The Witcher World: The Path to Domination Begins in Velen

This notebook wasn't given to him by the system; it was written out by Erwin word by word. He closed the notebook and placed it on the table.

"There's no rush," he said.

"In terms of construction, we should focus on building fortifications and training grounds first, and prioritize the repair of walls and watchtowers. We will leave the collapsed part of the main building alone for now, as long as it is enough to house people."

"Once the training ground is completed, soldiers' daily training will be more systematic and efficient. These two expenses will not exceed our current budget, so they can be carried out simultaneously."

"While I'm away, you and Carl can discuss the affairs of the estate," he said. "I will announce the appointment tomorrow."

Erwin's pen stopped on the paper. He didn't speak, but just looked at Ron.

"You, the steward of Calard Manor."

"Karl, Military Commander"

Erwin put down his pen, nodded, and said, "Okay."

Two days later, a group of people arrived at Crow's Nest in the morning. It was the first garrison patrol team sent by Crow's Nest, consisting of about ten people.

Carrying several rusty halberds, the leader at the front wore half-body armor and had an old Velen longsword hanging at his waist. Judging from his appearance, he had probably worked for the Baron for quite some time.

Ten soldiers were already lined up at the manor gate, ready to set off with Ron to Raven's Den, as one of the Baron's conditions.

He goes to Crow's Nest every week to participate in garrison duty and patrols. When Ron is not there, the soldiers take turns on duty. Today is the first time he has gone there since he was appointed sergeant major.

When the two teams faced each other at the gate, the soldiers of Crow's Nest were all stunned for a moment.

They knew why they were there, and they knew that the people opposite them were doing the same thing, but standing together, they didn't seem to be on the same page at all.

The soldiers in Crow's Nest carried spears of varying lengths, the spearheads swaying on the shafts, their armor pieced together; while the opposite row of armored soldiers stood still, their spears held upright as if stretched out by a ruler.

The two sides exchanged glances, said nothing, and handed over the patrol area map and shift change password.

The soldiers of Raven's Nest entered the manor gates, and Ron led his men on the road to Raven's Nest.

Ron did nothing but patrol on his first day in Crow's Den, circling the village twice in the morning and then walking along the main road through the village in the afternoon.

The villagers of Crow's Nest had grown somewhat accustomed to seeing the group of soldiers in purple robes coming and going, but when they saw Ron riding by, some still instinctively closed the door.

However, people's reactions were different from before; fewer people closed the doors, and those squatting by the roadside didn't stand up and run away.

Several children even followed the patrol team for half a block before dispersing after Miko glanced back at them.

The biggest change was in the soldiers of Crow's Nest. The first time they marched together, the people from Crow's Nest walked on the left and the people from the manor walked on the right, and they didn't go next to each other.

Returning from patrol, the team leader muttered, "Damn it, walking with this group is so tiring."

It wasn't a matter of physical strength, but rather that the two sides were simply not marching at the same pace; the people from the manor weren't moving fast.

With every step on the same frequency, the people from Crow's Nest started panting after a while, not because their legs were weak, but because their rhythm had been disrupted.

During their second joint patrol, a veteran noticed that one of the cavalrymen was watching him.

It's not about staring, but rather a way of observing by glancing at the subject, looking away, and remembering the location.

The veteran and his companion were squatting by the door drinking when he said, "When these people walk past me, I feel like I'm not on patrol, I'm being inspected."

On the third day, a young soldier was sent to help the people of the manor move supplies. He was carrying a box of cured meat and was about to ask where to put the box when he caught a glimpse of a man with his back to him and a bow beside him.

He grew up in the village of Willen, hunting deer in the woods with his father since he was a child. The best bow he had ever seen was the longbow of the hunter Old Tom, which weighed eighty pounds and could be drawn by only two people in the whole village, including his father.

Old Tom cherished that bow as his lifeblood and never let anyone touch it. Now, the bow in that man's hand was a full foot longer and a full circle thicker than Old Tom's bow.

It's not decorative; it's solidly built with high-quality materials. The bow has no paint on it, just the natural color of the wood, and the areas that have been repeatedly handled are polished to a shine.

The man looked up and saw him staring blankly at the bow. He smiled, then nocked an arrow and drew the bow—without aiming at anything, he just pulled it back casually.

The bow arm bends into a deep arc, the bowstring is stretched to the corner of the mouth, stops, and then slowly releases. The whole process feels effortless, as easy as pulling a clothesline.

"How many pounds does this bow weigh?" he asked hesitantly.

The man smiled again, said something he couldn't understand, and then uttered two words in broken Mandarin.

"Very heavy"

He later learned that it was called a heavy woodland longbow, and after returning to the barracks, he secretly told two of his comrades about it.

While the group was away, the three men sneaked into one of their makeshift armories and found the bow.

He strained with both hands, his face turning red, and the bowstring was drawn back to less than half the extent that the other man could casually draw his bow.

He put the bow back, and the three of them were silent for a while. He muttered, "Damn it, what did these people eat to grow up like this?"

On another evening, the same soldier squatted by the training ground, secretly watching the group of people train.

The two were sparring with wooden swords, but the sound was not what a wooden sword should make. It wasn't a muffled thud, but a crackling sound, like a thunderclap.

Each collision between the two figures sent dust billowing up from the ground. He saw one of them use a move that sent his opponent's wooden sword flying, crashing to the ground and kicking up a cloud of dust.

"Great!" he shouted.

The two men stopped and looked at him. He tried to run, but his legs wouldn't obey him.

The man who had knocked his opponent's weapon away threw his wooden sword at him, the hilt landing right in his arms. He caught it in a flurry, his palms sweating profusely.

He rushed forward, and three seconds later he was lying on the muddy ground, his buttocks smashed into countless pieces.

The man reached out and pulled him up from the ground, patted him on the shoulder, and said something to the person next to him that he couldn't understand.

The person next to him laughed. He later learned that the man's Common Tongue wasn't very fluent, and the phrase meant, "This kid's got guts."

One night at Crow's Nest camp, several soldiers gathered at the entrance of the barracks, drinking ale.

A Crow's Den veteran who had dealt with Ron three times downed half a glass of liquor and slammed the glass on the ground.

"That sergeant major," he said, "when I first heard about it, I thought it was just another title the baron casually bestowed. You know, that's just the baron's temper; once when he was drunk, he almost appointed a stray dog ​​as patrol captain."

The two people next to them laughed.

"But this man is different," the veteran said.

"That day he went into the Baron's hall and talked with the Baron alone in the room for a long time. The Baron personally stamped and signed the appointment document for him. Have you ever seen the Baron stamp someone else's document? I have never seen it."

Another person chimed in: "His soldiers too, I don't know where they came from, but they're definitely not from Temuria."

I've stood guard with the Temurian veterans; those guys would sigh and complain, but this group doesn't. They rarely even chat when they walk around the camp.

"It's not that we don't chat," said the person next to him. That person was the young soldier who had been thrown into the mud earlier.

"They speak a different language. I've heard it before, but I can't understand it. It's not a dialect from any part of the North. The pronunciation is very short, and each word is very harsh, like a stone hitting another stone."

Everyone remained silent for a while.

The veteran picked up his bowl and took another swig: "I only know one thing, thankfully they're our own people. Otherwise, we wouldn't be drinking here right now, but lying in the swamp waiting for the water ghosts to come and collect our corpses."

No one refuted him.