The Witcher World: The Path to Domination Begins in Velen

The guard's lips moved twice, and he hurriedly braced himself on the ground, picking up the halberd from the ground, the shaft of which trembled incessantly in his hand.

"I...I'll go report." He turned and ran, then turned back after a couple of steps. "You guys wait here, don't move, right here," he said, before running off again.

Ron sat on his horse, one hand on the handle of his battle axe, waiting as the sunlight shone from behind him, casting his shadow on the muddy ground of the crow's nest.

A short while later, a soldier wearing half-body armor strode out of the castle gate. He whispered a few words to the guards at the village entrance, then turned around and waved to Ron and his group.

"The Baron is waiting for you." He glanced at the silent cavalrymen, then quickly looked away. "You can tie your horses to the stakes up ahead."

Karl dismounted, pulled his lance from its holster with one hand, and planted the butt of the lance on the ground.

The ten guards dismounted almost simultaneously, their armor plates clanging together in a neat metallic sound. Karl stepped to the front, his visor already pushed back down, revealing only his eyes through the slits.

Ron dismounted, raised his battle axe with one hand, and the blade whistled through the air.

In the hall, the firewood in the fireplace was burning brightly, creating alternating light and shadow. The tapestry hanging on the wall was badly faded, its patterns no longer discernible, and its edges were riddled with insect holes like a sieve.

A burly, white-bearded man sat in a high-backed oak chair in front of the fireplace, with a tin goblet beside him.

Behind him stood several veterans, their breastplates lacking uniformity; some wore half-plates of the old Temerian army, others wore mercenary leather vests, but their posture was identical: weight slightly forward, hands hanging by their sword hilts—not for show, but to be ready to draw their swords at any moment.

The baron did not stand up. His gaze shifted from Ron's battle axe to Karl's full plate armor, then to the ten armored cavalrymen outside the hall. His hand paused briefly on the rim of his glass before he picked it up and took a sip.

Ron walked to the center of the hall and stopped. Karl stood half a step behind him. Ten guards remained outside the hall, standing face to face with the Baron's men. Neither side exchanged pleasantries.

The Baron pointed to the empty chair opposite him, and Ron sat down, leaning his battle axe against the armrest.

Baron Karad Mercenary Group repeated the name, "Never heard of it."

"I've heard about it now."

The baron's lips twitched slightly: "You've got some nerve. The quartermaster told me that a group of armed men came from the southeast, hijacking his ships, intercepting his goods, and killing his people. He ordered me to send troops to wipe them out."

"He's right. I took the ship, the cargo is in my camp warehouse, and I killed the scout."

An old soldier behind the Baron lightly stroked the hilt of his sword, but the Baron himself did not move.

"Ha, you admit it so readily. Aren't you afraid I'll send people to keep you here?"

"When you transfer people, I will walk out through the front door. In your letter, you asked me if I wanted to come in through the front door or climb over the wall. I chose the front door. People who come in through the front door will not escape through the back window."

The baron picked up the tin goblet on the table, took a sip, and looked Ron up and down along the rim of the goblet. The goblet fell back onto the table with a soft thud.

"The quartermaster said you're a rebel."

"No, the rebels have flags, slogans, and political goals. I don't. They raided my camp, captured my people, and I took them back, plus a few extras along the way."

Ron reached into the lining of his breastplate and pulled out a stack of folded papers, which he then gently placed on the table.

The baron didn't reach for it immediately. He glanced at the stack of papers, then at Ron, then pushed his glass aside and picked up the top one.

His lips moved slightly as he silently recited the entries, and when he saw the third one, his brow twitched downwards.

"Walter, I remember that name. The patrol in Raven's Den once seized his ship. At that time, the logistics officer of the Nilfgaard garrison came to negotiate in person, saying that the ship was a supply transport ship requisitioned by the military."

How many people were on that ship?

The baron did not answer. His gaze fell on the numbers, each with a place name written next to it. He gripped the paper tightly, pressing the edges until they curled up slightly.

The veteran behind him tilted his head slightly, his gaze sweeping over the paper. The veteran's Adam's apple bobbed, but he didn't speak.

The baron placed the paper back on the table and tapped the number on the transfer order with his index finger.

"The transfer order number segment is genuine. I've seen this format before; the Temurian quartermaster also used similar numbering systems. It can't be faked."

He paused, leaned back in his chair, and the chair groaned softly.

"In the slave trade, frontline officers provided equipment and shelter, agents were responsible for capture and transportation, and behind every black glove stood someone who could sign transfer orders."

The baron did not reply. He picked up his wine glass and took a sip. The flames from the fireplace danced on his face, casting deep shadows in his eyes.

Of course he had heard of such things. He had been squatting in this swamp for so long that he thought he had gotten used to it. But putting that habit on paper, in black and white, with every stroke having a number and every number having a buyer, was a different matter altogether.

He placed the glass back on the table, the bottom of it striking the wood with a dull thud.

"What do you want from me?" His voice was much lower than before.

"The legal ownership of the estate, and the appointment of the sergeant major."

The baron tapped his fingers lightly on the armrest of the chair twice, but did not answer immediately.

His gaze lingered on Ron's face for a moment: "An abandoned castle, a nominal title—these things won't make you stronger. You already have soldiers and equipment, so why do you need this?"

"For the sake of legitimacy and legality, without these, my camp is just an abandoned castle occupied by armed bandits, and anyone who attacks me is merely clearing out the bandits."

With your appointment, my camp is now the sergeant's residence of Lord Velen. Any Nilfgaardian officers who want to harm me will have to consider your reaction first.

The baron's chin twitched slightly as he glanced again at the top transfer order.

"This evidence is useless to me, but it's in your hands. You can use it to threaten the quartermaster into stopping the requisition of supplies from Velen. You don't need to turn against him; you just need to let him know that this document is in your possession."

The baron slowly traced a circle with his finger along the rim of the glass.

"I can do other things too. I have soldiers, so you don't need to provide supplies and equipment. There are some things that you can't do directly, such as clearing out slave hunters who have crossed the border. I can do those."

The patrols can't cover every swamp, but I can fill that gap. You don't need to know the specific details of every operation; you just need to know that there's an armed force working for you.

The baron remained silent for a long time, a moment of stillness filling the air between them. He placed his hand on the table, pressing down on the corner of the stack of evidence, then looked up at Ron.

"Your camp is yours. I'll give you the appointment letter and property certificate. If any Nilfgaardian officers come looking for trouble, tell them to come to me first." He paused.

"But when I need you, you must obey my orders and do my work."

"make a deal"

The baron stood up, took a roll of blank parchment from the wooden shelf beside the fireplace, and then rummaged through a drawer in the low table for parchment and ink.

He wrote in large characters, with concise and direct wording. After finishing, he turned the parchment over to Ron to see: the estate title deed and the sergeant's appointment letter.

His coat of arms, dark red, was stamped at the bottom, the same color as his wide robe.

Ron reached out and took the parchment. The system panel in the upper right corner of his vision lit up, and a line of pale gold text appeared at the bottom of the screen: "Territory building function has been enabled."

The baron tossed the seal back into the drawer. "Let me remind you of something."

Ron looked up.

"The quartermaster won't back down. He didn't take Raven's Nest seriously before, but now that he sees me sitting with you, he won't stop. He'll only get more desperate. A cornered dog will bite, and the black dogs of Nilfgaard, when cornered, will mobilize things that are even more troublesome than scouts."

"No rush," Ron stood up and put the parchment away.

"It was the first time he made a mistake, and I took his equipment."

"The second time I made a mistake, I used his name."

"I was patient when the third time I made the mistake."

The baron placed his wine glass on his lap, and his lips twitched—a smile, an expression rarely seen on his face after spending so much time in this muddy place. He found it amusing.

He said, "The Karad Mercenary Group"

Ron of the "Callad Mercenary Group" said

Ron reached out and pushed open the gates of Ravencrest. The afternoon sun streamed in, and the ten armored cavalrymen remained standing in place.

Ron strode out, his leather boots making a dull thud on the stone pavement.