Chapter 224: War Is Hell
It fell.
Outside Novigrad, there was a profound silence.
Under the ink-black sky, only a carriage, with a lantern hanging from its side, traveled along the muddy road outside the city.
As the carriage passed the outskirts of the village, it disturbed the village dogs.
The barking didn't last long.
Soon, when the villagers realized there were no thieves, just a passing carriage, they quieted their dogs, and the village returned to peace.
The carriage stopped in front of a small cottage at the very edge of the village.
"Sir, we've arrived."
The coachman turned his head, speaking into the carriage.
Swish—
The carriage door opened.
Chapelle, clad in a long robe that concealed him entirely, stepped down from the carriage.
His fine leather boots sank into the muddy, wet ground.
Chapelle said to the coachman.
"You wait outside."
"Yes, sir." The coachman respectfully bowed his head.
Chapelle tightened his robe.
He walked towards the cottage.
Reaching the door, he knocked.
Soon, the door opened.
Shasha, in Oscar's form, bowed obsequiously, just as he and Lynn had rehearsed earlier that day.
"Welcome, sir, please come in."
"What's wrong with you?"
Chapelle noticed the tremor in Shasha's voice.
Shasha froze, instinctively wanting to look for help from Lynn, who was hidden in the shadows.
But he desperately held back.
Fortunately, Chapelle had only asked casually.
He wasn't genuinely concerned about "Oscar's" physical condition at all.
After Chapelle entered the room without a word, Shasha sighed in relief and quickly closed the door.
Chapelle looked around.
The cottage was no different from his previous visits.
The room was filled with Oscar's paintings and the tools he used for painting.
No one would ever know that this place was actually a drug den.
Even the omnipresent scent of paints in the room was merely to mask the odor of the anesthetic powder.
Anesthetic powder was a prohibited substance, both in the South and the North.
If discovered in possession or transit, regardless of the amount, one would be thrown into a dungeon.
In severe cases, they would even be publicly beheaded at the market square.
However, the reason for its prohibition here was not for social stability or to prevent societal harm; it was purely because this substance was regarded by kings of various nations as an important strategic material.
As is well known, war is only beautiful, romantic, and epic in the poems of bards.
In reality, actual warfare bears no resemblance to any of those words.
Anyone who has experienced war will tell you that war is filled with pain.
War is hell.
Therefore, once a confrontation between two nations devolved into a protracted quagmire, when soldiers' minds shattered due to the endless war...
At such times, kings would distribute the anesthetic powder stored in peacetime to maintain the collapsing morale.
Although this approach was akin to drinking poison to quench thirst, it almost universally became the unspoken practice among the Continent's nations.
Getting soldiers addicted to this substance was always better than them slowly regaining lucidity amidst their suffering, realizing that kings and nobles were the instigators and culprits who plunged them into the quagmire of war, and ultimately leading to fruitful lampposts.
....
Chapelle stood with his hands behind his back, his chilling gaze fixed on Shasha: "What do you mean by 'new product' in your letter?"
Shasha swallowed hard, trying to mimic Oscar's usual mannerisms.
"Exactly what it says, sir. A better product than 'White Crystal.' I've named it 'Blue Crystal.'"
"It is an unparalleled work of art, my greatest masterpiece."
"Would you like to try some here first, as usual, sir? I guarantee it will be an extraordinary experience."
Chapelle was tempted.
But in the end, he refused.
"No, Temple Isle is busy. We've recently arrested a large number of blasphemers who don't believe in the Eternal Fire. I can't be out for too long." "That's truly regrettable."
A voice sounded from behind Chapelle.
From the shadows emerged a witcher with two swords on his back.
"I'm afraid you'll have to stay here a bit longer."
Chapelle glared back at Lynn, then turned to look at "Oscar," just in time to see him swell and deform, transforming back into his usual appearance.
"A doppler?"
Chapelle's heart sank.
"Mutant, what do you want? Aren't you afraid of incurring the wrath of the Eternal Fire? Let me go, and I can pretend nothing happened."
This was a lie.
To this day, no one who had offended Chapelle had survived.
He spoke these words merely out of an instinctive realization of danger, a temporary compromise.
Chapelle wasn't sure if this would fool a witcher who had set a trap specifically for him.
But it wouldn't hurt to try.
To his surprise...
His deception failed.
"Officer, do I look like someone easily fooled?"
Just then, a few soft muffled thuds suddenly sounded from outside the door.
Chapelle's face immediately turned incredibly grim.
As a Security Officer who frequently dealt with torture, he naturally recognized the sound.
It was the sound of a sharp weapon piercing flesh.
He instantly realized that his coachman and trusted confidant, who had been waiting outside the house, were gone.
"Good, good, good."
Chapelle now understood completely.
The other party had come prepared.
"Can you tell me who hired you?" Chapelle, as if giving up, raised his hands. "At least let me die with a clear..."
Before he could finish the last word, Chapelle's raised hands suddenly dropped, pointing at Lynn.
With two soft whoosh sounds, two cold glints shot towards the witcher.
That wasn't all.
Chapelle drew the rapier from his waist, bent his knees, and pushed off with force, launching himself at the witcher like a bolt from a crossbow.
It's done...
Witchers could parry incoming arrows.
But they also had their limits.
By conventional wisdom, after making a parrying motion, it would take at least a few tenths of a second to retract the swung longsword.
Even a witcher couldn't change that.
And those few tenths of a second were enough for Chapelle to plunge his rapier into the mutant's heart.
Mutants were still human; if struck in a vital spot, they would die just the same.
Moreover, Chapelle always wore a Greater Dimetirium Amulet, which could interfere with chaotic energy within a five-meter radius.
Even high-level sorcerers would be affected by this amulet and unable to cast spells, let alone the crude tricks of a mutant.
Chapelle thought to himself with full confidence.
But what happened next exceeded his imagination.
Lynn surprisingly reacted quickly, leaping aside and dodging all the incoming sleeve darts.
And Chapelle, who had lunged at Lynn, instantly went from a proactive attacker seizing an opportunity to throwing himself into a trap.
All of this happened very quickly, so fast that Chapelle could barely make out what was happening, but his body couldn't keep up with the reaction.
Clang!
The Gwyhyr, swung upwards, struck the bottom of the rapier, sending it upward, while the remaining force traveled along the rapier's hilt, affecting Chapelle in his charging state.
He lost his footing, stumbling.
Then his throat was slit by a cold glint.
Thud!
The rapier fell to the ground.
Chapelle knelt.
His hands desperately clutched his neck.
But his actions were futile.
No matter how hard he pressed, he couldn't stop the blood from gushing from his throat, from between his fingers.
He glared fiercely at Lynn, who was wiping blood from his sword with a handkerchief.
Then, he died.
....
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