Psionic Ascension Starting with The Witcher

Effensor is fast, but not fast enough.

When he saw the rushing waters of the Yaruga River, he also saw a group of soldiers.

The soldiers were in a sorry state, their armor and weapons discarded, their bodies covered in cuts from branches sustained during their high-speed run through the forest. The Temerian lilies adorning their tattered clothes identified them as Temerian soldiers.

After being ambushed and defeated in the mountains that day, they ran non-stop for a day and a night in the sweltering summer heat before finally shaking off their pursuers.

They were starving, their lips cracked and peeling with thirst, and they lay on the banks of the Yaruga River drinking deeply of the water... But when they saw the horse under Effensor's hooves, their eyes lit up.

If, in such a time of hunger and thirst, one could be fortunate enough to have a feast of horse meat...

Effensor sensed the ill intentions of these people, but they had already blocked his path. If he tried to escape, he would have to return the way he came, which would undoubtedly waste time and increase the risk.

But seeing that these people had already drawn their swords, Effensor knew that he couldn't delay any longer.

He pulled on the reins of the horse carrying Gitov and Hiri, and turned to run away.

Without a word, the soldiers drew their swords and began the chase.

Just then, a loud voice interrupted everything.

"etc!"

He seemed to have great prestige, and the soldiers stopped abruptly upon hearing his voice, looking back in confusion.

Effensor kept looking back and saw an officer covered in filth and mud, but whose armor was intact. The Temurian white lily painted on his chest had been carefully wiped clean.

Effensor suddenly felt that the man looked familiar, as if he had seen him somewhere before.

"We met in Velen, do you remember?"

The officer called out to Effensor from afar, instantly triggering Effensor's memories.

On that rainy day, Effortso encountered a group of soldiers from the north in Velen. The officer had initially tried to buy his horse for seventy olens, but ultimately used the seventy olens as funeral expenses, asking Effortso to send his men back to Novigrad for burial.

Effensor looked at the disheveled officer in the distance... that resolute yet gloomy face gradually overlapped with the face that had been full of confidence, pride and glory in the rain earlier.

"I remember," Effensor nodded.

"That's good." The officer nodded, then stared at Affinso and asked in a deep voice, "What about Oridon? Oridon Sterling, the guy I asked you to bring back to Novigrad, did you bury him?"

The officer stared intently at Effensor, ready to draw his sword without hesitation if he dared to utter a word of dissent or show any hesitation or doubt. He would then lead the fleeing soldiers to hack Effensor to pieces.

"I buried him in the cemetery outside Novigrad."

Effensor answered calmly, without a trace of abnormality.

The officer couldn't see anything amiss. He looked at Effensor, his brow furrowing and then relaxing, before finally letting out a sigh.

"Let them go."

"But!"

Someone nearby immediately expressed their dissatisfaction, but before they could finish speaking, they were glared at fiercely by the officer, and then looked away dejectedly, not daring to continue arguing.

The soldiers reluctantly put away their weapons, and at the officer's command, they parted to make way for Effensor and the others to pass through them.

Their eyes were practically green with envy as they stared at the horse... They probably didn't even need to cook it in a pot or roast it over a fire; they just wanted to take a bite out of it.

As Effensor breathed a sigh of relief and rode his horse toward the officer, the officer suddenly called out to him.

"The Witcher".

Effensor turned his head and saw that the officer had thrown something to him.

He reached out and caught it; it was a blood-stained Oren coin, the portrait of Foltest stained red with blood, reflecting an eerie light in the sunlight.

"Thanks."

Effensor said, though he didn't know what that meant.

"No, don't thank me."

The officer shook his head, then smiled.

"There was actually one coin missing from the purse I gave you."

……

At the ferry crossing, Effensor used the remaining wine in his saddle as payment for a ferry ride.

After crossing the river, they passed through several villages, but were driven away by the villagers. They would not accept a witcher like Effensor, and as for someone like Gitov who looked like a soldier, they would keep their distance as soon as they saw him.

It wasn't until evening that they finally found a peasant woman willing to take them in.

This family originally consisted of five people, but the husband went away to do business, two sons died of plague, and the daughter went missing during the war.

Now, Christy is the only person left on this fairly large farm.

Therefore, there are many empty rooms here, enough to accommodate the three of them.

With his life hanging by a thread, Gitov was placed on a dilapidated wooden bed, and then Effensor, without even taking a sip of water, began making intensive preparations.

To be honest, he wasn't very good at treating infected wounds. After all, as a Witcher, even if a wound got infected, it wouldn't kill him. All wounds would heal on their own over time as long as the bleeding stopped. And he wasn't a doctor; he didn't know the professional knowledge required for that, so he could only use his knowledge as a Witcher to concoct herbs.

After spending half a day, Effensor found some usable herbs in the surrounding forest. Then, he tore off the white cloth that Gitov had used to bandage the wound, carefully cleaned the pus from the wound, and then skipped the disinfection step and simply applied the crushed herbs.

Gitov, who was barely breathing, seemed to feel a little better after the medicine was applied, but it was hard to say whether it was a temporary respite before death.

Then, Effensor realized a serious problem.

He ran out of money.

The only valuable thing he has left is the property deed to the Novigrad estate that Brundane gave him; otherwise, he is penniless.

His bulging money bag now lies quietly in the valley, buried under the heavy snow, forever separated from him.

It was already evening, and Effensor finally couldn't hold on any longer.

He cleaned his wounds briefly, applied some herbal medicine, and then lay down on the bed and fell into a deep sleep.

The night passed quickly, and Ciri paced back and forth in the room, not closing her eyes for a moment.

Before lying down, Effensor gave her a task—to keep an eye on Gitov.

If his body starts to get hot, uncover him and cover him with a damp towel.

If he is perfectly healthy, wrap him up tightly.

If his lips are too dry and chapped, give him small sips of water.

When Effensor woke up at dawn, the first thing he saw was Ciri feeding Gitov water.

She fulfilled her mission perfectly.

By the time Effensor got up and took over everything again, Ciri yawned, too exhausted to even speak. She rubbed her eyes, lay down on the bed, and fell asleep before her head even touched the pillow.

Effensor checked on Gitov's condition; it seemed relatively stable. Relieved, he thought. So many days had passed since they escaped the valley; Gitov should be out of danger. He had survived the first wave of infection and was now out of danger.

Then, he glanced at the silver sword that lay on the table, unused for some time.

Effensor sighed.

Even a hero can be brought down by a penny, so he had to go back to his old ways.

He mounted his horse, carrying a sword on his back. In his saddlebag was only a jug of water freshly drawn from the well, and he carried nothing but his two swords—this was the reality of his poverty.

When he was taken away from Kaer Morhen by Vesemir, he had several bottles of potions with him.

When Effensor arrived at a nearby village, the villagers avoided him, each displaying classic expressions of disgust.

The men looked at him with a mixture of fear and eagerness, as if they would become great heroes if they beat up the witcher.

The women shielded their children behind them, fearing that the freak would, as rumored, abduct them and use evil witchcraft to transform them into monsters like themselves.

Effensor was already familiar with this. He ignored it and went straight to the village notice board.

"let me see……"

He glanced around and saw almost no demon-hunting requests. But then he noticed a request for help stuck in the corner.

"I need help! A group of water ghosts have taken over my land and they won't leave! Is there anyone kind enough to help me? I don't have any money right now, but I swear I'll pay them back!"

"Pass".

Effensor simply ignored it.

Such empty promises are completely unreliable; they will never pay in the end. Some will even mistake his kindness for something to blackmail him into doing something else.

Then he found another yellowed, old commission.

"In the name of Baron Hein, a bounty is hereby issued. A troll blocks the road, demanding stones from passersby or he will devour them. Anyone who can eliminate him can claim 100 orens from the elders of each village as a reward. The troll's head will be the proof."

"Hmm...that seems more reliable."

Effensor nodded, memorized the location of the troll in the notice, and then left the village.

As he left, the villagers suddenly became bolder, standing behind him and unleashing endless insults at him, telling him to get out of the village immediately.

These illiterate people, who probably only had prenatal education, displayed an extremely rich vocabulary at this moment, using a wide variety of insults and going to any lengths to insult others.

Similarly, Effensor ignored him completely and headed straight for the troll.

After walking about five miles, Effensor smelled a foul odor. It was a mixture of rotting matter, feces, and body odor, quite disgusting.

Effensor knew that was the smell of the rock troll.

So he dismounted and drew his sword.

Sure enough, as he took two more steps forward, someone suddenly threw a bone out of the bushes and it landed at Effensor's feet.

He looked down and saw a skull with teeth marks, gnawed apart.

"We can't pass!"

A deep sound came from the bushes, followed by heavy footsteps, and a short, stocky figure emerged from them.

It's a rock troll.

He was on all fours like a gorilla, with a huge rock covering his back like a tortoise shell. His skin was very rough and hard like rock.

"No stones, no road!"

He said in his simple, honest voice.

"..."

Effensor didn't want to pay him any attention and strode over with his sword in hand.

The smell was unbearable; if he hadn't been used to all sorts of disgusting odors, he would have definitely vomited.

And to be honest, he was hungry. He was now considering whether to hunt some game later; he could handle small to medium-sized prey with his crossbow.

"The man is holding a sword! The man is the enemy!"

Enraged by this, the troll picked up a stone from the ground and threw it at Effensor.

"boom!"

Effensor ducked to avoid the stone, then swung his silver sword at the troll.

Killing rock trolls is no easy task. While their bodies beneath their shells are fragile, a single blow to a vital spot can be fatal. The problem is that these monsters are entirely made of rock—unshakeable rock. Therefore, Effinso must proceed with extreme care, lest his silver sword strike their hard shells and chip away at their precious plating.

"Awoooooo!"

Effensor swiftly sliced ​​through the troll's eyes with his sword, blinding him. But this did not frighten the troll; instead, it fueled his ferocity.

Although the troll was blind, it frantically swung its fists and began charging headlong toward what it thought was the location of Effensor.

However... in reality, Effensor had been staying behind him the whole time.

Taking advantage of the troll's brief pause after its rampage, Effensor approached silently, first circling around to the front of the troll, and then swiftly stabbing it in the chest with his sword, where, unlike the troll's back, there were thick rocks.

Although the skin was rough and thick, it could not ultimately withstand the sharp blade.

The sword strike was precise and deadly, piercing straight to the heart. The troll struggled briefly before collapsing.

But looking at the troll's corpse, Effensor felt no joy. He sighed and drew his dagger.

"The person who posted the commission must be an idiot. Doesn't he realize how tough a troll's neck is?"

Cutting it down would be a real pain.

……

Time always flies.

Three months passed in the blink of an eye; autumn was fleeting, gone in a flash. The leaves on the trees turned green and then yellow, falling again and again, rotting on the ground until they became part of the soil. Meanwhile, after a cold night, the earth was covered with a thick layer of snow.

The first snow of winter fell, and the weather entered the coldest period of the year. This winter, in particular, was colder than ever before, arguably the coldest winter Effensor had ever experienced since coming into this world.

With the help of Effensor's herbs and his own sheer toughness, Gitov had long since regained consciousness. However, due to a broken bone, he remained in bed recovering.

Until a few days ago, he finally felt no discomfort when he got out of bed and walked without limping. He miraculously made a full recovery.

This is truly a miracle. Most people who suffer this kind of injury will either develop chronic illness and become lame, or one of their legs will become completely necrotic and they will be forced to have it amputated.

Then it was Ciri who ended up in bed. She caught a cold, followed by a fever, but it wasn't serious. If Effensor hadn't forced her to stay in bed, she would have been running around in the snow outside long ago.

She gradually emerged from the psychological trauma of the war, becoming more lively and revealing her true nature, having a great time on the farm. Despite being a princess, Ciri showed great interest in farm work such as weeding, raising chickens, and feeding cattle.

The war outside was still spreading; the Nilfgaardians had indeed crossed the Yaruga River, but it had no effect here. Lower Soden was indeed a rich place, but Effensor's location was not. This village was neither a strategic stronghold nor a wealthy land; it was merely a backward, ignorant, and somewhat impoverished village. Therefore, even though the outside world was in chaos, this place could remain peaceful for the time being.

Later, Effensor heard from a passing merchant that the Nilfgaardians seemed to have been defeated.

Just a week earlier, the Nilfgaards had established a foothold on the north bank of the Yaruka River, and then marched north, capturing part of Lower Soden Hill. They set up camp on the hilltop and then engaged in a major battle with the attacking northern coalition forces.

The exact number of participants and casualties on both sides has been exaggerated and unrealistically reported.

The merchant told Effensor that both sides had an army of 500,000 each, and they had drawn up their lines on the hills of Soden, engaging in a bloody battle that raged until the sky darkened. The Cordwinians had brought catapults up the mountain, the Nilfgaardians had pushed their siege crossbows to the front lines, and hundreds of sorcerers were throwing spells at each other; the terrifying meteors could wipe out hundreds of people in an instant.

In the end, the Northern Kingdom won a great victory, losing only five thousand men, while the Nilfgaardians lost three hundred thousand. Menno Quhorn fled in disarray, and just as he was about to be captured, he was aided by a fire-breathing dragon and flew away on it.

While listening to the story, Effensor's lips were constantly turned up, he couldn't suppress it at all.

The merchant, thinking that Effensor was celebrating the bravery and victory of the Northern Alliance, spoke even more enthusiastically.

Only after he had set off again and gone far away did Effensor burst into laughter.

That's so interesting; these people have such rich imaginations.

Three hundred thousand people died... Good heavens, does the total population of Lower Soden even add up to three hundred thousand? Does the Nilfgaardian Empire's army even have three hundred thousand?

Regardless, the North has won. This is a good result.

Time continued to pass, and soon it was a snowy day.

The world is gradually turning white, and the heavy snow is trying to engulf it.

Beneath the pure white sky and earth, a small farm stands alone, isolated from the world.

"My gratitude, Affinso."

With one hand pressed to his chest and the other behind his back, Gitov expressed his gratitude to Affinso with a sincere gesture.

"No, I think... you're welcome."

They fought together and went through life and death together.

More than 30 people set off, but only the two of them returned alive.

This camaraderie is enough to serve as the starting point for a friendship.

Although they barely spoke to each other during their time in Sintra, they had become quite familiar with each other while Gitov was recovering from his injury.

Gitov was bedridden and unable to move, his only amusement being chatting with Effensor. Effensor was equally bored; demon-hunting commissions weren't readily available, and his injured left hand greatly reduced his capabilities, making dangerous jobs completely unthinkable. Chatting with Gitov was one way to pass the time.

In their endless chatter, Effensor gradually discovers that Gitov has a unique personality. He possesses a chivalrous moral compass and is a rare good person. Although he has a strong sense of justice, he is not a pedantic fellow and knows how to "turn a blind eye to some things."

Most importantly, he always made a clear distinction—who was the enemy, who was the friend? Who could cooperate, and who had to be resisted? He saw it all clearly.

For example, he sees the Nilfgaardians as the current enemy, while the thieves and bandits he used to despise have now become people he must win over, and their strength is also important in the cause of fighting against Nilfgaard.

Effensor liked this kind of intelligent and kind person. Not to mention, this kind person was not only intelligent, but also never forgot his original intentions.

Restoring the nation, restoring the nation... Gitov steadfastly walked this path without ever wavering.

That unwavering will is enough to shatter even the hardest rock.

The friendship between the two gradually developed over several months of casual conversation.

"In any case, you saved my life, twice," Gitov continued. "I'm not the kind of cold-blooded, selfish person who would repay a life-saving favor with just a promise to do someone a favor. I will give you my oath."

Then, Gitov drew his sword and held it upright in front of his chest.

He looked straight ahead and said firmly and devoutly, "I swear to my noble ancestors, in the name of Gitov of the Sokonia family, I promise that for the rest of my life, I will give my life for you whenever you need me. You have received my oath."

"I don't need your life," Effensor chuckled, patting him on the shoulder. "But maybe I'll need your help someday? Or who knows, you might need my help again? Who knows?"

"By the way, what are you planning to do next?" Effensor suddenly asked.

"I'm leaving. I'm going to..."

Are you leaving?

Suddenly the door was pushed open, and Ciri, carrying a bucket full of milk, nervously watched Effensor and Gitov. She had been eavesdropping outside, and when she heard Gitov was about to leave, she couldn't sit still any longer.

"Where to? Uh, I mean..." she said, as Ciri's voice gradually lowered.

Finally, she whispered nervously and anxiously, "Will you send me to Foltest's court?"

Effensor had barely opened his mouth when Gitov spoke first.

"No, never!" he said firmly, then knelt down on one knee in front of Hiri. "My princess, I will never do such a thing! Please be patient. I will seek out loyalists and warriors willing to fight for Sintra. I will seek all possible help. I will fight to the end until the men in black are driven away and Sintra is rebuilt."

"When that time comes... if that time truly comes, you will be able to return to your palace as the Queen of Sintra."

"Ah..." Ciri was a little stunned; she had never thought about these things before.

"So, can I stay here? This is good. Lady Christy is really kind, and she's willing to take me in," Ciri asked nervously and expectantly.

"As you wish. Whatever you want to do, I promise I will respect your choice." Gitov nodded. "I only hope that you can grow up healthy, live safely, and be free to choose your own life... however you wish. And this place is safe and perfect for you to grow up here."

"...It would also be suitable for spending the rest of my life in peace," Gitov murmured.

He knew his goal was too lofty, and his hope too slim. He was just a lone, exiled knight. He feared he would never be able to fulfill his dream of restoring Sintra.

Gitov had already planned his own end: to die a glorious death in a bloody battle against the Nilfgaardians.

As for the dream of restoring the country, it can only remain a wishful thought.

The princess, with her identity, status, and special status, is coveted by countless people. Perhaps letting her live out her life in anonymity is the best choice.

Everything seems to be preordained...

Me too.

Effensor chimed in, saying he felt history had actually been altered by him, since Ciri was no longer in Kaer Morhen.

But that's fine too. To be selfish, he didn't want Ciri to get involved with Kaer Morhen, or even Geralt to find her.

Because, if that's really the case...

A distant memory flashed before Effensor's eyes—a scene of Vesemir being cremated.

If that were true, Vesemir wouldn't have died.

When Ciri arrives in Kaer Morhen, she will inevitably be protected by the old man, and when the Wild Hunt knights come knocking in the future, Vesemir will certainly not stand idly by.

However, Affinso had absolutely no confidence that he could turn the tide and save Vesemir's life.

Since that's the case... he might as well avoid such a future now.

As for White Frost, her fate is intertwined with Ciri's; let Ciri follow a different path. Even without Geralt, she will surely meet others who can help her and ultimately fulfill her mission.

After all, fate in this world is so clear... It influences the world at every moment, trying to guide everyone onto their predetermined path.

"Very good!"

Ciri was overjoyed, put down the milk bucket, and gave Gitov a hug.

Gitov smiled as well. If the princess remained happy, he could die in peace even if he failed to fulfill his dream of rebuilding Sintra.

"So..." Effensor interrupted, "Gitov, where exactly are you going?"

"Aden".

Ciri then loosened her arms, and Gitov stood up and spoke.

"Fortunately, the Nilfgaardians were defeated and failed to establish a foothold on the north bank of the Yaruga River. Given Temeria's strength, without this good opportunity, the Nilfgaardians certainly wouldn't choose to stubbornly confront Foltest."

"Otherwise, they will suffer countless more defeats than they have this time."

“That makes a lot of sense,” Effensor agreed. “So if they want to launch a further attack, they will definitely choose Leiria and Livia on the upper reaches of the Yaruga River.”

“That’s right,” Gitov nodded. “But Lyria and Livia aren’t wealthy or powerful. Aden, on the other hand, is much stronger and might be able to offer some assistance. The Nilfgaardians have already brought the war to their doorsteps; if I propose calling upon the remaining Sintra people to form an exiled army, they will certainly support me.”

"But I remember that King Demavi III of Aden was described as cold-hearted."

“That’s not important,” Gitov retorted. “Demavie may be ruthless, but he’s intelligent and wise. At the same time, ruthlessness doesn’t mean he lacks magnanimity; he’s always generous when it comes to important matters. I believe he will make the right decision.”

Effensor remained noncommittal; he knew little about these matters and couldn't offer Gitov any better advice.

"I hope so."

That was all he could say in blessing.