The Divine Hunter

A glimmer of purple broke through the horizon, heralding the end of the night. Cintra had switched out the defending soldiers multiple times, and yet the invasion did not stop.

Two hundred yards away from Cintra was where Nilfgaard’s army stood. A great catapult loomed over the soldiers, glimmering from the light of the bonfire’s flames. A surveyor stood beside it, holding up a telescope. And then he put it down. Then he raised his hand once more. “Two and a half degrees.”

The soldier who was behind the catapult turned the winch and placed ammunition in the throwing arm.

And then the boulder was let loose.

A spherical boulder of destruction tore through the air, hurtling at the walls of Cintra. Its arrival sent ripples across the defense line, to say the least. Debris and plaster powder shot off in all directions, and the boulder that came slamming down like a meteor sent three Skellige soldiers flying into the city. Their chests caved in, and they coughed up blood and chunks of their innards.

That was the last thing they did. One moment later, the soldiers died.

“Take cover!” shouted a soldier. Alas, it was too late.

Nearly ten ballistae and catapults fired at the walls at the same time, raining down flaming arrows and boulders on the defense line.

And then, an explosion screamed into the night, shuddering the walls. Howls tore through the air as dozens of soldiers were smashed into little pieces, painting the walls red with their blood and flesh.

A gigantic flaming arrow whizzed past Roy and broke Quen without any effort. The witcher was sent flying like he was hit by a wyvern. He hit the wall with a sickening thud. A gasp of pain escaped his lips as he fell down to the ground. His arms felt like they were on fire, and his shoulder was dislocated.

But he was the luckier one. The Skellige soldier who promised to treat him to a drink after the battle was no more. The witcher turned his eyes to the wall behind him. There, a patch of mincemeat sat on the ground, and the only thing remotely recognizable was its head. Its eyes were wide with fury, its face contorted with rage, speaking of the agony the victim felt before he met his end.

A dozen soldiers near Roy had fallen as well, suffering the same fate as this man. The flames from the ballista bolt licked the carts within the city. The same carts that were filled with resources for the war.

The fire caused panic among the citizens. Those who were watching the war ran away, shouting in fear.

And just like that, the defense line on the wall was destroyed, giving the invaders an opening.

“Praise the sun!”

“Glory to the emperor!”

The horns of war were blown, and the soldiers of Nilfgaard rained down on the city, their eyes glimmering with cruelty and malicious glee.

“Your emperor’s ass, shithead!” a Skellige soldier roared as he brought his axe down on the soldier’s head. Blood splattered the Skellige man’s face, dripping down his cheeks.

But before he could even pull his axe out, another Nilfgaardian soldier charged toward him from the side and thrust his blade into the Skellige soldier’s waist. It skewered him like a kebab, blood smearing the Nilfgaardian soldier’s blade, trickling down to the ground.

The Skellige soldier wobbled, but he didn’t falter. Instead, he let out a guttural roar and, with what remained of his strength, held his attacker as they fell to their ends together.

The crunch of bones whimpered, and they both died. Their bodies were stepped on by the oncoming invaders who were swiftly climbing up the ladders. That attack from the ballista took out a chunk of the defending soldiers, lowering their number to the number of invading soldiers. And now they were fighting to the death on the walls.

The light of flames shone upon the crazed, furious faces of these soldiers, and then, another bolt flew through the air, piercing the heart of a Nilfgaardian soldier. There was a hole in his chest, and he fell from the walls.

Roy’s shoulder crunched as he swung Gwyhyr. He leapt ahead, thrusting his blade into the back of an invading soldier. Before that soldier could even relish his kill, he had already fallen back, rigor mortis taking over.

Blood splattered the witcher’s face. Like a fisherman, he held up the body of his prey and charged ahead. The blade pierced the back of yet another Nilfgaardian soldier, and then he shoved the corpses to the ladders.

Howls filled the air as soldiers fell to their deaths. The witcher heard something crackle behind him, and one Nilfgaardian soldier—who was trying to shoot him—spasmed and fell, arcs of electricity dancing on his armor.

There, beneath the walls, stood Triss. She beamed at Roy, arcs of electricity jumping between her hands.

Roy nodded at the sorceress for a moment, then he turned his attention to the ravenous invading soldiers who were unleashing carnage atop the walls. The runes on Gwyhyr’s fuller shone brightly, even in the backdrop of flames and blood. Its blade tore through the air, hissing like a snake.

Roy charged into the fray like a gale, attacking the Nilfgaardian soldiers engaged in battle. Every thrust and every cut mowed down the vitals of his enemies. The sheer impact of his force plowed down any resistance these soldiers tried to put up. Their power paled in comparison to the witcher’s. Every time he struck, one life would be claimed.

Blood and entrails spilled upon the walls of Cintra, crimson tentacles wriggling and slithering through the shadows of the flames.

Not too long later, a pile of Nilfgaardian soldier’s corpses were shoved down the wall, and Cintra once again reclaimed lost ground. But that victory was short-lived.

Roy’s face fell, for he saw the siege weapons once again setting into motion.

If they didn’t do it, then who— Eist was reminded of someone. The same person who told them about their future and saved his family’s life. The same person who cruelly asked for his unborn child as a reward for his services. The king approached the window, his eyes gazing far into the distance.

The red-haired sorceress stood beneath the city gates, tirelessly reinforcing the defense enchantments, but the witcher was nowhere to be seen. It can’t be. The witcher? How did he do it?

***

A dark silhouette whizzed past the brightly-lit tent where the Nilfgaardian commander stayed. None within the tent seemed to have realized this unwanted visitor hiding among them.

On the table sat a sandbox depicting the layout of Cintra. Beside it stood Menno Coehoorn, the commander of the Center Army Group. He was biting his nails, ruminating over the next order he should issue. Oh, someone’s watching. Then he pulled his hand out of his mouth immediately.

“We’ve sacrificed many lives just to take down a single city,” he said calmly. The loss of so many lives in this merciless war did not seem to faze him. “And Cintra must pay for this. Once we take down their city, we shall massacre all of them. For three days. To appease the souls of our heroes. Now summon the mages. We’re going to tear down their measly defenses.”

“The mages are busy with something else. They can’t make it,” Xiphos said cryptically. He gave the hooded figure beside him a look, and that person quickly clutched the obsidian pendant hanging around his neck.

“The hell you talking about? Just tell me the truth,” Menno snapped.

“Sir, you’ve been focusing entirely on the plans of the war. I am sure you have missed a detail, but that’s normal.” Xiphos said solemnly, “That phantom has killed five of our mages in Marnadal and destroyed all our siege weapons earlier. I think he might—”

The sentence never ended. Something whizzed through the air, but a golden shield appeared on Menno, deflecting the bolt away. The bolt managed to shatter Menno’s shield, however, and he fell back, gasping.

Every soul in the tent was on high alert. Then, a silhouette tore the top of the tent open and descended upon them like the reaper himself. In his left hand, a blade, and in his right, a hand crossbow. He was wearing Cintran armor, his face morphing and changing with every passing moment. Obviously, he was covered in a magical mask.

His eyes were set on Menno, murder filling his gaze. At the same time, the hooded figure leapt at Menno, pushing him under the table. And yet Roy didn’t care. Once again, he cast Fear, and countless tentacles came wriggling out of the void. They wrapped around four people right away while the witcher stood tall among them.

He held up Gwyhyr and swung it around, attempting to take the life of Menno. But then a magical blast hit his chest. The witcher was sent flying backward, his attack losing momentum. The energy slash missed its target, instead cutting the tent open and flying into the night.

Five cloaked silhouettes emerged from the darkness. The intensity of the mana that was swirling around them made the witcher’s medallion vibrate so violently it looked like a bird trying to escape its cage.

The light of magic shone and blinked in the tent as all five mages fired off their spells at the witcher at the same time. This time, however, they were no fireballs or bolts of electricity. One of the mages—gaunt and hunched—assumed a bizarre stand. He grasped at the air.

Roy fell back down and crouched. Once again, he fired a bolt at the mage, but it was deflected by their magical shield. No matter. I can blink. But then, his armor gleamed, and all the mana in his body froze up, refusing to do as he told it to. I can’t blink? Dammit. They’ve been waiting for me.

He produced a dimeritium bomb, but before he could toss it at the mage, four of them shot pillars of flames at the witcher.

Roy hurled the bomb up into the air and rolled away. Flames licked it, igniting it, but the mages were out of its range. And Roy only managed to dodge the first fireball. The rest of them hit him like a sledgehammer.

The witcher flew backward once more and skidded all the way back until he crashed into a tentpole, breaking it in two. His chest was burned, charred, and his blood was almost boiling. The agony held him down, stopping him from moving.

But the witcher wouldn’t fall that easily. The charge of Activate was used, and a cool sensation washed over him as his wounds healed up. He produced his hand crossbow and fired a bolt at the mage who was assuming that bizarre stance. But another mage extended his hand. Blue light swirled on his fingertips, then a blue, diamond-shaped shield appeared before his companion.

The bolt hit the shield, destroying it, and then the mages spread their arms. Roy felt an invisible force field coming down on him, and he gasped in pain. An invisible hand held his neck, choking him and pulling him off the ground.

Roy tried to blink once more, but all he managed to do was make himself glimmer. That silencing spell is still there, dammit.

The mages clasped their hands together and exerted enough force to make them tremble. It seemed like they were wringing a piece of wet cloth, and then Roy let out an ear-piercing scream as his joints started bending at unnatural angles.

As the crunch of bones started whispering into the air, Xiphos whipped out his hand crossbow, and a smirk curled his lips as he pointed the weapon at Roy’s forehead. “Say your prayers, bastard.”

But his bolt hit nothing. Golden light flashed in the tent, and to everyone’s shock and horror, the ambusher who was supposed to be under control was nowhere to be seen. Gone. Disappeared.

***

Gryphon was perched atop a tower hundreds of yards away, where Cintra stood. The air around it suddenly rippled, and out came its master. His knees were on the ground, and he wiped the sweat off his forehead. At the tent in the distance, he stared, a shudder running down his spine. “Dammit, that was close.”

Never seen that kind of binding spell before. Good thing I had Full Recovery. Blasted off all the debuffs, or they would’ve gotten me. “Blink’s not invincible. There are spells out there that can hold it off. Gotta be careful from now on.”

He concentrated on his character sheet, going through the power-ups he gained after the level up.

***

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