The Witcher World: The Path to Domination Begins in Velen

Erwin took the parchment, but didn't put it away immediately. He pursed his lips and ran his fingers back and forth along the edge of the parchment.

"The third thing," his voice was tinged with a helpless weariness, "is Miko's learning progress."

Ron watched him quietly.

"Teach him grammar and writing for three whole days, and then look at his workbook."

"I feel like teaching trolls is easier than teaching him now; at least trolls don't poke holes in paper."

Erwin took off his glasses and wiped them with his sleeve. "Do you know what it's like to teach someone in their twenties who's been wielding a hoe since childhood, never a pen?"

Ron's lips twitched, then he forced down the smile and glanced toward the courtyard. Miko was squatting in front of a companion, adjusting the buckle on his breastplate to the right length.

"At least the name was spelled correctly," Ron said.

"What?"

"He spelled the name correctly."

Erwin opened his mouth, sighed softly, and said nothing more.

Ron tapped his fingertips lightly on the table, a faint smile hidden in his eyes.

The blacksmith shop was on the east side of the camp. When Brom took over the place, the original camp blacksmith was squatting in front of the forge, using a file to remove rust from a sword.

His name was Todd, and he was not yet twenty years old. A few soft whiskers had just sprouted on his lips. When Brom walked in, he stood up, still clutching the file in his hand. His eyes first fell on Brom's fiery red beard, and then on Brom's hands, honed by anvils and hammers.

"You," Brom said.

Todd put down the file.

"Forge, bellows, quenching tank, show them to me."

Todd looked around. The ash in the furnace hadn't been cleared, the bellows's piston was leaking, and the surface of the water in the quenching tank was covered with a layer of rust and oil. Brom snorted as he looked at each spot, and by the time he finished looking at the quenching tank, the snorting had become a continuous stream.

"That's it?" Brom said.

Todd nodded, and Brom smoothed his beard to the sides, the brass rings dangling from the end of his braid.

"The furnace is passable. Replace the bellows piston with a leather one. Also, change the water in the quenching tank every day. Use three pounds of salt in one bucket of water to make the quenched blade harder." He patted Todd's thigh so hard that Todd's knee bent down a bit. "Kid, you continue to be my apprentice. Forget everything you learned before and start from scratch."

Todd nodded forcefully, his eyes red, not because of the slap, but because he thought he was no longer qualified to stand in front of the forge after Brom arrived.

Brom was no longer looking at him. The dwarf took out the stack of blueprints that Ron had given him from his pocket and spread them out on the hearth. The blueprints showed the third version of the crossbow replacement parts, an eccentric wheel, a lever, and two sets of pulleys. He stared at the blueprints for a while, his stubby fingers tracing the dimensions on the blueprints back and forth.

"The accuracy requirement is not low," he muttered to himself, "but it's not that it's impossible to print."

His eyes shone in the firelight, like two pieces of flint that had been reheated.

On the north side of the camp, Aina was squatting in front of Pete, who was sitting against the wall with his injured leg flat on the ground. The bandage was half untied. Aina gently pressed the edge of the wound with her hand, and Pete's thigh muscles tensed up suddenly, but he did not make a sound.

"Luckily it didn't fester," Aina said, taking a medicine jar from the leather pouch at her waist. She applied the ointment evenly around the wound, then pulled out a strip of linen soaked in strong liquor and re-bandaged the wound.

Aina tightened the cloth strip, tied a slipknot, stood up, patted the dirt off her knees, and glanced at the new recruits changing clothes in the courtyard, at the smoke rising again from the direction of the blacksmith's shop, and at the wasteland outside the camp where people had already started turning the soil.

Several ordinary women walked past her, bowing their heads to greet her as they passed. An old woman stopped and handed her the earthenware jar she was holding.

"Priest, these are celandine flowers I picked this morning. Would you like to use them?"

Aina took the earthenware jar and looked down at the herbs inside, whose leaves were still upright after being scalded.

"It's usable. Next time you harvest, leave two nodes at the base; it will grow back."

She returned the pottery jar to the old woman, adding, "Just call me Aina. I'm no longer a priestess."

The old woman took the jar, her lips moved as if she wanted to say something but then swallowed it back. She nodded, picked up the jar, and walked away. After a few steps, she turned back.

"Lady Aina"

Aina didn't correct her form of address. She stood by the herb garden, the afternoon sun making her light golden hair appear white. A breeze blew from the direction of the river bend, causing the leather bag at her waist to sway gently. A faint scent of herbs wafted from the bag's opening, mingling with the aroma of the earth.

In the evening, Fiona's patrol brought back a wild boar and a doe. The prey had fallen after being shot through the eye with an arrow. The two Fiona champions each carried one of the boars as they walked through the camp gate, and everyone in the courtyard stopped what they were doing.

Ron lit a bonfire in the courtyard—a real, large bonfire, with wood stacked in a tower shape and filled with dry moss and bits of bark at the bottom. Flames peeked out from the gaps in the wood, turning the courtyard walls orange-red.

The wild boar was placed on pitchforks and positioned on Y-shaped stakes on either side of the campfire. The aroma of the meat mingled with the smoke from the firewood, rising from the castle courtyard and dissipating into the twilight.

The ale was brought out of the storeroom, and Brom was the first to raise the wooden goblet. The dwarf placed one foot on the base of the anvil and raised the goblet above his fiery red head.

"I've been locked in a cage for twelve days," his voice booming above the crackling of the campfire. "Twelve days without touching a hammer or a drop of alcohol, I'm going crazy."

He tilted his head back and gulped down most of the glass, the liquid dripping down his beard. He slammed the glass down, and the liquid sloshed onto the stove, where it hissed and turned into steam from the heat.

"Tsk, this liquor isn't strong enough," he said, "but it's better than nothing."

The recruits sat around the other side of the campfire, holding their glasses. No one drank first. Cole looked at Miko, and then Miko raised his glass.

"Respect the wounded, respect us," he said.

Fifteen glasses were raised simultaneously, pointing towards Pete, who was sitting against the wall, holding a glass of wine in his hand. His face flushed slightly in the firelight, and then he raised the glass, tilted his head back, and took a swig.

Then the singing began; it wasn't new recruits, but veterans sitting on the other side of the campfire, weapons propped up beside their knees.

The one on the far left spoke first, his voice mingling with the crackling of the campfire, sounding as if it came from a great distance. He sang in Calradia's common language, which was completely different from the syllables of Velen's local folk songs; it was short, powerful, and more desolate.

"The taverns in Paraben are brightly lit."

"Deherem's ale is crisp and mellow."

"Come on, my wandering brothers, let's raise a glass to this short night!"

"The Swadian knights' armor gleamed, and Rhodok's crossbow bolts pierced the city walls."

"Tomorrow we'll be on opposing sides of the battlefield; let's put aside our grudges tonight."

"As the first rays of dawn fall upon the hills, spears and steeds will once again gallop onto the battlefield."

"Who remembers the toasts we shared last night? Who remembers for whom we died?"

Brom's glass hovered in mid-air. He had never heard this song before and did not understand Calradia's common language, but his fingers tapped lightly to the rhythm, and he would occasionally raise his glass to take a big gulp of ale.

Aina sat among the common women, holding a basket of herbs in her arms, but her fingers remained on the edge of the basket, no longer turning over the leaves.

Erwin sat beside Ron, his glasses reflecting the firelight, his lips moving silently in sync with the syllables.

As the last sentence faded, a burst of sparks from the campfire shot upwards, illuminating the scene for a moment before fading into darkness. No one spoke.

Ron gazed at the flickering campfire, a hint of composure flashing in his eyes. He downed the drink in his cup in one gulp. Outside the camp, the sound of the river flowing from afar drifted over.

The campfire was still burning.