The Witcher World: The Path to Domination Begins in Velen

The guards' attention was drawn by the footsteps, and they went in another direction. Ron slowly got up.

The entire dungeon dimmed, and a huge shadow covered half the wall, like a slowly rising giant.

The refugees instinctively shrank back, some gasping and burying their faces in their knees, too afraid to look up. The chains were pulled taut, and the wooden stakes groaned under the weight.

Ron took a deep breath and yanked his right arm sharply.

The wooden stake was ripped entirely out of the wall, scattering gravel across the ground, and the iron rings securing the rivets were violently flung away.

One end of the chain was still locked to his wrist, and the other end was connected to a broken wooden stake. He casually threw the stake off, and the chain hung down by his side.

The dungeon was completely silent; even the sound of breathing had temporarily disappeared.

Ron walked toward the dungeon exit, having to duck slightly to pass through the doorway, the torchlight shining from ahead.

The guard had his back to him

The guard was standing in the corridor at the dungeon exit, tilting his head to listen to the sounds outside, his short sword half-drawn.

His other hand rested on the horn at his waist. The clanging of metal grew more intense in the distance, mixed with the rhythmic, orderly sound of footsteps—the vibrations of the advancing shield wall.

When Ron was three steps behind him, the torch cast his shadow on the wall in front of the guard.

The guard froze, his pupils contracting as he stared at the shadow that covered the entire wall in front of him.

He whirled around, his longsword drawn, before he could even utter the profanity.

The chains crackled in the air.

The iron chain on his wrist shot out like a whip, the iron shackles at the end drawing a dark arc in the air before striking the guard's head.

The iron helmet was first smashed flat in that instant, then flew out completely, tumbling twice in the air before crashing into the stone wall at the end of the corridor with a dull thud, and rolling to the ground.

The guard didn't even scream before he fell to the ground like a chopped-down log.

Ron unfastened the key from his waist, unlocked the shackles, took the longsword from the guard, and held it in his hand as if it were a dagger. He picked up the wooden shield that had fallen to the side; the edge of the shield was cracked, and the inside was lined with thin iron, barely usable.

Footsteps echoed at the end of the corridor; the heavily armored combat team had already stormed inside, and three glowing circles were moving towards the main building where he was located.

The bandit leader on the second floor had obviously heard the commotion as well, his roar and curses coming from above, accompanied by the sound of tables and chairs overturning.

Ron didn't wait for his soldiers and went up the stairs alone.

The second floor is a renovated council hall, which was probably the living room of this abandoned manor. Now it is covered with fur carpets, and maps, scattered letters and wine jugs are laid out on the table.

The bandit leader stood by the window; he was a burly middle-aged man wearing half-body armor, with two guards beside him, all in standard leather armor and longswords.

The bandit leader's expression shifted from anger to astonishment, then from astonishment to an instinctive wariness. His gaze swept from Ron's head to his feet, before returning to Ron's face.

"Who the hell are you?" His voice held a hint of hoarseness that he himself wasn't even aware of.

Ron didn't speak, his sword hanging at his side, his wooden shield held in front of his chest. His shoulders were almost as wide as the door frame, and he walked in like a carriage into the living room.

One of the guards rushed forward and stabbed Ron in the abdomen.

Ron sidestepped, thrusting the wooden shield upwards with a powerful thrust. The edge struck the guard's chin, the sound of breaking bones sharp and clear. The guard's weapon flew from his hand, bounced twice on the ground, and he didn't get up again.

The second guard hesitated for half a second, but the bandit leader shoved him aside, drew his sword, and dual-wielded it, the tip pointing directly at Ron's throat. His movements were precise; he had been a soldier, or at least received formal training.

The sword whistled as it slashed down diagonally, the bandit leader's eyes filled with murderous intent.

Ron raised his sword to parry, and sparks flew as the blades clashed, the metallic clang echoing through the room.

The bandit leader's hand was lacerated in the clash, blood streaming down the hilt of his sword. His entire right arm was numb, and the weapon almost slipped from his grasp. He took a step back, readjusted his balance, gripped the sword with both hands, and swung it down again.

But Ron didn't give him a second chance.

He crouched down, gathering his strength, and slammed his shoulder into the bandit leader's chest like a battering ram.

The weight and inertia of his entire body, his height of 2.2 meters, his weight of 300 pounds, plus the kinetic energy of the dive acceleration caused the bandit leader's breastplate to cave in in an instant. His feet left the ground, and he flew backward like a stone thrown by a catapult, crashing into the stone wall behind him.

The fragments crashed to the ground, and a radial network of cracks appeared on the wall. The bandit leader slid down from the wall, blood gushing from his mouth, and the armor plate on his chest embedded itself in his flesh.

Ron turned and walked out of the room; the courtyard was already quiet.

Ron walked down the stairs, through the hall, and pushed open the main building's door. The torches in the courtyard were still burning.

A dozen or so robbers' corpses lay scattered on the stone floor. Several robbers knelt against the wall, their hands covering their heads, trembling, their eyes filled with a mixture of fear and bewilderment as they watched the tin cans being confiscated of their weapons.

The cold-forged lamellar armor worn by the elite imperial cavalry gleamed with a silvery-gray light under the torches. Their faceplates were stained with blood, and their spears and longswords were still dripping blood. They stood in twos and threes in various parts of the courtyard, relaxed in posture but vigilant in their eyes.

Six Fiona champion archers descended from the rooftops and arrow towers, longbows slung over their backs, quivers still mostly empty. Their movements were much lighter than those of armored archers, their landings barely making a sound, and they stood together like a row of silent pine trees.

Ron stood on the steps of the main building entrance and surveyed the courtyard.

Wherever his gaze fell, the bandits kneeling on the ground lowered their heads even further, while the rescued refugees—dozens of men, women, and children released from the dungeon—huddled in a corner of the courtyard, looking at the soldiers with pleading eyes.

The refugees' eyes held no gratitude, only undisguised fear. They looked at these blood-soaked, expressionless tin cans under their masks as if they saw something more terrifying than bandits.

An elderly man with gray hair walked out of the crowd. His legs were trembling, and his knees could barely support his weight, but he still walked out, walked up to an armored cavalryman, and knelt down.

"Sir..." the old man's voice was so hoarse it was almost inaudible, "Please, please don't kill us, we have nothing, no money, no food, we're just farmers...please..."

The cavalryman lowered his head, looking at the old man kneeling at his feet. His eyes behind his visor blinked, but he didn't speak, not out of indifference, but out of bewilderment.

He turned his head and looked at Ron on the steps.

Just as Ron was about to speak, another person stepped forward from the crowd.

That scholar

His legs were trembling when he stood up, but he took a deep breath, pushed up his crooked glasses, and began to speak in an academic tone.

"According to Article 7 of the Northern Territories War Law, no regular military force may use violence against non-combatants in a state of non-combat. Furthermore, according to the supplementary clauses of the Cintra Armistice Agreement signed between the Nilfgaardian Empire and the Northern States in 1268, rescued prisoners of war are entitled to temporary personal freedom, and neither side may enslave or indirectly enslave them again."

His voice trembled, and he spoke rapidly, as if desperately reciting the only thing he could rely on.

"I am Erwin von Herder, PhD in History from Ossenfort University, a member of the Ossenfort Academic Association, and a Fellow of the Royal Historical Society of Temuria—I request an audience with your commander based on the Northern War Regulations and the Armistice of Sintra."

He finished speaking.

The refugees huddled in the corner of the courtyard couldn't understand what he was saying, what regulations, agreements, or terms were—but they understood: negotiation, someone was speaking up for them.

The old man kneeling on the ground raised his head, a glimmer of light flashing in his cloudy eyes.

Ron stood on the steps, watching the gaunt scholar stand between the refugees and the soldiers, like a thin thread trying to hold up the cliffs on either side.

He was about to speak

The sound of metal armor clashing echoed from all directions.

Sixteen elite armored soldiers turned around at the same instant, facing the steps. The sound of their armor scraping together filled the air as they bent over and knelt on one knee, their left hand on their swords and their right fist pressed against their chests.

The six Fiona champions moved with lighter, smoother movements, but with a dignified posture, holding their longbows upright at their sides, their right knees on the ground, and their foreheads bowed.

Twenty-two voices spoke simultaneously

The sound wasn't loud, but every word was as clear as if it were carved in stone.

"Your Highness! We are late, please forgive us!!"

The night wind blew through the courtyard, carrying with it the lingering smell of blood.

Ron stood on the steps, watching the soldier kneeling before him, listening to the echo of "Your Highness" reverberating through the ruins.

Ron opened his mouth, as if to say something.

But when he looked at the figures kneeling in pools of blood, he saw the fear in their eyes, the knife marks on the young cavalrymen's shoulder armor, and the traces of the Fionas practically jumping down from the tower to get to his side as quickly as possible.

He was silent for a moment.

"Get up!" His voice wasn't loud, but everyone heard it.

"Inventory supplies, gather prisoners, and resettle civilians."

He paused, glancing at Erwin, who was still standing there—the scholar was still in the same position as before, "demanding to see the Supreme Commander," his mouth slightly open, his expression a mixture of astonishment and amusement.

"Sir, I need to have a serious talk with you."

Ron turned and walked up the steps, his steps heavy, each one making a dull thud.

Behind him, twenty-two figures stood silently.