Psionic Ascension Starting with The Witcher

Just as Brundane was impatiently galloping forward, a sudden change occurred not far behind them.

"Zzzzt!"

The sound of a sword being drawn rang out behind him. Morian instinctively turned around and saw a cold light piercing towards him.

Caught off guard, he had no way to avoid it. He could only twist his body and bend over to let the sword pierce his shoulder instead of his back.

Morian tumbled off his horse in a sorry state, and when he looked back, he saw his nephew staring at him expressionlessly.

He held the blood-dripping longsword in his hand, his eyes devoid of any emotion, looking at Morian as if he were a dead man.

"Why!?"

Morian was incredulous. He clutched his shoulder and slowly got up, then looked around abruptly.

The other spies all stopped, but they remained on horseback, silently watching everything unfold.

They didn't take sides, and waited for the two to decide the winner.

Morian understood what these people were thinking in an instant.

As spies who had served the empire for many years, these people had long understood one thing: work is just work, and loyalty is nothing but a lie.

They could fight to the death for the empire, shedding their last drop of blood, simply because it was part of their job.

However, they will not actively participate in any disputes outside of work; they are merely tools, manipulated by their superior masters.

What should the owners do when a dispute arises between them?

Naturally, they would stand by and let the owners resolve the conflict themselves.

Morian watched his nephew dismount and walk towards him step by step, then glanced at the horse far away, a long sword clipped to its saddle. He should have tied it around his waist, but because he could no longer bear the throbbing pain in his lower back, he made an exception and placed it on the horse today.

He now deeply regrets it...

The thing he had been secretly worried about actually happened.

"Bardas! We don't need to kill each other!" Morian's survival instinct kicked in, and he shouted at his nephew, hoping to evoke his pity.

"Do you remember? I was there when you were born! And that little lion cub you had when you were a cub, I brought it from Sericania!"

While reminiscing about their past relationship, Morian backed away, but he pretended to clutch his lower back, feigning pain as if tormented by a back ache. In reality, however, his hand secretly reached for a small knife hidden in his trousers.

"Serving the Empire is our mission," Baldas said slowly, "but you hesitate because of fear. Ever since you met those survivors, you've been terrified."

"What are you afraid of? Didn't those who escaped make it very clear? They were ambushed by an enemy force several times their size, including a mage, while clearing out the guerrilla camp, which is why they were defeated. Now that we are prepared, how can we repeat the same mistake?"

"No, no, no, I'm not! We're almost there! I'm not scared!"

"And then, as you said, flee in disarray after the battle? Let the Empire's enemies escape!"

Baldas continued to press forward, his eyes burning with rage as he looked at his uncle as if he were an irreconcilable enemy.

"You cunning, treacherous rat! Father appointed you as my tutor, yet you only teach me filthy, treacherous, and unfaithful behavior!"

"You've mentioned retreating eleven times since yesterday morning, you coward!"

"I couldn't stand it anymore!"

Baldas roared and pointed his sword at Morian.

When Morian was blinded by the gleaming sword tip, he realized that one of them had to lie down today.

Family members killing each other, all for the sake of that so-called empire... How laughable, truly laughable.

Whose empire is it? And whose emperor is he?

Emhyr has a clever way of winning over a loyal dog with just a few words.

Morian immediately turned around and shouted loudly to the people around him.

"I am your superior! Follow me and execute this traitor! I promise you riches!"

"From this point on, I will take nothing from all the loot! It's all yours!"

"If you save me, I will keep my word! When the report comes out, you will all be credited for your service!"

"Back in Golden Tower City, you can enjoy yourself for three days! The most beautiful women! The most alluring male prostitutes! I'll cover all your expenses! Even if you want to buy Lord Lydock's mansion, I dare to make an offer from him!"

Wealth, status, and beauty.

Morian made all the promises he could think of in that instant, regardless of whether they could be fulfilled; all he wanted was to survive.

Unfortunately, all he received in response were pairs of indifferent eyes or heads that turned away from him.

Just then, Morian felt a slight tremor in the ground beneath his feet and heard the faint sound of horses' hooves in the distance.

At that moment, Baldas's voice also rang out.

"I spoke with the garrison last night. I reported all your crimes." His voice became calm again, tinged with a chilling coldness.

Then Baldas suddenly laughed and said to Morian, "You probably don't know how seriously the Emperor takes this matter. Even officers of the lowest rank have long been ordered to search their garrisons for a little girl with gray hair."

"Upon hearing of your foolish actions, they were all eager to lend me a hand and gain merit. After all, one of their orders is—anyone who obstructs this matter, regardless of their status, shall be killed without exception."

"Including those Yankees, including you."

Seeing this, Morian seemed to be in utter despair.

He knelt down with a thud and lowered his head.

"I am fully aware of my crimes."

Morian's voice trembled, as if he were confessing.

"Kill me, right here." He gestured with his neck. "Preserve my last shred of dignity, spare me from torture. This is my final request to you as a member of the Malthus family."

Baldas nodded and walked toward Morian.

However, the moment he got close, Morian suddenly leaped up, his left hand reaching out towards Baldas's neck as a feint, while his right hand, the real killing move, was raised high, the small knife in his hand gleaming coldly, piercing the sunlight.

His face was contorted with madness, though his eyes still held incomprehension and fear of his nephew, he still made a desperate attempt.

However, Valdas had anticipated this.

Without even a hint of panic, he swung his longsword, which he had prepared long ago, and with a single twist, severed Morian's arm at the elbow. Then, in the instant Morian lost his balance, he followed up with another sword strike, cutting off Morian's other hand, which was holding a knife, from the wrist.

Morian knelt on the ground without any doubt, letting out a painful scream.

Baldas coldly stared at Morian kneeling on the ground, then swung his longsword and brought it down, sending a head flying high into the air.

He ultimately gave Morian a swift end.

After executing his uncle, Baldas, who had put righteousness before family, looked in the direction where Effenso and the others had gone, amidst the fearful gazes of those around him.

After a cavalry unit of about half a company, nearly seventy men, arrived from the rear to provide emergency support, Baldas quickly established command and led this cavalry force of about seventy men to gallop forward.

At this moment, a flame gradually ignited in his heart. Having already made one contribution to the empire, he couldn't wait to make another.

The heads of traitors were insignificant to him; only by planting the heads of enemies on the Golden Sun Black Flag could he satisfy his devotion to the empire.

His face flushed red with a fanatical fervor, and his heart surged with emotion.

First kill these northerners, then capture the little princess and bring her to the Golden Tower City to be presented to the royal palace.

Was the opportunity he had always longed for—the opportunity to make significant contributions to the empire and be appreciated by the emperor—finally about to arrive?

Baldas gripped the reins tightly, not daring to loosen his grip, as if he were holding his own destiny in his hands, and would not allow it to slip out of his grasp even for a moment.

……

The roads around us gradually widened, the mountains became gentler, and the trees became sparser.

Effensor looked around. Although there were towering mountains on both sides, there was no doubt that there was flat land beneath their feet.

This is a valley.

According to the markings on the map, this place is called Kikarovich, which seems to be a name formed by combining half of the Elvish words for "rich" and "peace".

Two streams flow through the area, providing ample water. The soil is a surprising dark brown, a color typically associated with extremely fertile soil.

There used to be residents here. In Effensoro, you can see small watermills built beside the creek, windmills built in the windy spot, and houses scattered throughout the valley.

However, these buildings have long been abandoned.

Now, their new masters are a large group of ragged refugees.

There were more than 200 of them gathered in those dilapidated houses on a high point in the valley.

Brondan spotted them from afar and, unable to contain his excitement and joy, spurred his horse forward. The others followed closely behind.

However, this action caused a misunderstanding.

The refugee camp was instantly thrown into chaos. Women and children fled in tears, while men ran around frantically, searching for their weapons.

Before long, when Brondaen stopped below the high ground, the high ground was already full of people.

These people were both men and women, all of them young and strong. They wore almost no armor, at most a tattered helmet. Each carried a sharpened wooden spear, and under someone's arrangement, they formed a somewhat chaotic formation.

With his extensive battlefield experience, Brondan immediately came up with no fewer than ten ways to defeat the enemy. Some even suggested that simply firing a few arrows from a distance and then feigning a charge to scare them would be enough to rout them.

But seeing these people trembling yet unwavering, not retreating an inch, Brondan suddenly became less certain.

They fought to the death because they wanted to protect something. Coupled with their united and determined actions, perhaps this is why these refugees were able to survive the chaos…

Brondan's thoughts flashed through his mind in an instant, and then he began to shout to the people above.

"We are not bandits!"

He spoke loudly, explaining their identity: "We come from the north! We've been entrusted to find a nobleman's child!"

Out of caution, he did not reveal Ciri's identity directly.

But then his words took on a slightly threatening tone.

"We've found them! Let's go!"

"If we can't find anyone, nobody can leave!"

Upon hearing this, the crowd became even noisier, and the sound of children crying could even be heard.

"Stop!"

No sooner had Brondan finished speaking than a powerful roar came from the crowd.

The noisy refugees fell silent instantly, respectfully making way for an elderly man who slowly emerged from the crowd.

His beard was white, and his face was full of wrinkles, so many that they almost covered his eyes. His overly long eyebrows drooped down his cheeks.

Effensor sensed the power of magic from afar immediately; ever since he obtained the golden left hand, he had become exceptionally sensitive to magic.

"This is……"

He squinted, carefully observing the old man. His clothing, tattoos, and the feeling he got from the magic—it was a kind of magic that leaned more towards nature—all these factors combined to make Effensor almost certain of the old man's identity.

"Druid?"

He had seen a druid in Skellige, whose appearance and demeanor were very similar to the one before him.

But why in this place? Why is he with the refugees?

"State who you are, state your purpose."

The druid's voice was enchanted, becoming extremely loud.

"Then we will decide whether to help you."

Although Brundane didn't understand magic, he could tell that the old man in front of him was not someone to be trifled with. This was just a warning based on his intuition.

So he softened his stance.

"We come from the north, entrusted by someone to find the child of a nobleman."

"I see."

The druid nodded, then firmly refused.

"All the children here are the children of farmers, orphans of soldiers, and descendants of the dead; none of them have any distinguished lineage."

"I can assure you, the person you're looking for isn't here!"

Brondan did not answer, but simply stood there, his hand resting on the hilt of the short sword at his waist.

He didn't believe it, and he didn't want to believe it. He would rather think the druid was deceiving him than give up this only hope.

A thousand thoughts swirled in Brondan's mind, gradually turning his brain into a mess.

He had lost patience and was gripped by a deep fear that he would not get the answer he wanted.

What if the princess dies? What if the princess isn't here?

What should he do? What should Sintra do?

Unbeknownst to Brondan, he was filled with dread about this highly uncertain future and desperately wanted to know the answer to the question, whether it was good or bad.

If the princess were still alive, he would fight to the death for her...

If the princess is dead, there is no hope left, and his life has lost its meaning...

Suddenly, Brondaen became acutely aware of the death wish within him. It seemed that from the day he set foot on the shores of Sintra, the despairing reality had already overwhelmed him.

He would rather die than face the reality of his homeland's complete demise and the impossibility of its revival.

What happens to the princess seems unable to change this predetermined fate...

"well……"

Brondan let out a long sigh of relief.

He gripped the hilt tightly and began to slowly pull the sword out. The sound of the blade scraping against the scabbard was so grating to his ears, as if it were slicing through his heart.

He drew his longsword and gripped it in his right hand. He pondered, but did not know where to strike.

Realizing all this, Brondaen's mind became even more chaotic. One moment he wanted to use force to coerce the refugees into accepting the search, the next he wanted to end it all by committing suicide, and then he thought about sheathing his sword and negotiating...

Effensor finally arrived on horseback, only to witness this standoff.

"Brondaern?"

Unaware of the situation, he called out Brondan's name, wanting to inquire about what was going on.

But Affinso did not receive a response.

Time seemed to freeze at this moment, and the silent Brøndal was like a volcano, ready to erupt at any moment.

Just then, the thunderous sound of horses' hooves thundering at the entrance of the valley broke the stalemate.

Everyone present looked in that direction at the same time, and saw that at the exit of the valley, a dense forest suddenly appeared with countless dark shadows.

It was a cavalry unit, extremely fast, leaping out of the woods and rushing into the vast plains of the valley in just a few breaths.

The black flag flutters proudly in the wind.

The rising sun is breathtaking.

Under the golden sun and black banner, knights stood like clouds, all dressed in uniform black clothes and armor, and sporting the iconic helmets adorned with two antelope horn-like decorations.

They rushed into the valley like the wind. Once everyone was assembled, they did not rush forward. Instead, under the command of one person, they calmly lined up and began to take out their weapons and check their armor.

They seemed very confident, regarding the distant crowd as prey that was about to be devoured.

When he saw the golden sun banner, Brondan instantly realized what was happening.

He finally rediscovered the meaning behind drawing his sword.

Fighting for Sintra was the meaning of his existence from the very beginning.

He missed the Battle of Manada and the Siege of Sintra, and could only look at the shocking ruins in the hastily drawn sketches, feeling sad and heartbroken.

Now, in the Kikarovich Valley, which is also a valley with a pass, and a place with terrain similar to the Manada Valley, Brundane is facing his own Battle of Manada.

They were at a significant disadvantage in terms of manpower, and the terrain was also unfavorable.

The valley was flanked by towering, insurmountable peaks. The Nilfgaardians had blocked the wider entrance, and the only remaining exit was extremely narrow, a mere three or four meters wide. Even a single carriage could barely pass through.

Isn't this... a Manada Valley shrunk countless times?

It was also a battle of Manada, scaled down countless times.

Brondan calmed down unexpectedly, accepting his fate of death without fear or hesitation.

He made his decision the next moment.

"You must leave here immediately!"

He spoke to the druids and the refugees with a firm tone and piercing eyes, a stark contrast to his previous demeanor.

"The Nilfgaardians—we'll hold them off! We'll do our best to stall them! Stall them until they're all gone!"

The druid was stunned, his blurry old eyes widening as he struggled to understand why the ruthless man who had just been about to kill had suddenly transformed into a righteous hero.

Then he saw Brondaen pound his chest hard, and the heavy Sintra lion head made a muffled sound, as if a real lion was roaring.

The druid paused for a moment, opened his mouth but didn't say a word, and finally closed his mouth again, performing a Skellige Isles salute to Brundane.

"Thank you, Knight of Sintra..."

He spoke in a low, solemn voice, then turned and shouted, "Don't pack anything! Don't bring anything heavy! Head towards the exit immediately!"

"Children and women in front! Men behind! You are the last line of defense! You have nowhere to retreat!"

The tense standoff ended in the blink of an eye.

Effinso watched intently. He didn't quite understand the changes in Brondan, but he was at least relieved.

On the other side, Brondan hesitated for a moment, then called out Gitov and another Sintraman.

He assigned two men to cover the rear, but their real purpose was to keep up with the refugees. On one hand, he wanted to protect them as much as possible; on the other hand, Brondaen didn't want all his brothers who had followed him for so many years to die; and on the other hand… perhaps the princess really was among those refugees?

He then looked at Effensor, who nodded silently in response.

The Nilfgaardians were right there. Although it was unclear how they had found them, there was no doubt that there were only two choices: fight to the death or abandon their employer and flee in disloyalty.

Whether out of professional ethics or personal moral principles, Affenzo did not want to escape.

Of course, the most fundamental reason was that Effensor believed he could survive the battle.

The enhanced hand seals on his left hand, the pouch full of alchemical bombs, bottles of potions, and the runestone that held the power of "Imprisonment"—these were all his talismans for survival.

Effensor was not afraid of this perilous battle, nor was he afraid of death.

Death—he never seemed to take it seriously. After all, for him, "death is just the beginning of another journey" was not some comforting empty phrase, but an undeniable fact.

Brondan finally looked at Drakarov and asked for his opinion.

Faced with a battle they were certain to lose, this mercenary leader displayed astonishing professionalism, readily agreeing to the task, a stark contrast to the mercenaries Effensor remembered who only fought when things were going well.

At that moment, Effensor suddenly felt something.

He glanced at the group of refugees, and a small head flashed by in the distance. Also fleetingly, a pair of eyes filled with gratitude and fear also appeared.

Who is that?

Effensor had a premonition that this was their goal for the trip.

But there's no time to confirm now...