The Witcher World: The Path to Domination Begins in Velen

That afternoon, a figure in blue appeared in the fencing area.

The blue-clad guard stood before the wooden stake, sword in hand, demonstrating angles and footwork with the tip of his sword at the designated thrusting points marked on the stake.

Then step back and let the new recruits do it themselves, occasionally reaching out to correct their movements and pulling them back from the wrong angle.

Weiss personally demonstrated once. Her sword was precise and swift, without any fancy movements. She used the most practical battlefield techniques: slashing, horizontal striking, thrusting, and upward parrying. She then sheathed her sword.

"You saw it?"

The recruits nodded, and some were already secretly flexing their wrists, trying to imitate the moves they had just seen.

Karl stood on the wooden platform in the training ground, looking in the direction of the swordplay area. After a short while, he looked away, turned around, and continued shouting for the formation.

Evening, the competition fence.

A lightly wounded soldier from the Blue Iron Guards leaned against the fence, watching two guards spar. The sound of their swords clashing was not the dull, slow clang typical of training grounds.

Instead, it was a faster and more destructive powerful shockwave; the wooden fence shook when the swords collided.

The two guards moved swiftly, their sword strikes flowing seamlessly, with almost no noticeable pauses. The transitions between offense and defense seemed instantaneous, without shouts or panting, only the whistling sound of swords cutting through the air.

The blue-clad guard watched for a while, then took off his coat, picked up a training sword from the weapon rack next to him, and walked into the enclosure.

The guard stopped, turned to look at him, and his expression was hidden through the slits in his visor.

The blue-clad guard raised his sword to his chest and swung it twice, the blade flashing through the air. He looked up and pointed the tip of his sword at his personal guard, "Come on."

The blue-clad guards were the first to attack, their movements swift and precise. They launched a diagonal slash from the lower right, the angle so sharp that the blade traced a thin line in the air as they aimed for the guard's chest.

The guard took a half step back, no more, no less, the tip of his sword grazing past his shoulder armor, making a slight metallic scraping sound. He blocked the second sword with his own sword, flipped his wrist, and pressed down, forcefully pushing the guard's sword down.

The two swords intertwined and clashed, producing a low, grinding sound. The guard shifted his weight, turned to the side, and thrust forward, the tip of his sword striking his opponent's wrist with pinpoint accuracy.

The opponent's sword fell from his hand with a clatter. Before the blue-clad guard could react, the tip of the personal guard's sword was already at his throat, less than an inch away.

He froze, took two steps back, stared at the guard's sword for a few seconds, and finally nodded. The guard lowered his sword, nodded to him, and then turned to continue sparring with his companion.

The blue-clad guard stepped out of the fence. His hands trembled slightly, but his breathing was steady. Another wounded soldier in blue came over and handed him a bowl of water. He took the bowl, tilted his head back, and gulped down a mouthful before wiping his mouth.

"They're not even in the same league."

The wounded man in blue beside him didn't say anything, but just stared at the two bodyguards who were still sparring inside the fence.

Evening, at the residence of the blue-clad guards.

"Our swordsmanship is on par with that of the Nilfgaardian Royal Guard."

The member who had been defeated by the guards sat on the edge of the bed, a wine glass on his knee, head bowed: "In the end, I didn't even see his steps clearly."

"It's not just that I didn't see it clearly," another injured man in blue leaned against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. He had watched the entire sparring match from beginning to end.

"That person didn't even use their true strength."

The guard beside the bed looked up: "You know, what if the captain could team up with these people..."

He didn't finish speaking, and no one in the room responded, but no one refuted him either.

Weiss sat near the door, her back against the doorframe, not participating in the discussion. She held her wine glass in her hand, twirled it twice, placed it on the wooden box, stood up, and walked out.

She walked along the low stone wall of the herb garden for a while. Aina was squatting by the garden, loosening the soil around a sage plant with a shovel. Weiss stopped beside her.

Aina looked up at her, her hands still busy, and took a new seedling from the medicine basket beside her, placed it in the loosened soil, covered it with soil, tamped it down, and watered it. Her movements were slow, but very skillful.

Weiss didn't say anything, but simply picked up the empty pottery jar from the ground and handed it to Aina. Aina took it and placed it beside her. "Thank you," she said, and Weiss nodded.

That evening, Ron was looking through the materials list for the water-powered forging hammer when Weiss walked over from the direction of the training ground, carrying a training sword in her hand.

"Big guy, your soldiers are pretty good, but their individual combat ability is their weakness."

What they need to practice now is how to survive after their formation is broken. I've taught them everything I know; how much they learn is up to them.

"Okay, thank you."

She turned and walked a few steps, then stopped. Without looking back, she raised one hand and casually waved it twice.

Three days later, a signal came from the manor's watchtower that a small group of about seven or eight people were approaching the manor.

They weren't wearing Nilfgaardian black armor, nor the mottled leather armor of bandits; the crossbowmen on the watchtower had their crossbows cocked.

Weiss was in the fencing area correcting a recruit's movement from the wrong angle when she heard the signal from the watchtower. She straightened up, glanced towards the gate, stuck her sword into the weapon rack next to her, and said, "One of us."

Ron was standing in the courtyard reviewing the progress list of the water-powered forging hammer when he looked up and saw seven men walk in from outside. They were all dressed in blue cloth shirts with light leather armor over them, weapons hanging at their waists, travel-worn, and their boots covered in dried mud.

The person walking at the front was lean and fit, with neatly trimmed sideburns and stubble on his chin that he hadn't shaved for a few days.

His eyes didn't pause as they swept across the courtyard, moving directly from the sentry to the source of the commands in the direction of the training ground, then to Ron standing by the table. He then changed direction and walked straight toward Ron at a leisurely pace.

He stopped three steps in front of Ron. He was already considered tall for an average person, but facing Ron, who was 2.2 meters tall, he still needed to slightly raise his chin. He didn't extend his hand, and neither did Ron.

"Vernon Roche," he said, his voice steady and his enunciation sharp, as if pressed directly from his chest, "Commander of the Blue Iron Guard."

Ron

"I know," Roche's gaze lingered for a moment on Ron's chainmail and lamellar armor before returning to his face. "Weis told me about Valen; you personally took care of the officer."

"It's me."

Roche didn't reply immediately. He turned his head and glanced towards the training ground. Karl's commands came from the direction of the wooden platform. The recruits were practicing shield formations, and the sound of the shields hitting the ground was uniform.

Weiss had re-entered the fencing area and was squatting in front of a recruit, drawing footsteps on the ground with the tip of her sword.

"Why?" Roche turned his gaze back to Ron.

"The elderly, women, and children"

Roche remained silent for a moment, his eyes never leaving Ron's face, as if examining the weight of every word in his statement, before he looked away.

"That kid got beaten down by your personal guards," Roche said, tilting his chin toward the swordplay area. "He said he didn't even see when his opponent changed his stance."

"The guards' swordsmanship is honed on the battlefield; they can kill, but they are not good at teaching."

"So now you're using my people to train new recruits."

"The foundation of trust is need and exchange."