Psionic Ascension Starting with The Witcher

night.

Exhausted, Effensor, with Ciri's help, lit a campfire.

He rummaged through the saddlebags of both horses. One saddlebag contained a lot of food, various tools for repairing armor and clothing, as well as military maps, soldiers' manuals, and other items. The other one was less substantial, containing some food, water, a large roll of white cloth, and the rest of the contents were all liquor.

The soldier was probably a connoisseur of alcohol; his saddlebag contained various concoctions, including Nilfgaard liqueur mixed with fruit juice and spices, and Cordwin beer that had been added to a special brew—something that would be very useful to Affinso.

He shared the lower-alcohol drinks with Gitov.

Each person gets a large iron cup, which is rinsed in the stream and then dried over a fire. At this point, a large cup of wine can be poured into it.

"Hiss... Ha!"

Effensor couldn't wait and took a big gulp.

In an instant, my tired nerves were numbed, my rapid heartbeat slowed down, and I could no longer feel any of the pain.

"Hmm...good wine."

Gitov also took a bite and praised it.

"Oh, by the way," Effensor said, taking a sip, "how's your leg now? Can you ride a horse?"

"Not too good," Gitov shook his head. "The arrowheads are still inside. But if we can get them out, riding a horse shouldn't be a big problem."

"Sigh..." Effensor looked at himself upon hearing this. He also had three arrow shafts stuck in his body and a huge gash on his shoulder.

If it weren't for his superior physique as a Witcher, he wouldn't be able to fight with all these injuries, and he would even have trouble taking two steps.

"We'll deal with that later. Now, cheers!"

"Cheers."

The two clinked glasses and then simultaneously uttered completely different toasts.

"Homage to Brondan, my great mentor."

"Gitov said."

"Homage to Sintra."

Effensor said briefly.

Then, the two raised their glasses together and drank them down in one gulp.

Ciri watched intently from the side.

She watched the two of them drinking and chatting, then looked at the steaming hot water in her own cup and couldn't help but lick her lips.

"May I try some?"

She pointed to a bottle of Nilfgaard lemon liqueur and asked.

"no."

"no."

Effensor and Gitov both rejected the idea.

Ciri was somewhat disappointed, but could only watch helplessly as the two of them drank heartily.

"Alright, now it's time to get down to business."

After finishing his last sip of wine, Effensor spoke, then drew his dagger and heated it over the fire. He then turned to Gitov and asked, "You first, or me?"

"Sigh... You go first, I'll have another one."

Gitov looked at Effensor with awe. If it were him, he would have needed to be at least half-drunk to have the courage to strike. But Effensor was perfectly sober and showed no signs of drunkenness.

Effensor nodded, and only when the dagger was slightly red-hot and his hand could feel the heat along the hilt did he decisively retract it.

Then... the first cut was plunged into his shoulder.

"Um……"

Effensor let out a muffled groan, his face turned pale instantly, and fine beads of cold sweat appeared on his forehead.

As he turned his head to look at his shoulder, he carefully used the knife to cut open the skin and slice through the flesh until the tip of the knife touched the arrowhead.

Sure enough, just as Effensor had predicted, this damned arrow had barbs.

Forcibly pulling it out will only cause more serious secondary damage.

Effensor carefully used the tip of his knife to pry open the obstructing flesh and blood, and pulled out the crossbow bolt.

Then he poured himself a bottle of strong liquor, wrapped himself in a white cloth, and that was it. The rest was up to time. His exceptional constitution would ensure he survived the infection, but many severe symptoms would still inevitably appear…

After dealing with the crossbow bolt in his left shoulder, Effensor also tended to the wound on his right shoulder. The procedure was the same as always—first, clean the wound with a dagger, then disinfect it with strong liquor, and finally bandage it with a white cloth.

Effensor then heated the dagger over the fire until it became scalding hot again.

This time, it was the abdomen.

Fortunately, the arrow did not injure any internal organs. All Effensor had to do was perform a minor surgery on his abdomen to make a slightly larger incision where the arrow was lodged, so that he could easily pull it out.

This crossbow bolt had no barbs, but its tip was a long, conical spike. It was an armor-piercing arrow, which is why it could easily pierce the armor on Effensor's abdomen and then penetrate deep inside.

After removing the wound, Effensor forcefully contracted his muscles and quickly applied heat to the wound, stopping the continuous bleeding. After wrapping it with a white cloth, although some blood still seeped out, it was no longer life-threatening.

The last one is on the buttocks; this one will be done by Gitov.

The procedure remains the same: remove the barbed arrowhead, disinfect with strong liquor, and bandage with a white cloth...

Then it was Gitov's turn.

He drank two more large glasses, successfully getting himself drunk, but as Effensor plunged a scalding dagger into his thigh, he immediately sobered up.

"Ughhhhhh!"

Gitov let out a howl, then forced himself to hold it in.

Firstly, he didn't want to embarrass himself in front of the princess. Secondly, Effensor had already snorted, and if he were to yell like a pig being slaughtered, wouldn't that be incredibly embarrassing?

Gitov forced himself to endure the pain, but despite the intense agony, he still let out various muffled groans, the moans coming from his throat never ceasing.

After a while, when Effensor finally finished, Gitov's tense body went limp and he lay on the ground like an octopus, completely exhausted.

"That really hurts..."

"Gitov said weakly."

"Relax, have another drink to calm down."

Effensor handed him a cup, which Gitov took and drank in one gulp. Then he let out a long sigh, closed his eyes, and although his brow was furrowed and he was sweating profusely, he miraculously drifted off to sleep amidst the pain.

That's probably the allure of alcohol.

Ciri witnessed the whole thing. And she was the next one to have her wound treated.

Effensor first washed her face to remove the dirt, then gently scraped away the pus from the wounds on her face with a knife, and then cut off a small piece of cloth, dipped it in strong liquor, and wiped it.

There was a scar on Ciri's arm, which looked like a knife wound. When Effensor asked about the origin of the wound, Ciri replied that it was inflicted by a group of robbers.

After the wound was treated, Ciri suddenly laughed.

"It doesn't hurt that much!"

"Of course," Effensor said seriously. "It doesn't hurt at all. We were just pretending to scare you. That way you'll be more careful in the future and not hurt yourself."

"I don't believe it!"

"You have to believe me, otherwise all our injuries will have been for nothing."

Ciri laughed again.

Then she pointed to Effensor's white hair and asked curiously, "Do all witchers have white hair?"

"What? Of course not." Effinso shook his head repeatedly, also a little curious. "You've encountered other witchers?"

"Yes, he also has gray hair, and he saved me."

"Interesting... Do you remember what he looked like? Did he have a big, slightly red nose?"

Ciri thought for a moment, then denied it.

He didn't.

"Then I'll guess his name is Geralt."

Effensor said with a smile.

Ciri nodded in surprise, then asked, "Do you know him? Where is he?"

"Of course I know him, but as for where he is, I don't know. He could be anywhere."

"Oh……"

Ciri remained excited, like a child listening to a story.

She and Effensor chatted for a long time, mostly her asking questions—all sorts of strange and unusual ones. Her thinking was wildly imaginative and highly jumpy, always coming up with something new.

Effensor remained patient and answered one by one.

Many of these questions are simply absurd, such as whether witchers should squat to use the toilet, whether water ghosts can become vampires, and why witchers don't establish their own kingdoms...

Time passed by, and Ciri's curiosity and enthusiasm were soon replaced by sleepiness.

Not long after, she lay down on the ground, closed her eyes, and fell asleep with a smile on her lips.

Effensor did not sleep.

He was to keep watch until the latter half of the night, then wake up Gitov to take over.

Also, it's time to take care of his left hand.

Effensor heated the dagger over the fire again, then, enduring the excruciating pain and ignoring the blood and flesh stuck to the glove, he used his right hand to forcefully tear off the glove from his left hand.

His left hand can only be described in one word.

Bloody.

The golden skin had vanished, and the already incompletely healed flesh tore open again, revealing his stark white finger bones through the gaps.

This time it was much worse than the first time. His hand was in danger of falling apart at any moment due to severe tearing. The cracks spread to his wrist, and it was a tear from the inside out. If it weren't for some skin and flesh still connecting them, Effensor's hand would have needed to be amputated.

Effensor remained silent, poured a bottle of liquor into his left hand, and used the scalding hot dagger to pick away pieces of necrotic flesh and blood, then carefully scraped away the layers of blood with the tip of the knife.

Once cleaned, Effensor wrapped his hands in thick white cloth.

He was powerless to treat this severe injury and could only deal with it hastily.

Throughout the entire process, Affentso did not utter a single groan, and apart from his slightly irregular breathing, he showed no other abnormalities.

Waves of excruciating pain replaced groans with a flushed face and bulging veins.

If you look at his face, you'll find that it's been distorted beyond recognition, with his features struggling uncontrollably.

These blows made Effensor wince in pain.

But at least we made it through.

Effensor pulled open his collar again, revealing the frostbite marks on his chest. He still felt short of breath and tightness in his chest.

However, there wasn't much that could be done. Unlike external injuries, this wasn't something that could be treated immediately. The only option was to tough it out. Furthermore, most of the effects of the Swallow Potion he had previously consumed were used up here, which is why Effensor could feel his frostbite significantly lessening.

At this moment, he looked up at the sky. Although the moon was not yet halfway there, it would be soon.

So Effensor gave Gitov a hard shove to wake him up, and in the other's sleepy and dazed look, made him start his vigil ahead of time without even realizing it.

After yawning, Affenzo closed his eyes peacefully and drifted into a long-awaited dream.

Even though he was sleeping on the grass and covered with the sky, when his body was about to collapse, Effensor felt that the grass was so soft and so comfortable.

……

Three days later.

The journey was relatively peaceful; we didn't encounter any highway robbers.

But it was deserted. Effensor saw countless abandoned villages, where everyone seemed to have fled in haste. He guessed that a great battle must have taken place here, and it might have become a front line.

Along the way, however, came some bad news—Affinso discovered that his wound had become infected.

The wound on his shoulder was too large and had not been stitched up, and it was slowly worsening in the hot weather.

Yellowish pus had seeped through the white bandage covering the wound, and Effensor was showing various symptoms of infection. He felt nauseous, dizzy, weak, and had a high fever.

Although the Witcher's constitution prevented him from dying from it, his weakened body made him susceptible to serious illness.

The same applies to Gitov, in addition to Efenso.

His immune system was far weaker than Effensor's, especially since a crossbow bolt had pierced his thigh bone, causing a severe fracture, and this fatal wound had become infected.

Gitov's symptoms appeared later than Afenso's, but progressed much faster.

Within a day, he began to fall into intermittent coma, and even showed symptoms of convulsions and confusion. When Effensor spoke to him, he could only get some nonsensical and incoherent responses.

There was no other way, so Shiri, who had been sitting behind Effensor, mounted Guitov's horse. Effensor tied Guitov to the saddle with a rope to prevent him from falling off due to loss of consciousness. He was really afraid that Guitov would fall backward and break his neck.

Two days later, Effensor collected a lot of herbs along the way and found a bottle of dwarven spirits among the miscellaneous drinks. He then mixed a simple healing and anti-inflammatory medicine and gave it to Gitov.

The medicine worked well, briefly waking Gitov and relieving his symptoms, thus keeping him alive.

However, as dusk fell, Effensor looked at the sunset on the horizon and suddenly saw a flash of white light. When he opened his eyes again, it was already dark.

He and Gitov lay by a makeshift fire, their hands clasped to their chests, looking like corpses at a funeral.

Ciri was on the open ground to the side, crying as she used her sword as a shovel to dig something in the ground.

Effensor paused for a moment, then asked, somewhat confused, "Ciri? What happened?"

Upon hearing this, Ciri turned around in surprise and saw Effensor sit up. She ran over crying and hugged Effensor tightly.

"I thought you were dead! I couldn't wake you up no matter what I did!"

Ciri cried as she wiped her snot and tears all over Effensor's body.

Effensor understood all of this.

He was probably in shock, and while he was unconscious, Ciri couldn't wake him and Gitov, so she assumed they were both dead.

Now, Effensor is certain that he is still alive.

And... what about Gitov?

He reached out and checked her breathing; thankfully, she was breathing.

But Effensor also realized a problem: they couldn't continue. If he went into a coma again due to shock, and something dangerous happened during that time, they would all perish there.

He needed to find a place to rest; Gitov couldn't delay any longer. His infection was life-threatening, and he was on the verge of death.

Effensor took out the military map; their location was not far from the Yaruga River.

He had originally planned to avoid potential battle zones and travel along the river to Livia. But that route was definitely no longer viable.

The other route is to go straight to the Yaruga River, which takes about a day. From there, they can reach the riverbank ferry, take a boat across the river, and go to Lower Soden.

This road is fraught with danger. The fighting has long since spread to Upper Soden, and there are likely troops encamped along the riverbank. Or worse, all the crossings have become the front lines of the standoff between the two sides.

However, Effensor believes that Lower Soden is still peaceful and tranquil, unaffected by the war.

As long as the northern army defends along the river... well, I've never heard of the Nilfgaardians having a decent river fleet, so their chances of successfully crossing the river are slim. In short, if this place can't be held, then the commander must be an idiot.

But he wasn't entirely sure; they were shrouded in the fog of war and didn't know the specifics.

But at least they can't stay in Upper Soden. This large-scale exodus of residents must mean that a large number of troops have arrived here. This is different from the scattered garrisons of a dozen or so people. The presence of a large-scale army here means that a major battle is about to begin.

Regardless of who wins or loses, whether they are defeated and undisciplined routs or a regular army that is bloodthirsty and cuts down anyone in sight, they will all plunder without prior arrangement.

Effensor's sense of crisis grew stronger. He quickly tidied himself up, lit a torch, and, despite his exhaustion, tied Gitov to his horse. They then set off on their journey through the night.

He recalled the scene he had witnessed on Mount Streep that day: the vast Nilfgaardian army marching along the river, an unprecedented force, probably numbering in the tens of thousands.

These people are definitely not here for tourism.

He was afraid that if he didn't leave soon, he wouldn't be able to leave at all.

……

Upper Soden, on the riverbank of the Yaruga River.

"The sons of Temuria and Soden!"

"Our blood is the shield of the North!"

Sharp swords were drawn, and the soldiers raised them high, shouting in unison, "Our blood is the shield of the North!"

"Our swords fight for the freedom of the North!"

"Our swords fight for the freedom of the North!"

"Long live!"

"Long live!"

With a unified shout, an elite force of soldiers, fully armed and covered from head to toe in iron plates, launched their first attack.

The battle took place on the riverbank. Under the command of King Soden, a large number of Temuria-Soden allied forces emerged from the ship's hold and launched an attack from the riverbank.

Opposite them stood 15,000 Nilfgaardian troops under the command of Menno Kuhun, primarily archers and infantry. They arrayed themselves on the riverbank, facing off against the Northern coalition's attack across the river.

The outbreak of this battle was truly out of necessity. The Nilfgaardians had completely occupied the south bank of the Yaruka River, and the last stronghold of the Northern Kingdoms on the south bank had been eliminated, which was unacceptable.

In addition to stopping any potential further invasions by Nilfgaard, they also hoped to drive the Nilfgaards back and seize the land of Cintra.

To achieve this goal, even before the main force of Temuria had been assembled and before reinforcements from Redania, Cordwin, and other countries had arrived, Foltest decided to order an attack.

If they could defeat the Nilfgaardian army on the south bank before they could establish a firm foothold, they would undoubtedly gain a greater advantage in the entire war.

Duke Erland was appointed to command this battle. Although he had not studied military strategy, he knew the principle of "attacking while the enemy is crossing the river," and he would certainly not allow a large-scale crossing of the river in front of the Nilfgaardian army. Therefore, the battle on the riverbank was merely a feint, or more accurately, a sacrifice.

The allied forces from the Northern Kingdom arrived by ship, with soldiers hidden in the cabins, making it impossible to determine their exact numbers from the outside. He then mobilized a large number of empty ships, creating the illusion that the entire army had been brought on board.

In reality, fewer than three thousand men participated in the bloody battle on the riverbank. The main force of the Northern Kingdom's allied forces had taken a longer route, passing through Libya, and completed the encirclement.

Did Marshal Menno Kuhorn on the other side of the river notice all of this?

He already knew.

But he still released 15,000 men on the riverbank, not for any other reason than because he had a large army and many generals.

News of the arrival of the main Nilfgaardian army was top secret. In the eyes of the Duke of Elland, the 15,000 men across the river were the main force of the Nilfgaardian army in the Sintra region. Little did he know that in the mountains of Upper Soden, nearly 20,000 men were waiting for his arrival.

At noon, as the sun rose higher, the bloody battle on the riverbank came to an end.

Menno Kuhun ultimately miscalculated. He did not expect these northerners to be so fearless, nor did he expect that the Duke of Erland would arrange a large number of elite troops here in order to create a more realistic illusion.

Ultimately, this pawn, sent as a suicide squad to draw enemy fire, managed to turn the tide despite being outnumbered by three thousand.

After the bloody battle, the Nilfgaardian army, personally commanded by Menno Kuhorn, collapsed, and a breach was torn in their tight defenses, allowing the enemy to break through.

These northern warriors, numbering less than a thousand, broke through the encirclement and retreated into the mountains of Upper Soden.

Menno Kuhorn did not order a pursuit. He quickly rallied his remaining troops and hurriedly headed into the mountains.

The bloody battle just now caused him to misjudge the situation. If all northerners were this fierce, then the ambush troops he had placed in the mountains would probably be surrounded and annihilated.

However, when he arrived, the scene before him finally made him breathe a sigh of relief.

The winding mountain road was littered with corpses.

The northern soldiers were caught in a pincer movement on the mountain path, their retreat cut off. The Nilfgaardian army, positioned on higher ground, hurled rocks and arrows at them, causing heavy casualties and routing them on the mountain road. Large numbers of soldiers fled into the forest, but Duke Elland, unusually, performed an extraordinary feat. Leading from the front and boosting morale, he miraculously led his remaining five thousand men through a bloody battle, before fleeing in panic towards the Yaruga River.

The final result was still a crushing defeat for the Northern Alliance, a resounding victory for Nilfgaard, and the southern coast was completely brought under Nilfgaardian control.

Looking at the horrific battlefield, Menno Kuhorn began to formulate his next plan.

Perhaps it's time to press our advantage and secure a foothold for the Empire on the north bank of the Yaruga River. Or perhaps we should seize the opportunity to crush the northerners' army and take more land.