there's iron, that's fine. I can build the rest myself." He patted his chest with both hands: "Brom, blacksmith, has been forging iron for forty-seven years. Weapons, armor, I can forge anything you need, but I have three rules."

He held up a short, stubby finger:

"First, you won't work for free; you'll be provided with food, lodging, and alcohol—and the alcohol must be good."

He raised his second finger.

"Secondly, if I say I can fight, I can fight; if I say I can't fight, you can throw gold at me and it won't do any good. My skills won't be wasted."

He raised his third finger, then lowered it again. His lips twitched downwards, and his mustache twitched.

"Third... I haven't thought of it yet. I'll let you know when I do."

Ron looked down at him, and Brom looked back at Ron. The dwarf's neck was tilted back, and his face was covered in curly red beard.

"There's alcohol in the camp," Ron said. "Not much, just enough for you."

Brom's lips curled up slightly as he swayed his shoulders and walked toward the deck.

Someone stood up at the very back of the cabin.

She sat in the corner, her light blonde hair braided at the back of her head and tied with a faded blue cloth strip, a row of small leather bags hanging from her waist. Her face was unharmed, but her cheeks were sunken, a sign of hunger.

She stopped in front of Ron, looked up, and her eyes were gray-green.

"Aina, the herbalist of the Temple of Meriteli," she said, "you are injured."

Ron looked down at her.

"My palms," she said, "are worn raw."

Ron held his palm up, and the skin at the base of his palm was worn away.

She took a small earthenware jar from her leather bag. The ointment was pale green and had a bitter smell, like mint and wormwood mixed together and crushed. Without asking Ron if he wanted to apply the ointment, she directly applied it to his palm. The ointment was cool, and Ron's fingers trembled slightly when it was applied to the wound.

"Change it tomorrow," she said, stuffing the earthenware pot back into her leather bag. "I won't need it the day after tomorrow."

She looked up and met Ron's eyes.

"You said we can't leave the camp for a while, I heard you." She tightened the drawstring on the leather bag. "I'll go with you, but on conditions."

"explain"

"I'll treat everyone in the camp, whether they're soldiers or farmers. If they're injured or sick, I'll pick them up when they give birth," her voice was gentle but firm. "But I decide what medicine to use, and if a wounded soldier needs to rest, you can't send him back to the battlefield."

She paused, her grey-green eyes unblinking.

"The Nilfgaardians drove all the priests out, but the teacher wouldn't leave. They dragged her away, and I don't even know if she's alive or dead." Her lips pursed slightly, and a trickle of blood seeped from the corner of her chapped mouth.

"But I will not forget Meritelli's teachings: every suffering person deserves to be healed, regardless of what god they believe in or which side they stand on."

She wrapped the drawstring of the leather bag around her finger and pulled it tight.

Ron looked at her.

"The herb garden," he said, "is an open space behind the camp. You can see for yourself what you can plant there."

Aina smiled gently, nodded, and walked towards the gangway.