The Witcher World: The Path to Domination Begins in Velen

Erwin stood in front of a low table in the captain's lounge.

He held a letter in his hand, the paper trembling slightly between his fingers. His eyes were narrowed behind his glasses, and his lips were pursed.

He didn't look up until Ron walked in.

"Found it," he said, putting down the letter in his hand and picking up another document, which was stamped with a red wax seal and had the sun emblem of Nilfgaard in the center.

Erwin's fingers pressed lightly on the signature area of ​​the document.

"Agreement on the disposal of military supplies, signed by Tawa Egbraj, Quartermaster of the Central Army Camp in Velen, Nilfgaard."

His finger moved from the signature to the side to "Where to go with the scrap: civilian recyclers in the Temurian War Zone." Erwin tapped the words twice.

He turned the document over; it was a list. Some items had been crossed out and marked with new numbers, while others had question marks next to them, with circles drawn around them.

Erwin's fingers moved down the list.

"Cloak, chainmail, chainmail neck guard, finely forged breastplate, medium helmet and wide-brimmed helmet, one-handed and two-handed swords, longbow, military crossbow."

His fingers stopped.

"There are also other logistical supplies, including belt buckles, quivers, armor-piercing daggers, maintenance oil, flints, bandages, and ore, totaling enough to equip sixty or seventy people."

"They even have magic-blocking gold. It seems their targets aren't just ordinary people. A warlock is worth far more than a ship full of ordinary slaves..."

He put the document back on the table.

"This is the batch mentioned in the camp's correspondence, used to upgrade the slave-catching team's equipment and recruit new personnel." He looked up from the documents and at Ron.

"He was the quartermaster of the central Nilfgaardian army camp. All the supplies for the garrison went through him. He just had to sign off on what was scrapped, how much was scrapped, and where it went after it was scrapped."

Erwin's Adam's apple bobbed.

"In the central military camp of Nilfgaard, the quartermaster's rank is second only to the unit commander."

On the lower deck of the ship, Cole stood in front of a pile of wooden crates.

These wooden crates were unearthed from the bottom of the grain pile. After the grain was moved aside, a row of sealed wooden crates was exposed on the bottom of the hold. Miko used his sword to pry open the iron nails on the top crate lid, and the lid was lifted, revealing the iron rings of the chainmail shining brightly in the torchlight.

The outfit included a cloak of chainmail, a chainmail neck guard, a finely forged breastplate, a longsword with a rust-resistant grease coating on the blade, and a military crossbow in its folded state. The crossbow body was made of hardwood and iron, with a copper plate covering the trigger mechanism.

Cole carried the items out one by one. Finally, his hand touched something else at the bottom of the box.

Inside was a stack of blueprints, with structural diagrams that Miko couldn't understand, several intersecting arcs, and dimensions and angles marked next to them.

"Crossbow replacement part, third edition."

Miko handed the blueprints to Ron. Ron took them, glanced at them, and understood the crossbow's structural diagram. An eccentric wheel, a pull rod, and two sets of pulleys with different radii—the principle wasn't complicated, but the machining precision required was very high.

He folded the blueprints and tucked them inside his chainmail.

When Erwin came out, he had a roll of parchment in his hand. He raised his hand and unfolded the parchment, revealing a blue wax seal at the bottom with the crown crest of Redania, surrounded by clearly visible text.

"Issued by the Port Authority of Novigrad Free City, Kingdom of Redania." Erwin tapped the seal with his finger. "Ships Permit, allowing the holder to enter the port of Novigrad for berthing, resupply, trade, and repairs. Valid for three years, currently with more than two years remaining."

His finger moved down to another line of smaller text.

"Certified Vessel Information: Name: 'Seagull', Type: Kirk Trading Ship, Owner: Walter Griffin, Registered in: Nilfgaard." Elwin's finger paused on that line for a moment. "He registered the ship in Nilfgaard, but the permit was issued in Redania. Novigrad is a free city; as long as port fees are paid, any ship is allowed in."

He rolled up the parchment and tied it back with ribbon.

"This ship has a shallow draft, and it can easily dock in the river bend next to the camp. With this pass, we'll have a suitable channel for procuring supplies." He looked up at Ron. "Besides, those Florin, Nilfgaardian currencies can't be used directly in the north. We have to exchange them for krona at the bank in Novigrad. I have a classmate who works in the money exchange business and can give us a good exchange rate."

Ron looked at him and waited for him to finish speaking.

"You can sail a boat?"

Erwin adjusted his monocle.

"No, but I've read the nautical manuals, and single-masted trading cokes usually don't require very complicated sail handling techniques." He paused for a moment, "It's worth a try."

At a bend in the river, there was a lookout post at the camp.

The sentry, cloaked, rested his hand on his bow and gazed down the river, its surface shimmering greyish-white in the moonlight, and then he saw it.

An outline emerged from the bend in the river, first the mast, then the sail, the bow parting the water and leaving two white ripples on either side. A flag, the Nilfgaardian sun emblem, fluttered in the night wind atop the mast.

The sentry grabbed the bell rope beside him, and the bronze bell on top of the watchtower rang.

clang!clang!clang!

三声

The camp reacted faster than the bells rang. On the courtyard walls, Fiona archers were already in position, bowstrings half-drawn, arrows nocked, their tips following the moving silhouette on the river. Some were tightening the straps of their leather armor, others were drawing spears from the weapon racks, and footsteps echoed through the camp.

Then came the rapid sound of horses' hooves.

The horseshoes trod on the gravel path leading from the camp to the river bend. Karl charged ahead, his eyes peeking out from the slits in his visor. The musket was tucked under his arm, the tip pointing diagonally forward. Behind him were fifteen elite Imperial armored cavalrymen, arranged in a wedge formation, their horses' heads touching, their musket tips forming a cold line as they moved.

Sixteen imperial warhorses, brought all the way from Calradia, taller and heavier than any horse in Velen.

The ground trembled as the horse's hooves landed, and the lances swayed slightly up and down with the horse's movements, the amplitude of the swaying being exactly the same.

The ship had docked, and the gangway was lowered. At the front was a dwarf carrying a wooden bucket on his shoulder, followed by a group of ragged civilians who helped each other as they slowly made their way down the gangway.

The dwarf was the first to hear the sound of hooves. He jerked his head up and saw the cavalrymen, lined up in a row, charging toward the river bend. The sound of hooves grew louder and louder, and the stones were crushed into powder under their iron hooves.

"Damn it!" Brom threw the barrel on the ground and roared, "Cavalry! Back to the ship!"

Before he could finish his roar, Karl had already charged to within a hundred paces of the ship, simultaneously leveling all sixteen lances, their tips changing from pointing diagonally forward to horizontal. The warhorse did not slow down, and the sound of its hooves changed from dense to heavy.

Brom didn't return to the ship. Instead, he raised the barrel, his two thick, short arms bulging with muscles, the bottom of the barrel facing outwards in front of him, and let out a roar.

"Come on!" His voice seemed to shatter the ripples on the river's surface: "If you want to kill someone, you'll have to get over my dead body first!!"

The woman in the gray robe didn't run. She spread her arms out in front of the child. Her lips were moving, but no sound came out.

The ragged civilians huddled together, shivering, their eyes filled with despair and numbness.

Aina's pupils shrank in the moonlight, her hands trembled, but she remained standing at the front of the crowd without backing down.

Sixteen lances were less than a hundred paces from the river bend.