The Witcher World: The Path to Domination Begins in Velen

As dawn broke, the outline of the abandoned castle appeared and disappeared in the morning mist.

Ron stood at the window on the second floor of the main building, watching the people in the courtyard begin to move around. The soldiers had finished their night shifts, the Fiona archers were maintaining their equipment, the cavalry were feeding their horses, and the refugees were huddled in a corner of the courtyard, some holding a bowl of hot soup, others still fast asleep.

Erwin came up the stairs, carrying a wooden board with a crumpled piece of paper on it. He stood at the door for a moment, seemingly considering his words, before stepping inside.

Your Highness

Ron turned and looked at the thin scholar. Erwin had changed his clothes; they were taken from some corpse and were a size too big, but at least they weren't the tattered robe anymore.

Just call me Ron.

Erwin adjusted his glasses, removing the broken lens and leaving only a single piece, making him look more like a down-on-his-luck scribe.

"Ron, I owe you my life," he said calmly, without any dramatic expressions of gratitude.

"I don't have any valuables to repay you right now. My notes and manuscripts were all taken by those robbers. Even if I get them back, they won't be of any use to you."

Ron remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

"But I can help you manage the camp, inventory supplies, register personnel, and manage accounts," Elwin paused.

"I can take this position until you find a proper quartermaster. No extra pay needed, just a meal will do."

Ron looked at him for two seconds

"make a deal"

Erwin seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. He unfolded the wooden board in his hand, revealing pages covered with dense writing.

"Now I'll report on the supplies," he cleared his throat. "Last night I took inventory of the camp's granaries, armories, and stables. There's enough food for all of us for twelve days."

If you include all the refugees, the number would be reduced to seven days. There were quite a few weapons, but they were of very poor quality, mostly homemade and crude, with less than a third usable. There were fourteen horses, six of which were warhorses, and the rest were packhorses.

Ron listened and nodded. His system panel already showed this data, but he didn't interrupt Erwin. Ron understood that Erwin needed to prove his worth.

"And..." Erwin looked up, a hint of hesitation in his eyes.

"While I was sorting through the supplies, I found some... unusual things."

"What?"

Erwin pulled a piece of cloth from his pocket, on which a small section of heraldry was embroidered. Ron took it and looked at it. Gold thread was embroidered on a dark blue background, with fine stitches and excellent workmanship.

"Was this torn from a soldier's cloak?" Ron asked.

Erwin nodded: "When I was helping to move supplies, there was a soldier, the tall one, the brown-haired one, whose cloak got caught on a nail in a wooden crate. He tore off this piece, and I was going to return it to him, but then I saw this emblem."

He pointed to the golden lion.

"I recognize most of the emblems of the North: the white eagle of Redania, the lily of Temeria, the black eagle of Aden, the warships of Skellige... but this one, I've never seen before."

Ron did not answer.

Erwin continued, as if he had opened a floodgate: "Your equipment is also uniform, standard armor, cold-forged lamellar armor, exquisitely crafted, unlike any mainstream standard I've ever seen."

I've seen Nilfgaard's black plate armor, Redanian's studded leather armor, and Kaldwin's scale armor. Yours is somewhat like Skellige's lamellar armor, but the details are completely different.

Skellige's armor plates are stacked horizontally, yours are stacked vertically, and the purity of this metal... I'm not sure, but it doesn't look like a mineral commonly found on the continent."

He stopped and looked at Ron, seemingly waiting for an explanation.

Ron handed the cloth back to him: "Did you ask them?"

Erwin paused, then asked, "Who are you asking?"

"Soldier"

"I..." Erwin hesitated for a moment, "I dare not, they..."

He didn't finish speaking, but Ron understood what he meant. Erwin was still somewhat afraid of the soldiers. Twenty-two blood-soaked, taciturn iron cans, and a scholar who couldn't even kill a chicken certainly didn't dare to speak to them casually.

"Let them tell you."

"Will they tell me?"

"Yes, I say yes, and I mean it."

Erwin opened his mouth, but ultimately didn't ask any further questions. He carefully put away the piece of cloth, nodded, and turned to go downstairs.

The morning mist gradually dissipated.

Ron walked up the stone steps to the city wall. The location of the camp was good—the abandoned castle was built on a low hill with a wide view, overlooking the distant fields and scorched farmland.

To the east, there is a small river with a thin mist floating on its surface, and to the south, there is a dirt road that winds its way into the distance, a typical layout of a lord's manor.

Karl stood on the city wall, leaning against a crenellation, wiping a short sword in his hand. Hearing footsteps, he turned around and stood at attention.

Your Highness

Ron walked over to him, leaned against the battlements, and looked out.

"Karl, how long have you been following me?"

Carl thought for a moment: "From Paravin until now... counting the time I spent in the military, it's been almost three years."

"Three years," Ron repeated softly, "What were you doing three years ago?"

"I was stationed on the imperial border, fighting against the Khergits," Karl said, his tone as flat as if he were talking about what he had for dinner. "Back then, I was just an ordinary cavalryman. Later, I was selected for the Central Army and transferred to His Highness's command."

Ron nodded. Of course he knew it was the memory implanted in the system that told him, but he needed to hear Karl say it himself to confirm how the soldiers perceived it.

"Your Highness," Karl hesitated for a moment, put down the short sword in his hand, and turned to face Ron.

"Um?"

"Where...where are we?"

His voice wasn't loud, but there was something suppressed in his tone that had been building up for a long time—not fear or anxiety, but a deep confusion.

Ron did not answer immediately.

Carl continued, almost to himself: "It was summer when we set sail from Paravent harbor. The fleet flags were fluttering in the wind. When the storm came, I was on deck and saw huge waves swallow the ships next to me. Then the ship tilted, and I was thrown out, hitting the side of the ship. And then... and then we ended up here."

He looked up at the fields in the distance.

"This isn't Nord. Nord's coastline isn't like this. Nord has snow-capped mountains, pine forests, and fjords. Here... here there's nothing, just scorched forests, swamps, and muddy ground."

"Your Highness, where are we?"

Ron was silent for a moment.

"I will have Erwin speak to you." "Everyone, assemble this afternoon."

Carl glanced at him but didn't ask any further questions.

"Yes," he said.

In the afternoon, in the main hall of the camp, twenty-two soldiers stood in three rows.

Erwin stood before them, holding a wooden stick in his hand, with a plank next to him bearing a rough map.

It was drawn by him with charcoal. The lines are crooked, but the general outline is correct: Pontal River, Vigema, Cowburg, Novigrad, Villeneuve, and the Jaruga River.

"This is our current location," he said, pointing to a small area in the lower right corner of the map with a stick. "Welen, the northwestern province of the former Kingdom of Temeria."

The soldiers listened quietly; no one spoke.

Erwin continued, recounting the history of the North to the invasion of Nilfgaard, from the war to the current stalemate. He spoke slowly, pausing from time to time to observe the soldiers' reactions and make sure they did not show any signs of confusion.

After explaining the basics, he put down the wooden stick and adjusted his glasses.

"Now, I need you to answer one question for me."

He looked at Carl in the front row: "Tell me, where are you from?"

Karl glanced at his companion beside him, then turned back: "Cradidia."

"Craldia," Elwin repeated the word, seemingly searching his memory for a match, but he clearly found nothing. "Is it a kingdom? Or the name of a continent?"

"The continent," Karl said, "Cradidia, we are Imperials, belonging to the Calradic Empire, and the entire continent of Calradidia is ruled by the Empire."