The Witcher World: The Path to Domination Begins in Velen

Sunlight streamed down from above the castle walls, hardening the muddy ground of the courtyard.

Karl stood in the center of the courtyard, his full plate armor gleaming in the sunlight. This armor was taken from Walter and had just been altered yesterday.

The shoulders were widened by two fingers, the skirt armor was narrowed, and the elbow joints of the arm armor were re-stitched with leather lining. Brom and Todd spent most of the afternoon making changes, cursing after every hammer blow.

Karl pushed off his faceplate, compressing his vision into a narrow, bright line. He jumped twice on the spot, the armor rattling loudly, and landed with his knees slightly bent and his body leaning forward.

Almost without hesitation, it turned into a sprint, from the main building to the wall, turning around, returning, the sound of inhalation coming from the gaps in the helmet.

Brom stood under the low eaves of the blacksmith's shop, squinting as he watched Karl run, his stubby fingers rubbing back and forth on his beard. "The shoulder armor isn't restrictive," he muttered to himself, "and the skirt armor doesn't reach the knees, good."

Karl stopped, picked up a blunt sword from the weapon rack—a training sword made from the old sidearms that the recruits had replaced by, with the edges sharpened—and swung it twice with one hand, the blade tearing through the air and leaving a blur.

He then gripped the sword with both hands and slashed from the top. The sword suddenly stopped midway, his wrists flipped, and the blade sliced ​​horizontally. He stopped again, stopping at the very limit with each strike. The inertia of the plate armor pulled his shoulders and back forward, but was firmly controlled by his powerful core strength.

He rested the tip of his sword on the ground, nodded to the old soldier opposite him who was also wearing armor, and clicked as the old soldier pushed off his visor.

The first sword strike was initiated by Karl, slashing diagonally downwards from the upper right. The veteran held his sword horizontally, and the two swords clashed together. It didn't feel like the collision of metal, but rather like a church bell being struck hard. The dust on the courtyard wall was shaken off and fell into the grass at the base of the wall.

The veteran blocked the sword, the blade sliding down Karl's spine and slicing towards his knuckles. Karl released his grip, switched positions, and rotated the hilt, the guard locking the veteran's blade. Both exerted force simultaneously, the blades rubbing together, producing a sharp, teeth-grinding vibrating sound.

The clanging of iron swords drowned out all other sounds in the camp. The bellows in the forge stopped, the carpenter's hammer hung in mid-air, and everyone stared in stunned silence at the two combatants.

A person stood in the crowd with short, gray hair that was close to his scalp, broad shoulders, and a straight back.

He had emerged from the ship's hold a few days earlier, a faded Temeria lily emblem pinned to his belt; he had neither thrown it away nor polished it.

Old Gott stood there, his fingers gripping his belt, his eyes fixed on the battle in the courtyard.

Carl and the veteran continued, two storms of iron gray swirling together, each collision like someone striking an anvil with a hammer.

Karl's sword slashed down at the veteran's left shoulder, but the veteran dodged to the side, the blade grazing his breastplate and leaving a thin white mark.

The veteran used the momentum of his sidestep to take a step forward, gripping the hilt of his sword in reverse, and rammed it into Karl's visor. Karl turned his head, and the guard of his sword grazed the visor, sending sparks flying.

The veteran's hind foot rolled in a half-arc shape on the ground, and the blade slashed upwards from below. Karl parried with his sword and countered in the process.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

When the two battered old swords clashed for the third time, sparks flew from the impact, and both swords broke off simultaneously, sending the air reverberating with a lingering hum...

Old Gott's Adam's apple bobbed. He knew what this level meant, and that's why he found it incredible.

During his years of service in Temuria, he was associated with knights whose names were woven into poems, with tournament champions, and with witchers whose eyes were like cats, their swords wielded with a speed that seemed beyond human capabilities.

But there's more than one person like that here.

He slowly turned his head and looked at the old soldiers who were leaning against the wall by the courtyard, watching the battle with their arms crossed. They were watching, but their expressions did not seem to be watching a close contest. It was more like watching two comrades warming up.

twenty two

Old Gott remembered what the scholar in the camp had said: that the giant was a commander from a place called Calradia, a prince of the empire on that continent, and these men were his personal guards who had followed him across the storms at sea to this continent.

Old Gott was squatting by the campfire when he heard the story. He finished his bowl of porridge, wiped his mouth, and said nothing.

Princes, guards, storms, shipwrecks—he'd heard all these things before. In the military camps, taverns, and docks, every deserter claimed to have served the king, and every mercenary leader said he was a descendant of a noble from a destroyed kingdom. He'd just smile and remain silent.

But now he's not sure.

On the field, the two stared at each other for about the time it takes to breathe, then simultaneously pushed up their helmets, revealing their sweaty faces underneath.

In the blacksmith's shop, Brom flicked a piece of charcoal ash off his beard and muttered under his breath, "Damn it, I need to add another layer at the joints."

He didn't look at the person, only at the armor. The explosion and collision just now were broken down in his eyes into repeated impacts on the joints of the armor plates, and the final conclusion was that "it needs to be redone".

No one spoke, and the courtyard was quiet for a moment before everyone dispersed to do their own thing.

Brom looked away; he was squatting beside the forge, the embers glowing orange-red. Before him lay an old parchment, on which a human silhouette was drawn in charcoal.

He was much taller than the average person, with shoulders almost twice the size of a normal person's. His chest bulged outwards like the iron bars of a barrel, and his measurements were densely marked on the side, the numbers repeatedly erased and covered in charcoal ash.

Brom picked up a charcoal pencil and added a set of numbers to the area around his shoulder.

"The shoulder armor lining needs to be thickened; otherwise, the shoulder blades will hit the iron plate when swinging the sword."

His gaze shifted to the chest area.

"The breastplate requires the material of two suits of armor; one suit isn't enough, so it has to be forged together. The seam is placed in the center, and a keel ridge is added to both conceal the seam and increase structural strength."

He looked up and glanced at Ron, who was walking back from the training field. His gaze moved from Ron's shoulder width to his waist, and then from his waist to his forearm.

"Tsk, they use twice as many materials as others: twice the iron, twice the charcoal, and twice the labor time, not even counting the forging and riveting work."

He picked up another parchment, on which was drawn a picture of a sword: the blade was long, the guard was straight, and the hilt was wrapped in leather.

The hilt has a simple counterweight, and the entire sword is undecorated, resembling a piece of iron plate that has been directly cut into the shape of a sword.

"This is a sword? This is a fucking city gate bolt!!"

Todd was squatting next to the quenching tank, changing the water. He curiously peeked in, his lips moved, but he didn't dare to say anything.

Brom put down the blueprints and his gaze fell on Ron, who was walking over.

Ron reached out, picked up the blueprint, and examined it carefully.

"Can you do it?" Ron asked.

Brom thought about the blueprint requirements, then looked up at Ron's size, which was similar to that of an ordinary troll, and snorted.

"Yes." He pulled the blueprints back from Ron's hand. "But don't expect it to be fast. Forging, riveting, quenching, tempering, grinding, and what did you write in your notes...?"

"The armor is inlaid with magic-resistant gold, and the greatsword contains a certain proportion of silver. Although your equipment is several sizes larger than the average person's, it won't affect the strength of the materials."

But each step takes longer than making ordinary weapons and armor; if there's even the slightest mistake, you have to start all over again.

"You're not a witcher, what kind of strange requests are these?"

Sorom frowned, added another line of text to the edge of the drawing, and then looked up at Ron.

"Who knows what we'll encounter in Velen?"

Ron didn't elaborate, he just watched him quietly.

"One month"

"Don't rush me; my workshop absolutely does not tolerate defective products."

Ron nodded, and Brom turned his gaze back to the blueprints.