The Witcher World: The Path to Domination Begins in Velen

The troops marched southeast all morning, and the swamps of Velen were steaming in the morning light, with the occasional sound of water.

Old Gott walked at the front of the group, his steps slow but steady, each step landing firmly on the hardest patch of earth. He would stop every now and then to look at the mud and broken grass, then stand up and point in a direction.

Cole's entourage followed closely, their spears pointed diagonally, and every now and then a water ghost or two would pop up from the roadside.

Emerging from the reeds, covered in blackened mud and emitting a putrid stench, they hadn't even reached the road when Old Gote raised his hand and gestured.

Miko led a five-man squad to meet them, with two shield-wielders in front, two spearmen on the sides, and crossbowmen behind. The water ghosts were blocked by the shields as they charged.

The spears pierced its torso from two directions simultaneously. The crossbowman seized the opportunity and pulled down his dagger. The bolt whistled and pierced its skull in an instant. The water ghost twitched twice and then went still.

The new recruit was clumsy during his first engagement, and his spear went astray, but he quickly retracted it and followed his comrade to the next enemy. Miko stood behind him, without saying a word from beginning to end.

The bandit camp was originally a small outpost, built next to a half-collapsed stone bridge, surrounded by a low wall made of thick wooden stakes and broken carts.

The only exit faced the trade route, so Ron ordered his troops to advance in formation—the front row with shields, the middle row with spears on the ground, and the rear row with crossbowmen loading their weapons. The three rows of men rolled in from the entrance.

The bandits rushed out of the shed, paused for a moment when they saw the array of shields and spears, and then the archers in the back row released their crossbow bolts.

Several who charged at the front were impaled by crossbow bolts and fell at the entrance, while the rest huddled inside the shed, only to be pierced through the entrance by spears.

The screams and the sound of the wooden shed collapsing were mixed together, and from beginning to end, not a single attack by the bandits hit the shield.

After the battle, Ron stood in front of the ruins of the shack, looking at the two rows of trembling prisoners kneeling on the ground.

Weapons were scattered all over the ground, and some people were still wearing peasant hemp shirts, revealing their thin, bony arms.

Some people had calluses on their hands from hoeing, but no signs of ever holding a sword. One prisoner raised his head as if to say something, but was silenced by Cole's gaze.

"Take them back to the manor," Ron said. "The water-powered forge and the outer perimeter wall are both short-staffed."

He turned around and glanced at the recruits in the ranks. "What did you learn from that formation advance?"

One recruit opened his mouth, while another looked down at the tip of his spear, still stained with blood—from when he pulled it out of the shed.

Ron turned around and walked out of the camp: "Next match, a five-man shield and spear assault team. The veterans will stay back and watch."

As the troops continued forward on the road, the grass on the left swayed, and four ghouls sprang out from the roadside, their bodies covered in remnants of rotting flesh, emitting a low, continuous gurgling sound.

Ron divided the thirty men into six groups: Miko led one group, Pete led another, Cole led a third, and the remaining three groups waited in the rear for rotation.

As the ghoul charged, a new recruit with a crossbow aimed at the one on the left. The crossbow bolt missed and struck a nearby tree trunk. The shaft was still trembling when the ghoul pounced on him.

The recruit took a step back, slipped, and fell backward.

Pete charged from the side, shield raised, smashing the ghoul's head and knocking it to the ground.

He glanced back at the recruit, said nothing, and the recruit got up from the ground and leveled the crossbow again.

His fingers were still trembling, but his posture was more stable than before. He fired the crossbow bolt a second time, piercing the ghoul's hind leg.

The spearman followed up with a shot from the left, pinning the ghoul to the ground. The recruit stood there, his hands still trembling.

Karl walked up from behind, picked up the crossbow from the recruit's hand, glanced at it, and said, "Retract the stock one finger, and then fire."

"Yes," the recruit's voice was still trembling, but he nodded forcefully.

After crossing the ridge, a burnt smell wafted through the air. Miko, leading the way, raised his left hand, and the entire group stopped simultaneously.

A column of gray-black smoke rose into the sky above the village ahead, its tip being pulled apart by the high-altitude airflow, forming a diagonal line.

Several crows flew over from the direction of the smoke column, their cries both shrill and hoarse.

There was no crowing of roosters, no barking of dogs, and no sound of footsteps.

"This isn't cooking smoke," old Gort said in a low voice, squinting. Ron looked up, took the battle axe off his shoulder, and held it by his side with one hand.

"Prepare for engagement! Shield-wielding infantry advance, spearmen in the center, crossbowmen on the flanks and rear. All troops on alert!!!"

The formation of thirty people rearranged itself in a few breaths; no one spoke, and even their breathing was hushed.

As you walk down the ridge, the outline of the village slowly comes into view; the village gate has been knocked down.

The flames on the thatched roof were still burning, the charred straw collapsed in the wind, and splattered blood, not yet dried, lay on the roadside.

A handcart overturned in the ditch, and most of the hay on it was set on fire.

A farmer lay face down in the doorway, a wound on his back running from his shoulder blade down to his waist, his hoe still clutched in his hand.

There were still sounds coming from the village—people shouting, and the clanging of metal, short and sharp, from not far away. Ron's thumb twitched slightly on the axe handle.

"Prepare to meet the enemy," he said, his voice carrying a chilling tone.

The recruits' hands were still tense as they gripped their spears, but this time, no one was trembling.

As Ron's troops approached the village entrance, sounds could already be heard from inside.

In the center of the village, two groups of people were facing off. On the left were three soldiers in blue uniforms, their blue shirts covered in blood and mud so that their original color was no longer visible. One of them had a bleeding gash on his forehead.

Seven or eight villagers were squeezed behind them, and several men, gripping hoes and pitchforks, stood at the front, their fingers trembling as they held the wooden handles.

A woman huddled behind a man, clutching her child tightly. The child's face was buried in her shoulder, and her lips moved but no sound came out.

A woman in blue stood at the front, her short blonde hair disheveled, her eyes sharp, her face smeared with ash and blood.

Her open military uniform had a few buttons undone, revealing her collarbone and a sliver of her chest. The dirty uniform couldn't conceal her curves, slender yet strong like a bowstring. She held a sword in both hands, the tip pointing opposite her.

Opposite them were more than a dozen Nilfgaardian soldiers, spread out in a fan shape, blocking the village's exit.

The black paint on the plate armor of the four shield bearers was chipped and mottled by sword marks, while the crossbowmen in the rear row had their crossbows resting on their shoulders, with the bolts already strung.

Standing at the very front was an officer—wearing full Nilfgaardian officer's plate armor, with a gilded sunburst decoration on his breastplate.

The feather decorations on both sides of the helmet were broken off on one side, while the other side was still sticking out. He was holding a long sword with both hands, and his posture was relaxed.

As Ron's troops pressed in, the tense atmosphere seemed to be sliced ​​open, the Nilfgaardian soldiers' crossbows veered slightly, and the shield bearers all turned toward the village entrance.

The woman in blue also turned her head, her gaze sweeping over the wedge-shaped shield wall and the slanted spears, looking at the fully armored soldiers behind the shield wall, and finally landing on the person at the front.

She tightened her grip on the sword hilt slightly, then relaxed it, saying nothing.

The woman behind her hugged the child even tighter. The man holding the pitchfork glanced at the woman in blue, then at Ron, and his Adam's apple bobbed.