Milva stood completely still, unmoving like a battle goddess.
Arrow after arrow flew from her bow, until every enemy archer ducked behind cover, too afraid to lift their heads.
She alone had suppressed all of the enemy's archers.
The remaining mercenaries were already scared out of their wits. They retreated behind buildings or dropped flat to the ground, no one daring to pop up and become Milva's next target.
All except for one.
He was a seasoned archer, able to judge trajectories even in the dark. Milva had initially mistaken him for an ordinary mercenary and hadn't given him much attention—allowing him to dodge one of her earlier shots.
Now, she saw him positioning himself against her.
Milva quickly sized him up: short and lean, with dark skin. He wore a gleaming bracer on his left forearm and a shooter's glove on his right hand.
She watched as the man raised a beautifully crafted composite bow, its riser curved and etched with elegant designs.
She saw how smoothly he drew it back. She saw how, fully drawn, the bowstring created lines across his face. She saw the red-fletched arrow brush his cheek.
And she saw him aiming directly at her.
This one's skilled.
Which meant he had to die quickly. Otherwise, he could do to the Cintrans exactly what she had just done to the Nilfgaardians.
Milva raised her bow and pulled it back with equal fluidity. The bowstring touched her face, the arrow tip resting against the corner of her mouth.
[Snap—]
The sharp creak of taut bowstrings echoed in the darkness. Two elite archers faced off, neither with cover, both drawing on instinct and precision.
[Whoosh—]
[Whoosh—]
Both released at the same moment and immediately let their bodies fall backward, using the momentum of the shot to evade the incoming arrow.
The dark-skinned archer froze mid-motion.
Milva's arrow had struck him hard in the left armpit, driving more than half the shaft into his torso. It shattered several ribs and tore through his heart and lungs.
He hadn't expected that.
Based on Milva's build, he hadn't believed she could fire with such speed and force. But that meant she wielded a powerful bow—and had arms even stronger.
Underestimating the strength of a member of the Pride had cost him his life.
Meanwhile, his own arrow was still a third of the way from reaching Milva.
She too had flung herself backward, curling midair.
She knew the enemy might try to predict her movement. But she had confidence in her cloak and armor—custom-made for her by Duke Lannister, with glyphs etched by Advisor Mousesack. They incorporated enchantments said to originate from the land of Ofier—designed to deflect arrows.
Though a simplified version, not as powerful as the Duke's own armor, Milva was confident it would be enough—as long as she avoided vital spots. She could tank the hit and return to battle.
After all, the gap between her and these mercenaries wasn't just skill or strength—it was also Duke Lannister's backing.
But the enemy's arrow veered past her side, missing entirely.
Milva blinked.
Had that so-called expert, who had just made their duel feel like a battle between legends—actually been a fraud?
She quickly realized something was off. The arrow's deviation was too unnatural—almost as if someone had forcibly bent its trajectory mid-flight.
With a strange feeling, Milva turned her head—and saw a strikingly muscular black stallion snort at her with what seemed like disdain.
On its back sat a silver-haired girl clad in armor of silver, gray, and white. She was grinning.
Chaotic energy shimmered faintly around Ciri's hand—visible only to those attuned to such things.
"Your Highness?!" Milva exclaimed in shock.
At that very moment, the air behind her exploded with the roar of battle.
The barrage of arrows she had unleashed had bought them precious time. Thanks to Iris's warning, House and Levin had arrived with their forces, clashing violently with the invading troops.
...
Only a portion of the City Guard had arrived; the town militia was entirely absent. They were scattered across other areas of the town, holding off monsters and evacuating civilians—too occupied to spare any help.
Those who remained, led by their commander, fought with all their might in the darkness, weapons clashing violently against the enemy, blood splashing with every strike.
On one side stood a well-paid mercenary group forged by sorcerers, along with Nilfgaardian elites—numerous and well-prepared.
On the other were the Cintrans, fighting to defend their homeland and their princess. Though they were outnumbered and had just endured brutal skirmishes with monsters, their morale was high, and they fought fiercely, undaunted by death.
For a moment, the two sides were evenly matched. The battle reached a deadlock.
Until Coën arrived.
With such a large-scale conflict, Iris had naturally notified him.
The Witcher of the Griffin School pulled on his gloves and ripped off his cloak, wrapping it tightly around his left arm.
His face was deathly pale, veins bulging under the skin—he had already consumed several potions.
A shimmering, earthen-yellow protective Sign surrounded his body, while his right hand wielded a steel sword with a griffin-shaped hilt. He charged into the enemy's flank with brutal force. Each shriek from the blade was accompanied by a spray of blood.
Witchers typically avoided large-scale battles. In the wild, they could take down monsters that even dozens—hundreds—of regular men couldn't handle. But on a battlefield, even a formation of ten soldiers could spell death for a Witcher.
But this time was different. At least, in Cintra, it was different.
Coën's arrival drew cheers from the Cintran fighters. Nearby soldiers instinctively gathered around him—guarding his flanks, covering his rear, clearing the path ahead—creating space for the Witcher to strike and kill without hindrance.
He barely needed to swing his sword. With a single gesture, a concentrated stream of fire burst from his hand, turning several foes into blazing human torches.
With another motion, a telekinetic blast knocked multiple enemies off their feet—promptly cut down by the Cintran warriors flanking him.
A Witcher, unshackled and fully unleashed on the battlefield, revealed his terrifying prowess on this monster-infested night—unleashing devastation upon the invaders!
Unfortunately, nothing would proceed so smoothly tonight.
Suddenly, a sharp, needle-like pain pierced Coën's skull. If not for the Cintrans protecting him on all sides, he would have surely fallen victim to a sneak attack.
Witchers, though devastating against ordinary troops, were not invincible—and the Nilfgaardians had come prepared.
The griffin medallion on his chest vibrated violently, warning its master of a magical ambush.
Alerted, Coën looked up—and spotted a beautiful woman staring straight at him, eyes glowing with a strange light.
It was her!
Before Coën could react, a small round object was hurled in his direction.
The instant he saw what it was, Coën's pupils shrank. But before he could do anything, the object exploded.
[Boom—!]
But it didn't release flames, shrapnel, or poison as he had expected—so the Cintrans around him were spared.
Instead, what burst from the alchemical bomb was something far more dangerous to a Witcher of the Griffin School.
A green mist engulfed Coën's body in an instant. Metallic dust, shimmering with a faint electric charge, coated him completely. Some of it entered his lungs through his breath.
He began coughing violently. His protective Quen Sign shattered immediately, and the magical energy within him vanished like snow in spring—completely gone, utterly severed from his senses.
[Dimeritium Bomb]
Alchemical bombs weren't exclusive to Witchers—they had been invented by alchemists across the Continent. But their synergy with Witcher combat made them a staple in their arsenal.
And now, Coën—a Griffin School Witcher—had been ambushed with a Dimeritium Bomb!
"Haha! A Witcher!"
A crazed figure charged forward, swinging a longsword like Death's own scythe—striking again and again in a frenzy too fast to count.
Coën had yet to recover from the effects of the Dimeritium Bomb when he realized that the Cintran soldiers who had just been protecting him had already been slaughtered—by the crazed man dressed like a bounty hunter.
"You—!" Coën's eyes widened with fury. He immediately raised his sword and struck head-on, following up with a flurry of thrusts and slashes.
[Clang! Clang! Clang!]
Just three exchanges were enough to startle Coën. The opponent's movements were lightning fast, and his strength was extraordinary. Judging purely by swordsmanship, Coën could only think of three people in all of Brokilon who could clearly outmatch this man—Lann, Letho, and Gerd. Even those Cat School Witchers he had met in his youth, who specialized in sword technique, might not be able to defeat him.
And yet, judging from the man's lifeless fish eyes—normal human pupils—he wasn't a mutant. These were just the attacks of an exceptionally gifted ordinary man.
What kind of sword freak is this?
This guy clearly came prepared. And I've just fought through a long battle, then got ambushed. This isn't the time to try and decide the fight.
The thoughts flashed through Coën's mind like lightning. With decades of combat experience behind him, the Witcher made his decision instantly.
The only advantage he had might be the finely crafted Witcher armor on his body. So he deliberately exposed an opening, using his reinforced steel vambrace to block a heavy strike. Then, without hesitation, he lunged forward with his sword.
Only then did he barely manage to force the opponent back, gaining a brief moment to catch his breath.
From behind the bounty hunter Bonhart, a unit of Nilfgaardian elites emerged. With practiced coordination, they cut through the nearby Cintran fighters, dragging them into a skirmish with the mercenaries and clearing out a space for Bonhart and Coën to duel.
But two men were not held back.
They tore their way through the ranks recklessly, unstoppable.
They were House, brandishing a lion-headed longsword, and Levin, wielding a pair of hunter's curved blades. Both wore grim expressions.
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