The Witcher World: The Path to Domination Begins in Velen

Erwin pondered for a moment: "Nilfgaard did consider eliminating him at the beginning of the war, but later changed its strategy, no longer sending troops to attack, but instead accepting his rule and demanding that he hand over supplies regularly."

"They are constantly wearing him down."

"Yes, but not for supplies." Erwin tapped his fingertips lightly on the edge of the table.

"The Nilfgaardian Empire possessed a well-developed dual sea and land supply line: their fleets could travel north along the coastline and then enter the interior via the Yaruga River."

Their supply lines did not need to pass through any combat zones; they stretched from the southern provinces all the way to the front lines, with garrison stations along the way.

He raised his eyes: "The supplies that Velen has are nothing to the tens of thousands of troops stationed on the front lines, but the requirement to regularly hand over supplies is to divide and control them."

"Control the Baron's power," Ron said.

"Gradually weaken," Erwin added.

"The Baron's core force consists of Temerian veterans, but he has no stable rear, cannot collect taxes, and cannot pay his soldiers, so he can only tolerate his men plundering on their own."

Looting will make the local people see him as an enemy, and bandits and robbers will all credit him with these infamy. The worse his reputation, the harder it is to collect taxes; the less taxes he can collect, the more he has to tolerate looting.

"At the same time, Nilfgaard was regularly drawing his blood, and the pressure to hand over supplies forced him to plunder more frequently, which meant more infamy and less popular support."

The Temurian veterans initially joined him thinking they were there to protect their country, but now they find themselves no different from bandits. Those with connections will find a way to leave, while those with backbone will fall silent.

"More and more of those remaining are true desperados, and the army's most crucial fighting spirit and cohesion are gradually crumbling," Erwin said.

"Nilfgaard doesn't need to defeat him; he just needs to be trapped in the mud of Raven's Nest, and his blood will be drained every now and then. The rest will rot on its own."

"Now the quartermaster has asked him to send troops to wipe out a 'resistance army,' he agreed, and sent a small team to circle south, but they got lost and couldn't find their target."

Ron folded the letter and tucked it under his cup: "He sent a few men to wander around the south, then told me he was waiting for me."

"So he didn't want to work for the quartermaster; he preferred to take the initiative himself."

Ron stood up. The water in his glass had gone cold, and the letter was pressed down at the bottom of the glass.

Outside the courtyard, commands and the clanging of metal could be heard from afar as Miko led the new recruits in drill practice.

"Go to Crow's Den," Ron said, "enter through the front door."

The next day

Ron decided to take Karl to visit Raven's Den, while Erwin stayed behind at the camp to oversee defenses and daily operations.

The camp now has nearly a hundred people, and there are more miscellaneous tasks every day than battles: distributing food, assigning guards, repairing walls, mediating disputes. If no one in charge stays at home, the place can descend into chaos in half a day.

Erwin's notepad was already covered with writing, densely packed with words. Ron glanced at it and left.

Before leaving, Brom came out of the blacksmith's shop carrying a piece of chainmail.

This chainmail is completely different from the one Todd cobbled together before. The iron rings are of uniform size, interlocking with each other, and the seams are densely packed and flat, making it almost impossible to see any signs of splicing.

The neck and collar area were reinforced, and the inside was padded with leather straps. Brom turned the chainmail over.

Two triangular leather linings were added under the armpits, and two more leather strips were threaded through the iron rings on the shoulders for reinforcement, before being stuffed into Ron's hand.

Without any explanation, Brom simply shoved the item into Ron's hand and said, "Change to this."

Ron changed into his new chainmail, jumped a few times in place, and found it to fit perfectly at the shoulders, with the hem reaching mid-thigh. The thickened buckles at the collar rested snugly against his neck, without chafing or discomfort.

The iron rings on his shoulders moved with his movements, sliding and extending, much more snug than the old one. Brom walked half a circle around him as he moved, pinched the seam at his waist, tugged at the leather lining under his armpits, and snorted.

Before he could speak, Brom handed him another piece of lamellar armor. The plates were a cold, iron-gray color, each one having been repeatedly hammered, with the edges curving to fit the curve of his chest.

This is a half-chestplate reassembled from the old lamellar armor that Karl replaced; the original full-body armor was modified to fit Ron's size.

The extra nail plates were pieced together in two layers on the shoulder. The straps were new, cut from strips of cowhide soaked in beeswax, and would hold tightly when pulled.

Ron slipped the lamellar armor over his chainmail, tightened the leather belt around his waist, and swung his arm, causing the overlapping plates on his shoulders to move smoothly, producing a series of fine metallic scraping sounds.

Brom looked up at him, his beard twitching. His expression wasn't one of satisfaction, but rather that things were supposed to be this way, and there was nothing to praise.

Ron picked up the two-handed battle axe leaning against the wall and rested the handle on his shoulder.

"That's enough."

Ten guards had already lined up in the courtyard, their full armor gleaming coldly in the afternoon sun.

Only pairs of silent eyes were visible through the slits of the visor. The horse armor covered the horse's neck and rump, with neatly arranged scale-like plates.

Karl wore reforged full plate armor, his lance held upright at his side, the butt of the lance inserted into a leather sheath beside the saddle.

"Set off"

The group passed through the camp gate and headed north along the river, where the swamps of Velen were steaming with a grayish-white mist under the sunlight.

Raven's Nest is located on a high ground in north-central Velen, accessible from the camp by heading north along the riverbank through the swamp.

After crossing a low ridge, you can see a cluster of reddish stone buildings on a distant high ground, with several guards standing on the walls, their crooked figures visible from afar.

As the procession approached the suspension bridge at the village entrance, the sun peeked out from behind the clouds, casting long, heavy shadows of people and horses onto the muddy ground.

The guard at the village entrance, who had been squatting at the camp gate, was tearing a piece of dried meat with his front teeth. When he got close enough to see the scales on his tack armor...

His mouth stopped, and the halberd that had been supporting him on the ground lay horizontally. He himself did not even notice when he had let go.

The scales gleamed a cold gray in the afternoon sun, like a breathing metal behemoth. The rider on horseback was also fully armored, with only his eyes visible through the slits in his visor.

They gazed ahead, lances held upright at their sides, their tips aligned in a parallel line in the sunlight, horses' hooves striking the ground in unison, each step perfectly timed.

They looked ahead, towards Crow's Nest, the muddy main street, and at the end of it, a red-brick fortress.

The two people at the front walked side by side. The one on the left was wearing full plate armor with chainmail underneath. There was a keel ridge on his breastplate that ran from his sternum to his belt. Logically, he should have been the most conspicuous person in the group.

But the giant beside him swallowed up all his presence.

Ron's breastplate was layered over his chainmail, the plates being cold-forged iron-gray. The chainmail's iron rings hung from his shoulders down to the middle of his thighs. Standing at 2.2 meters tall, he rode his warhorse, his head almost level with the eaves of the houses along the road.

Looking up from under the eaves, half of the sunlight was blocked, casting a wide shadow on the muddy ground.

He held a two-handed battle axe in one hand, the blade hanging down to the ground, his fingers loosely gripping the handle as if holding a tree branch.

The guard swallowed hard, the dried meat still in his mouth. He had seen retreating deserters, passing Nilfgaardian patrols, and mercenaries coming to Raven's Nest to do business.

Nobody walks like that. It's not just the movement of walking; it's something ingrained in your bones. When those people walked across the muddy road, even the sound of horses' hooves hitting the mud pits almost overlapped with it.

Karl reined in his horse at the gate, raised his right hand, and all ten cavalrymen stopped at the same time.

He pushed up his visor, revealing the young face beneath: "The Karad Mercenary Group has come to pay a visit to the Baron as arranged."