The Witcher World: The Path to Domination Begins in Velen

Ron wiped the axe blade clean on the officer's uniform, revealing its iron-colored sheen once more. He straightened up and glanced at the village entrance, where corpses lay scattered on the muddy ground, their blood seeping into the soil.

"Karl, collect everything that can prove your identity: nameplates, military orders, marked equipment—leave nothing out."

Ron slammed his battle axe on the ground. "Drag all the Nilfgaardian corpses to the depths of the swamp and bury them separately."

The officers' plate armor was stripped off separately and melted down; the villagers' bodies were allowed to be claimed by the villagers and buried according to their customs.” He paused.

"What happens today is classified as confidential; no one is allowed to disclose it."

No one spoke. Karl pushed up his visor, nodded, and turned to walk toward the corpses of the shield bearers.

Miko had already begun bending down to sift through the scattered weapons on the ground, pulling crossbow bolts out of the mud and piling them up according to the condition of the shafts.

Ron turned and walked toward the still-smoking handcart.

Weiss was squatting next to the cart, bandaging her injured companion with a strip of torn cloth. The strip wasn't long enough, so she bit one end with her teeth, pulled it tight, and tied a knot. The wounded man groaned but didn't cry out.

"His injuries won't last much longer," Ron said, standing in front of her. "I have a doctor on my estate."

Weiss looked up, her short blonde hair disheveled, the ash on her face damp with sweat turning into streaks of gray. She stared at Ron for a long while with her gray-blue eyes.

"Big guy, so kind? There must be conditions, right?"

"Surrender all weapons during treatment and remain in the designated area."

"Ha, I knew it. Fine, it's your territory, you call the shots."

"Don't misunderstand, this is protection, for both sides," Ron said calmly.

"Your lives are earned by yourselves. You have two choices: take your medicine and leave now, I won't stop you, or come back to the manor with me. We'll provide food, lodging, and treatment until you can travel on your own. The choice is yours."

Weiss glanced at the wounded man lying on the ground. Blood had seeped through the cloth strips from his forehead. The man's eyes were still open, his breathing was shallow, and each rise and fall of his chest was accompanied by a hissing sound.

"We'll go with you," Weiss said, standing up and swiftly sheathing her sword at her waist, though she had to adjust the scabbard several times before it was properly aligned.

I will remember this favor.

"Hmm," Ron turned and walked toward the line.

Old Gott had already started talking to several villagers. He squatted down in front of a man holding a pitchfork, speaking in the Temurian dialect.

The man first glanced back at the thatched hut still smoldering behind him, with only a few charred beams remaining. He put down his pitchfork, nodded, and the woman behind him, holding her child tightly, nodded in return.

Old Gott stood up and gestured to Ron. Ron looked away and glanced at the village entrance.

Karl and a few men dragged the bodies of the Nilfgaardian soldiers to one place, loaded them onto a cart, and covered them with straw.

"Form ranks, wounded in the middle, move out."

The ranks were rearranged, and the wounded were carried onto makeshift stretchers, with the lightly injured blue-clad guards walking beside them.

Seven or eight villagers followed at the back of the group. Some carried bags of grain that they had salvaged from the ruins, some were holding children, and some had nothing in their hands, having not had time to take anything.

Weiss walked on the other side of the stretcher, her hand on the hilt of her sword, but she wasn't looking at the village; she was looking at the giant carrying a battle axe ahead of her.

When the procession emerged into the afternoon sunlight, the group had been traveling for most of the day. The soldiers on the watchtower spotted them, called out towards the courtyard, and the manor gates opened.

Several craftsmen who were working by the wall stopped what they were doing and watched the mixed group walk in.

Aina strode over from the direction of the herb garden, her gray robe still covered in fresh dirt. She glanced at the wounded man on the stretcher, rolled up her sleeves, and reached out to uncover the blood-soaked strip of cloth on the man's forehead.

"Go get some clean bandages," she said to a girl who looked like an apprentice next to her, her fingers already probing deep into the wound. "And give me the medicine on the table too, green, not brown."

Her hands were steady and her movements were swift. The wounded man twitched, and she immediately pressed her other hand against his forehead with a light touch, just enough to secure him to the wooden board.

Weiss stood at the door, her gaze sweeping over the medicine shelf and then shifting to the neat stack of clean linen in the corner. She said nothing, only her tense shoulders relaxed slightly.

Old Gott returned from the direction of the manor kitchen, carrying two bowls of porridge, and handed them to the man holding the pitchfork.

The man took the bowl, his hands still trembling. Old Gott patted him on the shoulder, stood up, and waved to the villagers standing to the side.

"You'll stay in the shacks tonight, and someone will assign you work and accommodations tomorrow morning."

Several villagers looked at each other and slowly followed. The woman carrying the child walked at the very back, glanced up at the sentry on the wall, and hugged the child closer to her.

Several days later, before the morning fog had completely dissipated, commands rang out from the training ground.

Weiss leaned against the fence at the edge of the court, her arms crossed and resting on the wooden railing. Her blue dress had the collar open and the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She had been standing there all morning.

On the training field, the new recruits were practicing a surprise attack formation. The shield-wielders, spearmen, and crossbowmen worked together seamlessly, their steps were synchronized as the formation advanced, and the sound of shields hitting the ground echoed in unison.

Karl stood on the wooden platform, not shouting, but occasionally raising his finger in a certain direction. The formation would change direction as his finger moved, like a machine being precisely controlled.

But Weiss wasn't looking at the formation; she was looking at what happened after the formation broke apart.

Karl gave a command, and the front-line shield and sword bearers spread out to the sides, and the recruits began to engage the enemy one-on-one and one-on-two.

Some people didn't raise their shields fast enough and were stabbed in the ribs by wooden swords; some people tripped over their right foot while retreating and fell backward; some people were attacked by two people at the same time, their shields held on the left while the wooden swords on the right had already struck their shoulders.

"Stop," Karl's voice came from the wooden platform.

The recruits stood up straight, panting heavily. The one who had been slashed in the shoulder was rubbing his shoulder blade. He was not slow, and his position was accurate when advancing the formation, but once he was out of formation, it was as if he didn't know where to put his sword.

Weiss left the fence and turned to walk towards the blacksmith's shop.

Ron was squatting next to Brom's forge, flipping through a progress sketch of a water-powered forging hammer.

Brom squatted down beside him, poked at the drawing with his stubby fingers, and said in a hoarse voice, "This casting still needs to wait for the furnace. We can't start work until the furnace is ready."

Ron

Ron looked up and saw Weiss standing in front of him, hands on her hips, thumb pointing towards the training ground. "I watched your soldiers' training. The formation is good, but their close combat is still lacking."

Ron handed the blueprints back to Brom and stood up. "What are you trying to say?"

"My lad may not be good at much else, but he's definitely qualified to teach swordsmanship," Weiss said bluntly and confidently.

"Your instructors teach soldiers array combat, not swordsmanship. My men can help with that." She paused. "We need to rest, but we can't just freeload here. You know what I mean?"

"Sure, but Karl has the final say on the training field."

"Yes, no problem."