A fantastical journey across the heavens, beginning with the Witcher.

"Impossible! Absolutely impossible!"

boom!

Forman slammed his thick, fleshy hand down on the carved solid wood table. The dull thud made the silver ink bottle on the corner of the table shake slightly, and the recoil shot up his arm to his cheek, causing his bulging fat to tremble like a sloshing pool of lard.

"Sixteen fully armored soldiers! Eight of them are elite veterans, and they're going to be ambushed by a bunch of dirt poor bandits? Bullshit! Even sixteen pigs in full plate armor could rout five times that number of rabble!"

The mayor, who always squinted and liked to hide a knife behind his smile, completely tore off his mask of hypocrisy at this moment.

His well-maintained, plump face turned a deep liver color, his brows furrowed into a knot, and he kept spitting out saliva reeking of alcohol, which almost splashed onto the messenger's pale face.

"My lord... that's what our lord said, I wouldn't dare lie!"

The messenger knelt on the ground, half-paralyzed, his face filled with fear.

Sal spoke up promptly: "Mayor, now is not the time to be angry. The most urgent matter is how to deal with those bandits."

Forman suddenly turned his head, his small eyes, squeezed into slits by fat, flashing with a fierce light.

When a normal person experiences the pain of losing a loved one, their first reaction is bewilderment and disbelief, and their second reaction is overwhelming hatred and a desire for revenge.

But Forman Orlov, born into a noble family, was immersed in the treacherous family feuds from a young age, witnessing the filth, corruption, and scheming of the world, and saw through the wickedness of human nature.

Throughout his life, whenever something unexpected happened, his first reaction was never sadness or anger, but rather, "Someone wants to harm me."

It was this unusual instinct—"never hesitant to assume the worst about others"—that allowed him to escape death several times and secure his position as mayor of Newcastle.

Right now, this deep-seated suspicion is surging up again.

Although he was not cut out to lead troops into battle and had never been on the battlefield, he knew those veterans who came from his family very well. They were not inferior to poor bandits, let alone battle-hardened soldiers with similar equipment.

And now? Someone tells him, "Your nephew is dead! Dead, guarded by sixteen fully armored soldiers!"

How could he possibly believe that?

The moment Sal opened his mouth, he subconsciously began to suspect the other person.

An upright city guard captain, skilled in training troops and deeply loved by the people, has a grudge against his nephew, who is not only the son of the former mayor but also has the president of Newburgh University behind him.

It was hard not to suspect that the city guard captain was involved...

A jumble of thoughts raced through my mind: "Was it Salgan's?" "It must be him! Who else could do something like this?"...

Foreman's fingernails nearly dug into the table, his face flushed red with anger, and the malice in his small eyes was almost overflowing.

But just a few seconds later, he actually started to smile.

"Heh...heh...I lost my composure. The bandits' audacity is truly beyond my expectations."

His voice was a little hoarse because he had shouted so loudly earlier.

"Unfortunately, I don't know anything about military affairs. I wonder what Captain Sal thinks about this?"

As usual, Sal kept a straight face and adopted a businesslike demeanor, showing no sign of surprise at the death of the tyrannical playboy outside the city.

"For fully armored soldiers to deal with bandits is like an adult hitting a child. Putting aside whether the number 'fifty or sixty bandits' is reasonable, even if there really were that many bandits, it would be impossible to kill them all. Unless..."

Salton paused for a moment, then continued with his speculation: "Unless those bandits aren't ordinary people either, given the current chaos of the war in the south, they could be deserters who fled the battlefield and turned to banditry due to lack of supplies. Even more likely, those bandits might be the vanguard of Nilfgaard!"

After hearing the first part of his statement, Forman pursed his lips, his mind racing as he considered the plausibility of what he had said.

Upon hearing the second half of the sentence, his expression froze, and he had to admit that this was the most likely guess.

However, as a naturally suspicious politician, he keenly observed that Sal seemed to be a little too "fair".

Given his nephew's behavior, with every hair on his leg dancing in the minefield of Sal, how could this city guard captain, no matter how upright, not have any feelings at all?

Once the seed of doubt is planted, it will not wither; it will only grow stronger under the nourishment of evil thoughts in one's heart.

The more he looked, the more he felt that Sal was hiding something.

"What should we do based on the captain's opinion?"

Forman swore that if Sal showed any intention of continuing to send troops to suppress the bandits, he must be the murderer of his nephew, or at the very least an accomplice!

Unexpectedly, Captain Sal, who has always been a benevolent leader, hesitated at this moment.

"Suppressing the bandits can't be rushed. First, send a scout team, lightly armed and on horseback, to inspect the attack site and find out who the attackers are!"

"Oh?"

Forman narrowed his eyes, transforming back into the cunning mayor.

"The city guards are a bunch of idiots. I don't trust them to go. Why don't Captain Sal take enough men and go himself?"

"No way." Thrall shook his head decisively. "If, as I suspect, the attackers are Nilfgaardian spies, mobilizing a large number of people rashly will definitely alert them. If they use this as a diversionary tactic to attack Cow Keep, we'll be in trouble."

"A diversionary tactic... away from the mountain?"

"It was the Witcher who taught me. Tigers are dangerous beasts that live in the mountains. If you lure the tiger away, you can easily cross the mountain. The Blood Demon used a similar tactic when he attacked Bullburg Academy. If the Witcher hadn't returned in time, the death toll would probably have doubled."

"So that's how it is..."

Forman sat back in his chair, his fat bottom making the solid wood seat creak.

"Then select a few clever soldiers to go to the horse-drawn carriage territory to gather troops, investigate the scene, and then return to report."

"Yes, I'll arrange it right away."

Thrall nodded, and before leaving, he lightly kicked the messenger. "You come with me. Go back and tell your lord that this matter concerns not only Horse Territory, but also the safety of Bullhold and even the Kingdom of Redania! If you dare to spare your private army and refuse to send reinforcements, don't blame us for turning against you!"

The two left the mayor's office one after the other. After closing the door, Sal let out a soft breath, a hint of lingering fear flashing across his face. For a few moments, he thought Foreman had discovered their plan, but thankfully they had managed to fool him.

"That's all he can do. Now it's up to the Witcher to perform."

Sal thought to himself.

Completely unaware that as he breathed a sigh of relief, Foreman's face darkened again.

He pulled out a blank sheet of paper and began to write quickly with a quill pen.

Before I knew it, the pen tip had pierced the letter paper, leaving a smudge of ink.

Normally, Forman would pull out a new sheet of paper and rewrite it, but right now he couldn't care less about such formalities.

The completed letter was stuffed into the leather letterbox and sealed with lacquer.

Jingle Bell!

He tapped the call bell on the table, and the butler, who was waiting in the lounge, pushed open the small door and entered the office, carrying a tray with exquisite enamel cups.

After placing the hot tea on the table, the butler bowed and took a half-step back.

"As you command, sir."

After taking a sip of hot tea, Forman suddenly said something completely unrelated to the bandit attack: "Remember that bounty hunter I entertained last month? The one with two witcher necklaces around his neck?"

After a few seconds of thought, the butler bowed and said, "You mean that bounty hunter from the south, Leo Penhart?"

"Yes, that's him. He's probably in a brothel in Novigrad right now, having a good time. Send someone to deliver this letter to him as soon as possible!"

"Yes, sir."

The butler took the mailbox and quickly left through the side door.

Before long, a lightly armed messenger rode out of the Bull Fort on a fast horse.

"Sarl, it's best if this doesn't involve you!"

Inside the office, Forman clasped his hands together, resting his chin on them, his sinister expression like that of a lurking old wolf.

……

Novigrad—a bustling and free city, belonging to no one faction and not under the jurisdiction of any kingdom.

The booming economy and the welcoming atmosphere have given this city a distorted kind of prosperity.

Located on the banks of the Pontal River, Norsson was not far from the Cowburg. The messenger, traveling light and on fast horse, arrived in the city in just half a day.

Following instructions, he plunged headlong into the city's most upscale brothel, like a headless fly, and as soon as he entered, he shouted, "Leo Penhart!"

The madam, who was enjoying a sweet moment with her customer, suddenly changed her expression. She first smiled apologetically at the customer, then put away the small fan covering her face. She then quickly walked to the messenger's side, slapped the messenger on the head with the fan, and scolded him in a low voice.

"Are you trying to get yourself killed? Is that your father or your mother? Why are you yelling so loudly!"

The messenger was about to rush to the second floor when he was hit on the head with a fan. He was stunned and turned around to find that the person who hit him was a heavily made-up old woman. He was furious.

"I'm the messenger from Beefburg!"

"Even if you are Tritorg's messenger, it won't work!" (Tritorg is the capital of Redania)

The madam slapped the fan again without any politeness, "This is Novigrad, don't talk to me about any royal orders! I don't recognize that."

"I...I'm here to find someone."

As the mayor's personal messenger, he represented not only the authority of the mayor of Niubao, but also the face of the Orlov family, and even the nobles dared to treat him this way.

Just as the messenger was about to slap the madam, he noticed several burly men surrounding him, their powerful chest muscles clamping his head, and he could even smell the men's body odor.

grunt.

The messenger acted decisively, swallowing hard before taking out two crowns and handing them to the madam, forcing an ugly smile.

"Boss, I...I'm looking for someone."

"Hmph, that's more like it."

The madam took the crown with her fan and casually tossed it to a few burly men. After waving the fan, the burly men who had been holding the man in captivity retreated to a corner.

"Tell me, who are you looking for?"

"Leo Penhart".

"I mean, what do they look like!" The madam impatiently fanned the messenger again. "I run a brothel that only cares about sex, not feelings. With so many customers every day, how am I supposed to remember all their names!"

The messenger struggled to recall the information the steward had given him: "Um... pale blond hair, very long hair, a bit bald, very coarse, with a southern accent."

"I remember now, you've come to the wrong place. That slut didn't have enough money, so he went to another cheap brothel to continue his slutty ways."

Upon hearing this, the messenger had no time for pleasantries and rushed out the door.

……

"Come on, little beauty, keep drinking."

The tall bounty hunter, wearing only a loose shirt with his chest exposed, was embracing a heavily made-up woman on the bed, drinking heartily. The chipped flask leaked half a mouthful of wine with each sip, and the scarlet liquid spilled onto the bed, soaking the messy sheets.

The woman's face was flushed, and she weakly pushed against the man's chest with both hands, half-heartedly drinking the wine.

The madam stood not far away, listening to the music coming from inside the partition, and knocked on the partition.

"Sir, you don't have enough money. If Cui Li makes you happy, would you like to add more money? Or...?"

"Not enough money?"

The bounty hunter casually reached into his crotch and then scratched his thinning hair.

"Well, there's nothing I can do but say goodbye to my little darling for now."

He sighed, got out of bed naked, thrust his hips at the madam, and pulled up his pants. Before he could even fasten his belt, he heard shouts coming from outside.

"Leo Penhart!"

"Oh? I'm here!" His eyes lit up, and he pulled down his pants, which he was only halfway up. "Someone paid, I'll take another one."

He then pounced back onto the bed and began making love amidst the woman's laughter.

"Leo... uh..."

Upon hearing the reply, the messenger rushed forward and witnessed a scene that made his blood boil.

"You...you are Leo Penhart?"

"Yes, that's me."

The man, who was working hard, responded while nodding to the madam: "Do you have any change? Pay for me. If you need anything, wait half an hour."

……

A few minutes later, the bounty hunter, his steps unsteady, stepped out of the partition and patted the frustrated messenger on the shoulder.

"What do you want?"

"My master is the mayor of Bullburg, the esteemed Orlov family..."

Before the messenger could finish his introduction, Penhart interrupted, "That fat guy, what's his name again, Foreman? What kind of business does he want to do for me?"

The messenger wanted to angrily tell the other party to show some respect, since his master was a noble knight, but he held back because of what he had experienced over the past half day.

This Novigrad is a complete idiot; there's not a single normal person in it.

"This is a letter from the master to you."

Leo took the letter tube, crudely bit off the seal with his teeth, spat it aside, and poured out the letter to read.

After a few breaths, he grinned and said, "Hahaha! Interesting! Really interesting!"

"I've accepted this task. Tell your master to prepare the reward!"

After saying that, he turned and walked out.

After a whistle, the chestnut horse untied its reins and galloped from the direction of the stable.

The cynical bounty hunter wiped his hands on his clothes and lovingly stroked the horse's neck.

Just as he was about to mount the horse, a sharp pain shot through his lower back, and his limbs went weak, causing him to collapse onto the ground.

He reached out his hand to the messenger: "Don't rush off, give me a hand. I've been playing for too long, my legs are a little weak."

The messenger looked at the hand that was clenched in various places, gritted his teeth and pulled the other person up, thinking to himself that he must wash his hands in the river ten times when he got back, no, twenty times!