The Witcher World: The Path to Domination Begins in Velen

The villagers gathered around, but no one pushed their way to the front of the stretcher; they simply stood a few steps away, carefully observing the monster.

An old woman covered her mouth with her hand, her fingers trembling. Several men squatted by the roadside, some with pipes dangling from their mouths. The pipes went out, but no one noticed.

A little boy squeezed through the crowd, ran barefoot to the stretcher, and stared at the chicken-snake's beak.

The beak was half-open, the tip still covered in dried venom. He reached out curiously to touch it, but his mother pulled him back from behind.

Ron put down the stretcher and rummaged through the spoils, finding half a boot. The boot shaft was torn in half, and there were large patches of dried blood on the boot surface.

He walked up to the thin old man, said nothing, and simply handed him the boots.

The old man looked at the boot, reached out, paused in mid-air, then caught it, his hand trembling as he gripped it tightly. He looked up at Ron, his lips moving twice, but no sound came out.

He nodded, a deep, forceful nod that made his entire upper body sink, clutched his boots to his chest, turned around, and walked toward the village.

The man who had been squatting by the roadside stood up and nodded to Ron, but not in a bow or a gesture of respect.

The people next to him nodded in agreement, but no one shouted slogans or expressed gratitude.

The thin old man stopped at the edge of the crowd, turned around, and hugged his boots to his chest.

"Sir, please don't hesitate to ask if you need anything in the future."

That night, a bonfire burned outside the Crow's Nest barracks. Several veterans sat around the fire. Someone brought out some ale, but no one drank too much. One veteran put his glass on his lap, stared at the fire, and started to speak.

"I've seen that thing before," he said. "Last time the Baron sent us up there, seven of us, four died, and the remaining three stayed at the foot of the mountain, too afraid to go up."

The person next to him didn't respond.

"How many people did he bring?"

"Just those two archers," another voice chimed in, "not counting himself."

"Oh shit"

"two"

After the campfire had been burning for a while, the firewood cracked, and a burst of sparks shot upwards.

The young man sitting on the outermost circle looked up. He was Hans, the young soldier who had been thrown into the mud by Fiona earlier. He looked at the fire and suddenly spoke.

"I told you guys, those people's bows can shoot at least four hundred paces. You all said I was stupid from the fall, and you said you'd find a chance to have a sword fight with them and teach these newbies a lesson."

No one spoke.

"And now?" someone asked.

Hans thought for a moment: "Now? I think that might be an understatement."

Across the campfire, the veteran gulped down the last bit of liquor from his cup.

"Luckily I didn't offend them. Damn, just thinking about it gives me chills," he said.

After those words were spoken, no one else spoke.

When Ron returned to the manor, the courtyard was empty; everyone had gathered behind the castle, where the dull thud of hammers striking wooden stakes and the sound of shovels digging earth could be heard.

Different commands overlapped and came from behind the wall. He walked through the courtyard, around the main building, and stopped at the corner.

The training ground, which was originally a wasteland overgrown with weeds, is now divided into several distinct areas by wooden fences and low walls.

In the far distance, the straw-woven human-shaped targets of the archery range are lined up in the twilight, with rough charcoal circles drawn on the center. The low wall on the side is not yet fully topped, and two craftsmen are tying the last layer of vines to the fence.

Closer still, the wooden stakes in the swordplay area have been erected, and a dozen or so new recruits are practicing thrusting around them, the spear tips striking the wood with a thud.

The training ground was the largest area, its compacted mud gleaming underfoot. White lines drawn in formation stretched from one end of the ground to the other, and a half-person-high wooden platform stood at the edge.

Karl was standing on the platform, holding his visor in one hand and pointing at the ranks below with the other, shouting something.

The competition fence is located in the far corner of the training field, with wooden railings completely enclosing the sandy area inside.

The spear-fighting track extends along the outer edge of the field, long and straight, with the spear rings hanging on a wooden frame at the end, swaying gently in the wind.

Erwin walked over from the direction of the wooden platform, the notepad tucked under his arm, his hands covered in mud, a speck of dirt splattered on one of his lenses. He stopped in front of Ron and opened the notepad.

"The training area has been divided into zones as you requested." He pointed to the map with his finger.

"Six zones: archery range, swordsmanship zone, training ground, competition enclosure, weapons testing zone, and cavalry lance track;

The main materials were all wood, straw, and sandbags. No iron was used, only labor was required. The work was finished two days ago, and we are doing a final check today.

He wiped the mud off the lenses and put his glasses back on.

"The manor wall is still under construction, about one-third complete. The waterworks is currently planning its site, and the materials list has been finalized. We can start calculating the stone usage tomorrow."

"A three-month construction period is too long. If we mobilize more labor, can we shorten the time to two months?"

Erwin pondered for a moment, "We need to reassess; hiring more labor requires increasing the budget cap."

He then turned to the next page of the notepad: "Population, currently 152 people. Including the two households that just arrived, the number of full-time professional soldiers has increased from 51 in the last count to 82."

Ron nodded and continued walking. Erwin followed beside him.

On the sandy training ground, Miko was squatting next to a young archer, helping him adjust the angle of the bowstring.

Pete checked the stability of each wooden stake in the fencing area. His leg was still a little limping after he was shot with an arrow, but he moved nimbly, squatting down to shake the stake and then standing up, repeating this several times.

Cole stood at the edge of the training ground, a long spear propped up beside him. Thirty-odd new recruits were lined up in three rows in front of him, the spearheads pointing diagonally, at an angle much more stable than when he first held the spear.

Ron didn't go over to interrupt them. He walked along the edge of the training ground for a while and stopped in the weapons testing area.

A thick cowhide soaked in water was tied to one of the wooden stakes, and an old breastplate taken out of the warehouse was hanging on another stake. The gaps in the armor plates were still there, but they had been carefully wiped clean.

"Currently, there are 25 people who meet the standards for professional soldiers."

Karl stepped down from the wooden platform, his visor tucked under his arm, his voice muffled.

"These twenty-five men have mastered the complete shield and spear formation, cavalry counter-attack, and basic tactical flag signals. They have all passed the combat assessment. The remaining basic training for new recruits is complete, but they have not yet entered the tactical coordination stage."

Militia training was overseen by Old Gott, with weekly intensive training sessions, primarily teaching longbows and spears. He was a veteran, so I didn't need to supervise the militia training.

Ron tilted his head, his gaze sweeping to the other end of the training field, where old Gott stood in front of the militia ranks, holding a wooden stick in his hand.

He was correcting the militiamen's spear-holding posture one by one. His voice was not loud, but very steady.

Erwin clamped the whiteboard shut: "Old Gott has recently started helping me with the estate affairs, and he's making rapid progress."

If I become too busy with other matters to manage the manor in the future, he can take over this position.

"Okay, I understand."

Erwin paused on the paper for a moment, then continued writing.

"The Seagull returned yesterday." He flipped over several sheets of paper stapled together from the notepad. They were a list of supplies purchased and detailed financial accounts. He pressed his fingers on the paper and moved down the list of items.