The Witcher World: The Path to Domination Begins in Velen

By the time we got back to camp, the sun was already high in the sky.

Ron could see from afar that the yard had changed; the collapsed stable had been rebuilt, and the damaged wooden fence had been repaired with newly cut wooden strips.

The courtyard was filled with neatly arranged supplies—food, weapons, and tools, each in its own place. Several refugees were clearing away rubble in front of the main building, a woman was squatting by the well washing clothes, and an old man was sitting against the wall repairing a wooden bucket.

Erwin stood in the middle of the courtyard, holding the plank in his hand, directing two young men to move a bundle of timber. He saw Ron's group returning and quickly went to greet them.

"Your Highness... no, Ron"

He changed his tune, adjusted his monocle, and said, "Thirteen refugees left this morning. They all still had relatives and friends to rely on. As you suggested, I gave each of them two days' worth of dry rations."

Ron dismounted and handed the axe and shield to the soldier beside him.

"What about the rest?"

Erwin stepped aside and pointed to the busy crowd in the courtyard.

"There are more than forty people left. Currently, the women and children are responsible for sewing and washing clothes, and a few elderly people who are carpenters are helping to repair the camp."

He pointed to a makeshift shed on the east side of the courtyard: "There's a blacksmith over there who used to be an apprentice. He's helping the soldiers maintain their armor and can also make simple arrows."

Ron looked around and his gaze fell on a campfire in the corner of the yard, where an old man with gray hair was wiping a breastplate with an old cloth.

The movements were slow but meticulous. Two young men were squatting nearby, each holding a short sword and sharpening it on a whetstone.

"His Highness is back!!"

Someone spoke first, and the people in the yard gradually stopped what they were doing. They looked at Ron, their eyes no longer filled with the fear of the first night, but with a cautious hope.

A young man in his early twenties, with bruises on his face, stepped out from the crowd and stood in front of Ron, taking a deep breath.

"Sir, I want to join the army."

Ron looked at him

"What's your name?"

"Miko, sir," the young man puffed out his chest, "I've farmed and chopped wood; I'm not short of strength."

Ron glanced at his arm; it was thin, but his frame was large; he could gain weight with time.

"Can you use a sword?"

Miko hesitated for a moment: "...I learned from the veterans in the village for a while, but we trained with wooden swords, I've never used a real sword..."

Several soldiers nearby chuckled softly, and Miko's face flushed red.

Ron didn't laugh; he turned to look at Carl.

"He'll follow you and begin basic recruit training."

Carl nodded, walked over, patted Miko on the shoulder, and led him aside.

Another old man stepped out from the crowd. He had gray hair, a slightly hunched back, and large, rough hands with deformed knuckles—the hands of an old carpenter.

The old man's voice was hoarse as he said, "I've been a carpenter for decades. I can fix the gates, fences, and stables of your camp. I don't need money; just give me a meal."

Ron nodded

"Go register with Erwin and tell him what documents you need."

The old man nodded repeatedly, turned and walked toward Erwin, took two steps and then turned back, his lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but in the end he just bowed deeply.

A middle-aged woman stood up from the well, still clutching wet clothes in her hand. She didn't dare approach, only watching Ron from a distance, her voice low: "Sir... I can mend clothes and cook. Can I stay?"

Ron glanced at her.

"Can"

The woman's eyes reddened, and she lowered her head to continue scrubbing the dirty clothes in her hand, the kind that belonged to someone else.

One after another, some asked if they could learn swordsmanship, some asked if they could help raise horses, and some said they could weave baskets, repair shoes, and make charcoal.

Ron responded to each one, his tone not enthusiastic, but he did reply to each one.

What they need is not empty comfort or comforting words; they need a definite voice—a direct "yes" or "no," a "stay" or "get out" message.

Ron gave them this definite answer.

The crowd gradually dispersed, each returning to their own place.

Ron turned around and was about to walk towards the main building when he caught a glimpse of a small, thin figure standing behind a pillar.

It was a little girl, about seven or eight years old, with messy hair and a bit of dust on her face. She hid her hands behind her back, drew circles on the ground with her toes, and would occasionally look up at him before quickly looking down again.

Ron stopped and looked at her.

The little girl hesitated for a long time before finally mustering the courage to come out from behind the pillar. She stretched out her hand, which was hidden behind her back, and held a flower wreath in her hand.

This is not something exquisite; it is a ring woven from wild grass, adorned with a few unidentified little yellow flowers. Some of the petals are already withered and crooked, as if it has been repeatedly unraveled and rewoven by small hands.

"This, for...for you," she said, her voice barely audible.

Ron was stunned for a moment, not quite understanding.

The little girl got a little anxious and took another step forward, tilting her head back to look at him. She had to crane her neck almost to the sky to see his face.

"I...I want to marry you when I grow up!"

The sound was quite loud; several people in the courtyard heard it.

Some people were trying to suppress their laughter, while others pretended not to hear. Karl turned his back, his shoulders shaking.

Ron squatted down

When he squatted down, his knees almost touched the ground, and his line of sight was barely level with the little girl's. After squatting down, he could see more: the little girl's tear stains that hadn't been wiped away, the small cuts on her fingers from the grass stems, and a little dust on the tip of her nose.

Ron reached out and took the wreath.

"Thank you, little one."

The little girl smiled, revealing her gums, which were missing a front tooth. Then she turned and ran, running to the woman by the well and burying her face in her skirt.

Ron looked at the wreath in his hand, woven from wild grass, with a few small yellow flowers, and a faint scent of grass mixed with earth.

He stood up and placed the wreath in his hand.

The people around him went about their business, and no one stared at him anymore.

Into the night

Ron sat alone in a room on the second floor of the main building.

Several maps, taken from the robbers, lay spread out on the table. Their edges were curled and the paper was rough. An oil lamp sat on the corner of the table, its flame flickering slightly, illuminating the room in a dim light.

The wreath was placed in the center of the table.

Ron watched for a long time

He remembered many things: the numbers on the data panel, the grayed-out options on the system interface. He had once thought that this world was a game that could be completed, and that once he finished it, he could return to his original life.

But today...

When the little girl stood in front of him, looked up and said, "This is for you," he realized he couldn't go back—not physically, but mentally.

This is not a game

NPCs won't look at you like that, won't whisper "thank you" after you turn around, and won't show a toothless smile when you squat down.

Monsters in the game disappear when they die, and refugees in the game automatically disappear after being rescued. No one will ask you "Can I stay?", and no one will hold back their tears.

Ron looked down at his hands, the hands that had smashed the heads of two water ghosts and had also taken a wreath woven from wild grass and flowers by a little girl.

He suddenly realized something.

In this cruel land rife with war, bandits, and monsters, he is the hope for these people to survive.

This feeling was unfamiliar to him; he had never been needed like this before. He often heard that if he didn't do it, someone else would. But this feeling wasn't bad either.

Ron reached out and picked up the wreath, twirled it, and a few wilted little yellow flowers fell off and landed on the table.

Karl appeared at the door, his nails still carrying the chill of the night. He was about to speak when his gaze fell on the crooked wreath on the table.

His mouth opened and then closed.

Carl smiled, said nothing, turned and left, his footsteps fading into the distance on the stairs.

Ron gently placed the wreath back on the table.

The flame of the oil lamp flickered slightly.