"Djinn… Djinn!"
Gray Owl's eyes gleamed with naked, insatiable greed, practically licking the earthen bottle with his gaze.
Vilgefortz's expression twisted into predictable mockery.
"With this thing, why even bother going to Cintra? We could just wish for Cirilla to appear here!" Gray Owl panted. "No—there's even more we could do. The Djinn's wishes could—"
"It can't do that," Vilgefortz cut him off coldly.
The flushed color drained from Gray Owl's face as he gradually calmed down.
"No matter what kind of person you are, I'm sure you heard fairytales when you were a child," Vilgefortz said with a chuckle. "But have you ever wondered—why aren't there any historical records of people actually getting their wishes granted by a Djinn? Why do they only show up in fairytales?"
Gray Owl was momentarily stunned.
Vilgefortz slowly lifted the veil from this dark fable.
"First of all, Djinn are not 'all-powerful.' They simply operate in ways we humans can't comprehend. If they truly were omnipotent, I wouldn't have been able to capture it."
"Second," he continued, tone thoughtful, "these 'wondrous' Djinn are extraordinarily dangerous. There are records of them in the notes circulated within sorcerer circles."
He recited them like cherished fables:
"The greedy fool who wished for wealth and was crushed to death beneath falling gold…
The deserter who wished to escape the battlefield and ended up stranded in an even more hopeless place…
The deluded soul who wished for immortality and was turned into a statue…"
"When dealing with Djinn," Vilgefortz said, casting a glance at Gray Owl's still-labored breathing, "the first rule is to restrain your greed. So calm yourself—otherwise, I won't trust you with it."
"You're… you're giving me the Djinn?" Gray Owl asked, barely concealing his surprise.
"That's right. The Djinn's power is a critical part of the plan. But I don't wish to expose myself to your people just yet. Which means you will be the one to bring all this power to Cintra," Vilgefortz said magnanimously, as though making a generous concession. "Take the bottle, pull the stopper, and the Djinn will obey you."
Gray Owl's hands trembled slightly. Even fully aware of the Djinn's double-edged nature, he still found it hard to believe he would soon wield such power.
But he could also see right through Vilgefortz's warm smile—beneath that polite exterior lay cunning and greed. He knew the sorcerer only intended to use him as a pawn, a test piece to cross the river, while Vilgefortz himself waited outside the board for the right moment to make his move and reap the benefits.
And Gray Owl had no doubt that, even if the Djinn was handed to him, Vilgefortz had a thousand ways to take it back.
Unfortunately, he didn't have many options left.
"I've calmed down," Gray Owl said, taking a deep breath. "How exactly do I 'make a wish'? And what kind of wish should I make?"
"There is one thing those fairytales actually got right," Vilgefortz replied. "A Djinn can only grant three wishes. After that, all seals vanish. You'll either have to reseal it—or release it back to the upper realms."
"And given how a Djinn can twist your intentions or cause unintended consequences, the wish-making process must be handled with extreme caution."
Vilgefortz had already worked out the script in his mind.
"We can't simply wish for the result—such as bringing Cirilla straight to us. At most, we can use the Djinn to accelerate parts of the process that lead us there."
He raised one finger. "The first wish: to ensure the monsters I've created do not harm your team."
Then a second finger. "The second wish: to teleport you and the monsters together to Brokilon in Cintra."
"That's where the wishes end. From there, it's your task: unleash the monsters to wreak havoc and draw attention—while your team, still sane and in control, seizes the chance to abduct Cirilla."
"Only two wishes? What about the third one?"
Vilgefortz shot him yet another mocking look—he'd done it more times today than Gray Owl could count.
"If you dare make a third wish, the unsealed Djinn will obliterate both Brokilon and your entire team in an instant."
Gray Owl took a deep, steadying breath—twice.
"…Understood. So… shall we begin now?"
The Emperor's command was a constant pressure on Gray Owl's back. Every second that passed, he longed for the operation to commence without delay.
But Vilgefortz shook his head again.
"No rush."
"As I said before, to prevent the Djinn from twisting your wish or harming the wish-maker, the wording must be precise—extremely cautious."
Under Gray Owl's scrutinizing gaze, Vilgefortz reached into his robes and pulled out two thick scrolls of parchment, handing them over.
"These are your 'wishes'. You'd best spend some time familiarizing yourself with every word. When it comes time to speak them aloud, not a single syllable can be wrong."
A wicked grin curled on his lips.
"Much as I'd enjoy watching that disaster unfold, I strongly suggest you don't give me the chance."
Gray Owl unrolled the scrolls—and stood dumbfounded as both unfurled all the way to the floor, covered from top to bottom in fly-sized script.
The first scroll detailed the wish to 'teleport everyone to Cintra'. It contained clear definitions of what counted as 'Cintra' as a nation and what exactly constituted 'teleportation' as a means of movement. It laid out the precise coordinates for Brokilon, and specified whether the destination should be water or land, how many centimeters above the ground they should arrive, whether any obstacles or enemies might be present nearby—every conceivable variable was accounted for.
As for the second wish—'preventing the monsters from attacking us'—it was even more elaborate. It began by defining and describing each monster individually. Then it listed the names, brief backgrounds, and physical descriptions of over a hundred members of Gray Owl's team and mercenary corps.
It even cataloged every possible kind of attack those monsters might launch, and clarified all potential ways they could harm the squad.
For a moment, Gray Owl felt a flash of admiration for Vilgefortz. He had to admit—the sorcerer's role in this operation was truly irreplaceable.
At the same time, he noticed something else.
Among the hundred-plus names on the 'do not attack' list, Vilgefortz had included the young lioness, Cirilla.
It was logical, of course.
After all, you couldn't let your target be killed by your own tools.
...
Brokilon Town, Lord's Manor, Study.
Ciri sat at the desk, diligently reviewing the documents Lann hadn't had time to process before leaving.
Meanwhile, Coën had set up another table for himself, where he laid out his Griffin School Contact Notebook and was busy writing something—what exactly, no one knew.
Everything happened without warning.
With a sudden boom, a muffled thunderclap exploded from nowhere, followed by a violent storm that swept across the entire town.
The griffin medallion on Coën's chest jolted violently. Combined with the deafening roar outside, a chill burst from every pore of his body.
He bolted to the balcony in a few long strides—what he saw looked like something out of an apocalyptic poem. A dozen towering, twisted silhouettes had emerged in various corners of the town.
Each one stood as tall as a two- or three-story building. Each one harbored an overwhelming power within. Each one radiated a bloodthirsty, frenzied craving for slaughter.
"Chimeras... Giant Mantis Trolls... Mutated Crabhorrors…" Coën's eyes widened in disbelief. These were monsters that could destroy entire cities on their own—and now they had appeared all at once.
The Witcher of the Griffin School shivered violently. "Ciri, run! Head for Brokilon Forest—find the Dryads! These creatures weren't born of nature. They're alchemical abominations, each one expensive enough to match the worth of a castle. This is a Nilfgaardian attack!"
Ciri had never witnessed anything like this. She asked, visibly shaken, "What about you, Coën?"
Coën gritted his teeth. "I'm the only Witcher here right now. No one else knows how to fight them like I do. I'll buy time—give the townspeople a chance to evacuate. The people here are key to rebuilding your kingdom. We cannot afford to lose them."
"Lann left Black Wind behind. Take it and ride. I will have my guerrillas protect you."
With that, the Witcher tightened the straps on his alchemical pack, then—without a moment of hesitation—leapt straight off the balcony. He grabbed a horse as he landed and galloped toward the center of town.
"Coën!!" Ciri screamed after him from the balcony.
She stomped her foot in frustration and began pacing in circles, unable to calm her nerves.
"Calm down, Cirilla. You are a princess—calm down."
"Lann's not here… but if he were, what would he do? If it were Lann… if it were Lann…"
Just thinking of his figure brought a sense of reassurance. Ciri took a deep breath—several, in fact—until her mind finally steadied, and her gaze turned resolute.
She didn't flee. Instead, she strapped two swords to her back—one, the steel blade Swallow, a gift from Lann; the other, a standard wolf-head silver sword she'd recently borrowed from Geralt.
Aside from lacking a medallion, Ciri now looked every bit the part of a Witcher.
"I won't run," she whispered. "I am a princess with a heavy responsibility… and a Witcher who must protect the people."
"But Lann also said—'plan carefully before you act.' I can't be reckless. I must not let emotion cloud my mind."
"The enemy came for me. I make the perfect bait—buying others time to counterattack or escape. But I need insurance. If I'm captured, it would be a terrible blow to Lann and to Cintra…"
With that thought, her eyes fell on the spot where Coën had been sitting. In his rush, he'd left his Griffin School Contact Notebook behind.
Ciri's expression turned contemplative—then she picked up the pen.
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