Psionic Ascension Starting with The Witcher

When Effensor saw Baldas's provocative gesture, he paused for a moment, then smiled.

"You damned beast...you're asking for it."

He did not choose to continue fighting on horseback. The five men in front of him were positioned inside the pass, which was too narrow to turn around on horseback, let alone fight on horseback.

Effensor switched the sword to his left hand, and with a trembling grip on the hilt, he carried the steel sword step by step.

"Zzzzt!"

The five men standing at the pass also drew their longswords, ready for battle.

Effensor approached unhurriedly, until he was at a distance that was neither too close nor too far. Suddenly, his right hand reached to his waist, grasped the round Dancing Star, and quietly lit the fuse of the bomb with the Igni Sign. Then, he threw the alchemical bomb towards the five people like a shot put.

Although he didn't know what it was, Baldas realized that what the enemy had thrown couldn't possibly be anything good.

So the instant the alchemical bomb hit his face, he used his sword to knock it away.

However, perhaps the posture and angle were not quite right... In any case, the bomb did not fly towards the bushes outside the pass as Baldas had expected after he blew it away.

It crashed into the rock wall of the pass, then bounced back, landing right in front of the three soldiers at the very front.

"Boom!"

Before they could react, the bomb had already exploded, and the flames engulfed them in the blink of an eye.

The violent explosion tore the three people's bodies apart, with limbs flying everywhere, and a raging fire broke out at the site of the explosion.

The next moment, a figure burst through the flames, sword in hand, and fought with Baldas and another flag-bearing knight at lightning speed.

The knight carrying the flag blocked a sword with the flagpole, then threw the flag aside, ignoring the burning black flag and joining the three-way battle.

Effensor's white hair was slightly scorched at the ends, but he didn't care and focused on the battle in front of him.

This masked fellow is no ordinary man; his swordsmanship is superb. Unlike those ordinary soldiers, he has definitely studied swordsmanship and practiced for many years.

After a few rounds, Baldas discovered Effortso's weakness in his injured left hand, and Effortso also found an opening.

"Hit him on the left..."

Before Baldas could finish speaking, Effenso seized the opportunity to deflect his longsword. Baldas only had time to protect his chest with his arm before being struck in the groin by Effenso.

The immense force shook his internal organs, and with this full-force kick, he was sent flying five meters away.

Taking advantage of the opportunity, Effensor leaned back to dodge another man's sweeping attack, then smoothly hooked his sword behind the man's knee and severed his ligaments.

As his legs buckled, he lost his balance, and his body involuntarily knelt forward, Effensor had already straightened up and placed his sword against his neck.

"Damn it..."

The knight's expression changed drastically, and he tried to struggle, but it was too late.

The blade spun with Effensor's movements, simultaneously circling his neck.

As Effensor drew his sword and straightened himself, the head with bloodshot eyes rolled off his shoulder behind him.

Only then did Baldas manage to stand up with great difficulty, still wearing his heavy armor, and witness the bloody scene of a head falling to the ground.

"Tayno! No!"

His eyes were bloodshot, he roared, and then raised his sword to attack Affinso.

Effensor's breathing became even heavier at this point.

The effect of Thunder will gradually diminish until it disappears completely.

His condition has now declined by about half.

Facing Baldas, Effensor became cautious. This man was a master swordsman, and the opening he had just made was a rare and precious opportunity.

Despite his rage, Baldas remained rational, launching a fierce attack on the witcher who had ruined his plans while also keeping a close eye on his opponent's left side.

Suffering from a severe tear in his left hand, Effensor could only wield his sword with his right hand or both hands. Facing the frequent attacks from Baldas' left side, he gradually became exhausted and unable to defend himself.

He could no longer switch between his left and right hands as freely as usual, skillfully defending against attacks from different directions.

If you fight with only one hand, both your agility and speed will be greatly reduced.

Last time, he seized on Baldas's weakness.

Now, it's their turn to treat him the same way.

As the effects of the Thunder Potion weakened, and when it completely disappeared, Effensor's movements slowed down a beat, and he stiffened noticeably.

That slight delay prevented him from blocking Baldas's sword in time.

"Sizzle!"

The blade sliced ​​through his chest, adding another scar to Effensor's body. The biting cold wind entered through the opening, sending a chill down his spine.

This wasn't the worst of it. The chain reaction caused by this attack left Effensor with a few hurried parries before Baldas struck his wrist with the counterweight ball at the end of his sword hilt, knocking the sword out of his hand.

But Effensor did not sit idly by. The moment the sword left his hand, he lunged at Baldas without hesitation, ignoring the deep, bone-revealing wound Baldas inflicted on his shoulder by the sword.

He wanted to drag his enemies into the same predicament as him...

"Bang!"

The two fell heavily to the ground together. Baldas' sword flew out of his hand. Effensor tried to grab it, but Baldas punched him in the face.

"Fuck you!"

After feeling the pain, Effensor simply gave up on grabbing the sword. He turned around, first feinting an attack with his left hand, and then unexpectedly punching Baldas in the face with his right, retaliating with a solid, heavy blow.

This punch sent Baldas's iron mask flying, and then Effensor was surprised to find that it was actually a young kid.

So young?

No wonder he's so strong!

He thought it was a middle-aged man... but it doesn't matter.

No matter how old he is, he must die today!

"Schissi!" (Nefarian: shit)

Baldas cursed, and the two began to wrestle on the ground.

Effenso grabbed Baldas by the collar and slammed him to the ground. Then, as she tried to draw the dagger from her waist, Baldas elbowed her in the chin, causing her to feel dizzy.

Baldas also took the opportunity to try to pick up the sword that had fallen to the ground, but Effensor, who had recovered, seized the opportunity, clenched his fist with the glove covered by the iron plate, and slammed it hard into Baldas's face, causing his nose to bleed profusely.

During the fight, both sides used every means at their disposal, all in an attempt to kill the other.

Kicks to the groin, gouges in the eyes, bites—every part of the human body that could be used as a weapon was employed.

Finally, Baldas found an opportunity, suddenly grabbed the broken arrow shaft stuck in Effinso's stomach, and then twisted it violently.

"Ahhhhh!"

The excruciating pain made Effensor almost breathless, and the hand that was gripping the other man's neck momentarily lost its strength. Then, Valdas flipped over and pinned him down, grabbing his neck with his other hand.

As Baldas tightened his grip on Effinso's neck, he gritted his teeth and muttered in broken Common, "Witcher!"

"lowly!"

"You're dead! Today!"

Although Effensor's face was red from being pinched, he still managed to utter a few words.

"You fucking...illiterate, you're the one who'll die!"

Two pairs of bloodshot eyes met, each seeing only pure killing intent in the other's eyes, as if the person before them was an irreconcilable enemy.

Although they were strangers to each other and had no prior grudges.

But now, none of that matters anymore.

Effensor suddenly raised his right hand and aimed it at Baldas's face.

"Igni!"

Sparks burst forth from his right palm, and in Baldas's vision, the burst of fire seemed to instantly transport him back to the raging city of Sintra—fire everywhere, burning everywhere.

At that time, Baldas stood in the middle of the burning street, carrying three heads, and roared loudly to vent his violent emotions.

Everything seems like it was just yesterday…

However, as his eyes were burned by the sparks, the city of Sintra that he vaguely saw turned into eternal darkness.

"Aaaaaaah!!!"

Bardas howled, releasing his grip on Effensor's neck, and screamed in agony as he clutched his face, which was now a charred mess of raw flesh.

The face was devoid of features; the burned flesh stuck to the cold iron glove as Baldas covered his face with his hands, and was then torn off as he removed his hands.

On that bloody, mangled face, with its skin peeled off, only seven holes remained: eyes, nose, mouth, and ears.

"Huff! Huff! Huff!"

Effensor took a few quick breaths to catch his breath, then stood up, brushed the snow off his body, and finally looked at Baldas, who was waving his arms wildly in the snow, blindly trying to defend against Effensor's possible attacks with his clumsy punches.

He almost suffocated just now.

Effensor still feels dizzy from lack of oxygen, and the world in front of her is shaking slightly as if an earthquake is occurring.

"Damn it..." he cursed, clenching his fist. "The hand seals... can be used with either hand."

He muttered to himself, then swung his fist and delivered a precise swing punch to Baldas, who was attacking the air from his spot.

"Bang!"

With just one punch, he knocked the unsuspecting Baldas to the ground.

Valdas's jaw was severely dislocated, clearly dislocated.

Then Effensor straddled Baldas and began punching his charred, disfigured face wildly.

The fists rose high again and again, then fell heavily. Each punch landed squarely on Baldas's face, producing a dull thud like a heavy object striking flesh, and slowly pounding the charred, mangled flesh into a paste. Some of the flesh stuck to Effensor's fists, while some splattered onto the snow.

One punch, one punch, another punch.

One punch, one punch, and another punch.

At first, Baldas would struggle. But soon he became motionless, with only his hands and feet twitching when his fists came down.

Finally, with a powerful punch from Effensor, a loud "crack" rang out, and Baldas's head visibly flattened, white brain matter and dark red blood slowly seeping out from his helmet.

In addition, there were some white bone fragments seeping into it.

It's unclear exactly how many punches were thrown, but in short—his skull was shattered by Effensor.

Only then did Effensor slowly stand up. Looking at Baldas, whose head looked as if it had been hit by a hammer, he suddenly realized that he didn't even know the other man's name.

This person seems to be an important figure, and their skills don't seem like something an ordinary person could develop.

But it doesn't matter anymore.

Effensor stomped hard on Baldas's head again, crushing it completely.

He showed no mercy to the guy who had almost killed him.

Then, Effensor picked up his sword, wiped the blood and gore off his hands on the rock wall, and glanced at the other side of the pass.

It was a forest path, with lush trees and abundant grass along the way, and a few small flowers dotting the landscape.

Amidst birdsong, fragrant flowers, the gentle chirping of cicadas, and a light breeze, the outside world is tranquil, beautiful, peaceful, and serene.

What a beautiful summer scene! It's just a step away from the icy wilderness where Effensor is. With just a few steps, you can escape to the Aruga River, back to Temuria, back to Novigrad.

Should we run away?

Effensor withdrew his gaze and walked towards the valley without looking back.

……

When Effort returned to the valley, the battlefield was already completely shattered.

Nilfgaard's side was reduced to only thirty or forty men, but at the cost of almost the entire resistance of the remaining refugees.

The corpses were scattered all over the ground in front of the pass. Of the Cordwin men, only Drakalov was left. He had been knocked off his horse, and the armor on his abdomen was missing. He was now struggling to hold on, surrounded by five Nilfgaardian cavalrymen.

The same goes for Gitov; he stood in front of a mother and child, fighting against four enemies single-handedly.

The remaining Nilfgaardians then launched a massacre, chasing the refugees across the snowfields.

There were still refugees resisting, but their numbers were small. They carried simple wooden spears and wore only tattered clothes, but they never retreated.

Cowards would not survive long in the chaotic, disordered Sintra. Only those who dared to fight their way out were the ones who survived.

A Nilfgaardian cavalryman, completely bloodthirsty, charged to the pass and saw Effensor. Although the memory of the previous spell made him hesitate for a moment, seeing Effensor's disheveled and weak appearance, he still raised his sword.

What if... he's already at his last gasp?

"clang!"

The two swords clashed, and Effensor easily deflected the blow, also dodging the charge of the enemy's warhorse.

He swiftly thrust his sword into the horse's rump, startling it soaring high into the air. The rider on its back quickly grabbed the horse's neck, narrowly avoiding being thrown off.

But the next moment, he saw from the side that Effensor switched the sword to his left hand and raised his right hand with his fingers spread wide towards him.

"Ald!"

"Bang!"

The horse was pushed to the side, and the soldier on its back was not so lucky; he was knocked away.

Effensor switched the sword back to his right hand and strode toward the soldiers who were hurriedly getting up.

Just like before, it didn't take more than a few rounds for him to find an opening in the soldier's defenses. The soldier first took a kick to the chest from Effensor, and then was cleanly beheaded.

Holding the bloodied head, Effensor kicked it away, sending it rolling into the snow nearby.

Then, he looked at the chaotic battlefield.

Come here!

Effensor shouted with all his might, his loud voice instantly echoing throughout the battlefield, causing the bloody battle to pause for a moment.

He raised his blood-dripping steel sword and pointed it at the pass behind him.

"The road's open! Run!"

A large number of refugees immediately swarmed toward him, while the Nilfgaards looked at each other and stopped moving in unison.

Others may not know, but they know it very well.

Their commanders had personally led the defense of this pass—but now the commanders were gone, and in their place stood a demon hunter carrying a blood-dripping steel sword.

Considering Affinso's previous performance and the terrifying magic he had unleashed, they could easily guess what had happened.

"Sir! Where is Colonel Baldas?!"

A Nilfgaardian soldier who spoke Common Tongue shouted to Effinso.

"Sir?"

"Bardas?"

Effensor paused for a moment, then thought of the young man wearing an iron mask who had wrestled with him.

Is it him?

However, it doesn't matter if it's not true or not; that doesn't prevent Affenso from admitting it directly.

"Dead!"

"What about Company Commander Kovini?"

"What about Lieutenant Colonel Benni?"

Two voices rang out almost simultaneously, one from a scout dressed as a defeated Sintra soldier, and the other from a fallen cavalryman.

"They're all dead!"

"Iffinso said loudly."

As soon as he finished speaking, the Nilfgaardian cavalryman who had fallen from his horse couldn't help but take a step back. His comrades glared at him angrily, wishing they could just stab him with their blood-stained swords.

They showed their weakness.

Effensor immediately realized.

These people were afraid. They had lost nearly two-thirds of their men, and it was a miracle that they hadn't fled despite such casualties. But they had also lost the will to continue fighting.

Upon seeing this, Effensor shouted a threat: "Anyone who wants to be burned to ashes is welcome to come."

Then, flames of the Igni sign ignited in his right hand, and he began chanting incantations—imagined on the spot, of course. But with the addition of some ancient words, the incantation actually sounded quite plausible.

One soldier, who understood both Common Tongue and Old English, was so terrified that he turned his horse around and fled, whipping it relentlessly as if afraid of being burned to ashes if he hesitated.

His running away triggered a chain reaction.

Without an officer in command, these soldiers were essentially a disorganized mob. As a result, no one stopped the deserter, which encouraged others to follow suit.

They now possessed some loot, valuables salvaged from the corpses of their fallen comrades, and a large number of severed ears. For these survivors—they had gained money and military merit, and they would not be punished for retreating despite suffering such casualties.

They lack nothing.

Not to mention that military law clearly states that in the event of the commander's death and the loss of unified command, desertion is not a crime, and resistance is meritorious.

So... is it necessary to continue fighting that witcher?

How much merit is there in killing a Witcher? How many military credits is his ear worth?

The heavy load of valuables and the ears hanging from the horses made them hesitate, unwilling to continue fighting and risk their lives.

The small flame that Effensor had lit in his hand, along with his unconvincing threat, seemed to offer the soldiers a way out.

Whether it's true or not doesn't matter; they just need a reason.

Having found a reason, they readily accepted the situation and naturally withdrew.

The blizzard continued to howl.

The Nilfgaardian cavalry came and went in a hurry.

In a short time, they swept across the battlefield like the wind, swiftly slaughtering a large number of refugees, and then vanished just as quickly. Carrying their spoils and severed ears, they disappeared into the blizzard in the blink of an eye.

With the threat gone, Effensor breathed a sigh of relief, and everyone else did too.

The refugees surged in like a tide, but Effensor stood firm like a rock on the shore, parting the tide.

As crowds passed by him, regardless of age or gender, Effensor would hear the same thing every time they passed by.

"Thanks."

This sentence was repeated dozens or even hundreds of times, spoken by different people with different voices, but Affinso heard the same gratitude in it.

Humans are truly amazing creatures.

Effensor was deeply moved; he could sense that these expressions of gratitude came from the bottom of their hearts.

These refugees... might be the same group of people who had verbally abused and spat at him when he passed through Sintra.

At that time, he had only recently left Kaer Mohen and still held onto the ideas from his previous life, regarding helping others as a virtue.

He had also selflessly helped these people. He had helped some poor people without accepting any payment. But after the favor was done, the other party immediately changed their attitude, not only failing to show gratitude but also accusing him of theft and using it to blackmail him.

Is it possible that only the debt of saving a life can make these people let go of their prejudices and ignorance?

Effensor was somewhat lost in thought.

A shivering little head peeked out from the snow-covered bushes. She cautiously looked around, and when no one was watching, she ran toward the pass.

Unfortunately, her grayish-white hair was too conspicuous, and Effensor noticed her immediately.

Ciri intended to sneak over while Effensor was distracted, but was suddenly stopped by a large hand.

She looked up and saw Effensor looking at her with a look that was a mixture of curiosity, surprise, and a touch of amusement.

Effensor was indeed surprised; the Ciri before him was completely different from the one he had seen in the game.

Ciri's hair was a mess, some strands were stuck together, some were curled up, and it wasn't tied up at all; instead, it was loose and disheveled, almost covering her face.

To be honest, she was no different from the beggars of Novigrad, and perhaps even worse.

Her face was red from the cold, covered with various black or gray stains, and many tiny scratches, some of which were already inflamed.

Her clothes were also tattered, and her small hands nervously clutched the hem of her garment, making her unease immediately apparent.

Little Ciri might even look a bit ugly, but like the Ugly Duckling, she'll grow up to be a swan.

The only thing worth mentioning was probably her eyes. They were large and bright, with rare green pupils that shone like emeralds in the Sericanian desert.

In Ciri's eyes, Effensor saw fear, and... curiosity?

Fear is understandable, but curiosity is also present. Why is this happening?

Ciri blinked.

She looked into Effensor's vertical eyes and realized his identity—the Witcher.

And Effensor even has a head of white hair!

She was somewhat surprised; the Witcher who had saved her in Brochrond also had white hair. And that Witcher's name was Geralt.

"Does that mean... all witchers have white hair?"

Ciri thought to herself.

Effensor hesitated for a moment, then knelt down and greeted her, "Nice to meet you, Princess of Sintra."

The word "princess" instantly pulled Ciri from her wandering imagination back to the cold, harsh reality.

The unpleasant memories replayed in her mind, and the painful recollections immediately plunged her into despair.

The word "princess" brought back memories of her childhood, the fire that day, and the fear and anxiety she had felt these past few days trying to escape danger.

"Hello there."

"Ciri said softly, her eyes slightly red," Ciri said.

Effensor noticed Ciri's emotional change, but he was completely baffled and couldn't understand why she was reacting so strongly.

Did I... say something wrong?

Effensor was puzzled.

Just then, Gitov came slowly through the snow, leading an abandoned horse and limping along.

He was shivering from the cold, but when he saw the little girl with gray hair, a bright smile, like spring flowers, bloomed on his face.

Finally, finally.

A great weight has been lifted off my shoulders; I have fulfilled my mission.

He glanced back at the heavy snowfall.

Brondann, rest in peace!

I will carry out your last wishes.

"My princess..."

Gitov knelt down on one knee with a respectful yet labored air, performing a Sintra courtly ritual that felt both familiar and strange.

"Your knight, Gitov Sokonia of Bonya, swears allegiance to you and awaits your command."

Tears welled up in Ciri's eyes and she could no longer hold them back.

A feeling of grievance welled up in her heart, and all the pain she had suffered during the fall of her country kept bringing tears to her eyes, which she could not stop.

She didn't want to show her vulnerability at this moment; she wanted to remain strong. She was actually very brave, definitely not the pampered princess type. But alas, the tears wouldn't stop as she wished.

Tears fell, drop by drop.

Hot tears dripped onto the snow, melting it. But the next moment, the relentless blizzard quickly covered it with a new layer of snow.

Gitov rose unsteadily; one of his legs was badly injured and barely able to support him. His other leg also bore a large wound, making it impossible for him to stand steadily, let alone walk.

Just then, Effensor suddenly heard a different sound.

It wasn't the howling of a blizzard, nor Ciri's sobs, but the sound of an arrow slicing through the air.

"Crouch down!"

With a shout, Effensor crouched down and pulled Ciri, who was still standing there dumbfounded, to the ground as well.

Gitov was a beat too slow, and the arrow was aimed right at him.

"Whoosh!"

The crossbow bolt pierced through the heavy snow and struck Gitov. Although he dodged, the arrow missed his vital organs but struck his leg squarely.

This further aggravated Gitov's already severely injured leg, making it impossible for him to support himself any longer, causing him to buckle and collapse onto the snow.

He struggled desperately to get up, but could not manage it.

Effensor pushed Ciri through the pass and then gripped the steel sword.

The blood on the sword's edge had frozen in that short time.

As darkness fell, Effensor could see a figure standing in the distance amidst the heavy snow. He was still holding a crossbow.

The figure casually tossed aside the crossbow, drew his sword, and slowly walked over.

He also had a slight limp, but he walked much faster and more smoothly than Gitov.

As he approached, his white beard, stained with blood and fluttering in the snow, and his aged face came into view, making his identity immediately clear.

"Drakarov".

Effensor's expression was solemn, but he sighed inwardly.

Ultimately, it was unavoidable.

"Fuck you!" Gitov cursed, sprawled on the ground. "You shot yourself in me! I'll fuck you..."

Ignoring Gitov's insults, Drakarov, covered in snow, calmly addressed Gitov and Effensor, "I just want to remind you that you need to abide by our original agreement."

"Princess..." He raised his sword and pointed it at Ciri, who was standing bewildered in the pass. "She needs to be taken to the court of Temeria, to receive a good education, and to be under the guardianship of King Foltest of Temeria."

"Fuck you!" Gitov continued cursing Drakarov. "Everyone knows what you're up to! You're using the princess as a tool so that that old pervert Foltest will marry her, right? That way you can legitimately annex Sintra?!"

"I'm telling you!" he said, pointing angrily at Drakarov, emphasizing each word, "Absolutely not! Impossible!"

Drakarov completely ignored him and showed Effensor a seal.

"I think Brøndane only gave you the withdrawal slip, right?" he said slowly, tossing the stamp in his hand.

"But he didn't know that two stamps were needed for the withdrawal certificate to be valid; otherwise, it was just a piece of waste paper."

"And now, one is in my hand," Derakarov said, pointing one finger toward Temuria.

"The other one is on His Majesty Foltest's desk."

"..."

Effensor fell silent, not expecting these people to have a backup plan.

"Make a decision now."

"Drakarov urged, glancing at Gitov, then at Ciri, before issuing his ultimatum."

"Make way and leave this fool in the snow. I'll vouch for you; both stamps will be affixed, then you can collect your bounty, and I'll get on with my job."

"Or... well, you'd better think this through, Witcher. This is more money than you could ever earn in your lifetime, so watch out, it might just slip away from you."

Drakarov spoke with a hint of jealousy in his voice.

As a mercenary who had spent his entire life struggling for money, this enormous sum was something he could never earn even after a lifetime of risking his life. Now, this immense wealth had been easily obtained by a demon hunter; how could he not be jealous? How could he not envy?

In his view, this was not something to hesitate about at all. With this money, where in the world couldn't one go? Buy a manor, acquire some properties, and not only would he enjoy wealth and luxury for the rest of his life, but his descendants would also be able to enjoy the good life.

Who could refuse something like this? Who could say they weren't tempted?

Therefore, Drakaroff was confident that the Witcher would make the right decision.

Gitov fell silent, looking at Effensor with bated breath. His expression was predominantly one of unease.

He didn't know what the witcher's true character was like, but from the various rumors he had heard, witchers were monsters who would do anything for money and would even do things like stealing and kidnapping children.

Admittedly, he had witnessed Affenbacher's actions over the past few days. In his mind, those rumors had already been labeled as falsehoods.

But… that’s a huge sum of money, 4000 crowns! Gitov admitted that he himself would be tempted by it unless it involved principles. And this witcher, wouldn’t he be tempted?

Ciri was also looking at Effensor.

She didn't understand the content of their conversation, but she could roughly understand that it was related to compensation.

Drakarov's words, "Make way," sent a chill down her spine; she realized that he was after her.

Ciri instinctively wanted to run away, but her legs seemed frozen and she couldn't move at all.

She could only move slowly, hiding behind Affinso.

She was somewhat frightened. Words like "the court of Temeria" and "marriage" reminded her of her past experiences. She was arranged to marry Prince Viden, but she was unwilling and even ran away because of it.

Ciri began to worry, fearing that today would end the same way as before—when she fought hard to express her discontent, but no one paid attention, and she was eventually forcibly pushed onto the carriage to Vidon.

As for Effensor, he remained silent.

a long time.

The sky grew increasingly dark; it was about to get dark.

Effensor closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

This isn't actually a very difficult decision, is it?

He took the paper out of his waist bag; this withdrawal slip was so important that he definitely had to carry it with him at all times.

Unfold the folded paper and hold it forward.

"That's a lot of money indeed."

Effensor laughed.

Drakarov didn't even glance at Effensor. He nodded hastily, his eyes fixed on the paper. The number "4000" on it was so striking and dazzling, as if it were shining with golden light, that he couldn't take his eyes off it.

Imagine if this piece of paper belonged to him...

He really wanted to, he wanted to so badly.

But the next moment, the paper seemed to start burning.

De Lakarov quickly rubbed his eyes, thinking it was just his imagination.

But when he looked again, the paper was really burning!

He stared at Effensor in disbelief, his lips trembling, but he couldn't utter a single word.

Effensor slowly retracted the Igni Seal from his hand, his smile fading as he calmly observed everything.

In the dim light, the faint glow of the fire dissipated in his hand.

A few sparks turned the paper to ashes.

He burned the piece of paper, worth four thousand crowns, with his own hands.

The ashes rose with the wind, scattered into the air, and soon merged with the snowflakes, disappearing without a trace.

Even now, Delakarov still couldn't believe it was real.

He didn't understand why anyone would refuse such a huge sum of money.

Why?!

"No!"

Drakarov roared and charged forward, his leg injury seemingly nonexistent. Pain was overshadowed by rage; he stared at Effensor with hatred, as if the burned ATM slip were his own.

He attacked Effensor with a powerful, heavy strike, as if pouring all his anger into it. Effensor immediately raised his sword to parry, using a technique to deflect the force of the blow, and then delivered a knee strike to Drakarov's stomach.

Drakarov stumbled and retreated several steps.

Once he regained his footing, filled with resentment and bewilderment, he roared at Effensor, "Why?"

"Why burn it! Why don't you accept it!"

"That's 4000 crowns! 4000 crowns!"

"It's none of your business," Effensor replied nonchalantly. "You're about to die, so there's no need for you to care so much about money."

Tell me! Why?!

Drakarov's forehead veins bulged, and his face, under the combined effects of cold and anger, turned bright red, resembling a ripe crab.

"Ha... Screw you!"

Effensor said nothing more, answering Delakharov in the most concise way, while also stating his position.

This naturally fueled the old man's anger even more.

The two clashed in the snow, exchanging blows without giving an inch. Drakarov's swordsmanship was equally formidable, no less so than that of Baldas earlier.

However, both of them were at their limit at this moment, their strength almost exhausted, and each swing of their swords was weaker and less powerful than the last.

Despite being an elderly man, De Lakarov possessed exceptional stamina.

In the end, it was Effensor that couldn't hold on any longer.

His legs buckled, and he stumbled, stepping on a head—the very head that Effensor had carelessly kicked into the snowdrift. With a slip, Effensor suddenly fell to the ground.

Seeing this, De Lakarov quickly stepped forward, intending to finish off the attacker.

He thrust his sword twice at Effensor's head, but both times it was dodged. The third sword, however, happened to pierce a corpse buried under the snow at the same moment Effensor dodged it.

"Damn it!"

Drakarov pulled hard, only to find the sword stuck and he couldn't pull it out at all.

Seeing this, Effensor knew the time had come.

"ha!"

He sat up, gripped his sword with both hands, and pushed it forward with force. Drakarov was unable to dodge in time and was immediately stabbed in the abdomen.

Even though he retreated in time, preventing Effensor from taking the opportunity to cut a large gash in his stomach, he was unarmed at that moment, while Effensor stood up and was limping toward him.

De Lakarov knew—he was probably doomed.

Although the odds of winning were slim, he did not intend to sit idly by and wait for his doom.

"Aaaaaah!"

He roared and lunged at Affinso, intending to tackle him and engage in close combat.

Although Effensor didn't have time to dodge, he decisively positioned his sword at Drakarov's chest the moment Drakarov lunged at him.

"Sizzle!"

The steel sword plunged into Drakarov's stomach again, this time not withdrawing after a brief touch, but piercing through his flesh and internal organs, finally reaching the armor on his back, nearly piercing him through completely.

This scene looked as if Delakarov had run into Effensor's sword.

"..."

Derakarov was stunned; the excruciating pain in his abdomen caused him to convulse, and his mind went blank.

Effensor shoved him aside, drew his steel sword, and spun around, the sword flashing in the air as it swung in a circle. Drakarov's stomach was then completely ripped open, and a large amount of blood gushed out, staining a large patch of snow in front of him red.

"Well……"

Drakarov knelt on the ground in agony, clutching his stomach with both hands, but blood kept flowing out from between his fingers.

His hand was merely blocking the spilling internal organs... although it did nothing.

"Last words?"

Effensor wiped the sword with his clothes, panting, and said calmly.

The ice on the sword had melted after being covered in fresh, hot blood.

Fresh blood mixed with melted blood was smeared on Effensor's clothes.

"Hehe, hehe..."

Derakarov suddenly smiled, then abruptly looked up, his eyes wide with anger.

With his last breath, he roared his final words at Effensor.

"Why! You don't want it! Four thousand crowns?"

Then he fell backward and lay on the ground. The old man's eyes stared at the sky, his bloodless face as white as snow, and then he stopped breathing.

Even in death, he couldn't understand Effensor's actions. He could only gaze longingly at the endless snow, his mind filled with unanswered questions.

"ha."

Effensor was panting.

"Because I want to."

He gave a brief reply to Drakarov's corpse.

If he really valued money that much, he should have joined the Serpent School or the Cat School; he wouldn't dare to shamelessly return to Kaer Morhen every winter.

He took on the job and risked his life for money, which was useful to Effensor but not important. When the temptation of money conflicted with his moral conscience, Effensor could only choose the latter.

What exactly does money mean to him?

He didn't know, perhaps it was more like... game currency?

If you lose it all, you can always earn more; why become a slave to money?

Even though Ciri and Gitov weren't even acquaintances to him, Effortso would never allow anyone to buy their lives from him.

He was almost completely exhausted at that moment, and he nearly fell over after just turning around and taking one step.

Effensor didn't forget to bring along the horse he had stolen from the Nilfgaardians, as well as the horse Gitov had found. Then he staggered over to Gitov, hoisted his arm onto his shoulder, and with all his might helped Gitov to his feet, letting him lean against him. Finally, the two limped side by side toward the pass.

Ciri wanted to help, but the two of them, along with their armor, weighed nearly 300 kilograms, and as a ten-year-old girl, she couldn't do anything to help.

She could only follow behind the two of them, walking forward together.

Effensor looked at the exit that was so close at hand and took a step out.

In an instant, the temperature changed from the dead of winter to the sweltering heat of summer. The snow on his body melted rapidly, and his frostbitten fingers quickly regained feeling, making him feel a swelling sensation.

It felt like stepping into a heated room after being outside for a long time in winter.

Inside the valley, a dark twilight shrouded in blizzard.

From the outside, Affencia only saw the sunset, the evening glow, and the brilliant fiery clouds.

Birds returned to their nests one after another, and flocks of birds flew continuously across the sky.

Under the glow of the setting sun, everything—flowers, trees, mountains, and rivers—either faces the sun directly and is painted with a brilliant golden-red hue, or faces away from the sun and is painted with a pure black shadow.

Effensor stood on a mountain path. On either side were forests stretching to the mountainside and towering mountains reaching into the clouds.

Ahead of him, the winding path led towards the fading horizon. Further along the path, a long line of refugees—the survivors of the catastrophe—continued.

Affenzo also survived the ordeal.

He survived, though severely injured.

Just like the time when he was chased by 50 men sent by a count, he was hit by seventeen arrows and was almost like a hedgehog. He fell into the turbulent river while unconscious, but he eventually drifted to the shore and was rescued.

Fate still favored him. He was not hit in the heart by a stray arrow, he was not killed in a bloody battle against many, he was not melted by the mage apprentice's fireball, and he was not frozen into an ice sculpture by the terrifying power in the runestone.

He did not die at the hands of that Nilfgaardian officer, nor was he defeated by Drakalov at the last moment.

In the end, he was still alive.

Effensor glanced back at the pass; the blizzard still raged through the valley as if it would never stop. He would definitely return someday. He would bury his mount, bury Brondan, bury those who had given their lives to hold off the enemy, and of course, he would retrieve all his lost possessions.

The sword oil that Vesemir had personally prepared for him, the scarf that Sif had knitted for him, birthday gifts from Geralt, Lambert, and others, as well as notes on improving signs, those precious books, and other alchemical materials that he had painstakingly collected—all of these were included.

He must get it back, but not now.

Now is the time to be a fugitive...