467. Sworn in the Name of the Prophet

This small hut was likely a guardroom. As soon as the door opened, a stifling mix of sweat, mold, leather, iron, and oil used for weapon maintenance rushed out.

Shields lined the walls, all hanging neatly within arm's reach, and beside them stood empty weapon racks. Not a single weapon remained on them.

Spears identical to the one carried by the guard who opened the door were placed against the opposite wall. In the corner stood a wooden bucket filled with water for fire emergencies.

Thunderous snoring echoed from a half-open wooden door. Through the low window, two fully equipped guards could be seen, spears propped against the table, slumped over and snoring heavily.

Not even the loud, rusty creak of the long-unlubricated door had woken them.

"What's the meaning of this?"

Amid the snoring, Danthe stood at the doorway, his expression unreadable.

Could it be… had Evenson seen through their plan?

Signs were only supplementary—the strength of a Witcher lay overwhelmingly in his swords.

A Witcher without swords was like a bird with broken wings. In Drakenborg, swarming with guards and a warlock, he'd be nothing more than prey waiting to be butchered.

The guard was watching him too, and softly said, "Lord Evenson instructed that healing requires no swords. Drakenborg will ensure both your safety while in the city."

"Hooo—hooo—"

The snoring echoed in waves.

Danthe's beastlike amber eyes turned cold as he glanced at the scream-laced darkness outside, then shifted to the guard before him.

He was calculating—if he drew his sword right here, could he make it to wherever they were keeping Bond in Drakenborg?

The guard quietly held his gaze—neither urging nor retreating.

An ordinary guard shouldn't have been able to sense the killing intent of a Witcher Master.

But something was off. Faced with a heavily armed Witcher carrying twin swords, this guard didn't wake his sleeping comrades. He just stood there, silently, almost as if daring them to draw.

"Give it to him," Allen whispered in Danthe's ear.

Then, with a thought, Allen activated his skill.

[Ding!]

[Consumed: Experience Orbs 3, Small Experience Orbs 10]

[Your skill [Staff Summoning LV1] has been upgraded to [Staff Summoning LV4 (0/10000)]]

[Name: Staff Summoning]

[Type: Mixed Element Beginner Spell]

[Level: LV4]

[Active Effect: You may leave "marks" on up to 5 (+12+21) staves (or other objects), allowing them to be teleported to any location visited within the last 2 (+1) days. Casting the spell again will recall the marked staff (or object).]

He'd seen this skill in a warlock's memory two weeks ago.

At the time, it felt like a useless bonus. After all, Witchers and warlocks were very different...

Warlocks used different staves for various boosts and effects, so they needed to swap between them. But Witchers never parted from their swords, so summoning one rarely made sense—until now.

Looking at the seemingly mundane, completely anti-magic-free weapon rack, Allen realized this spell might be even more useful for Witchers than for warlocks.

Many places, like now, required weapons to be surrendered upon entry. But no one ever thought to store a Witcher's weapons in an anti-magic container.

And for a Witcher, weapons weren't just tools—they were life. Even for Allen, losing his sword would cut his combat power in half.

"This little spell's more useful than it seems," Allen thought to himself.

Danthe felt a soft hum from the wolf medallion on his chest, and a slight pressure where his two swords were strapped to his back.

"Of course. We trust Drakenborg's security," he said softly after a brief thought.

Then, under the watchful gaze of the guard, they stepped inside and crouched down.

He helped the half-squinting, groaning Allen to sit on the wooden bench placed along the wall, then undid their sword belts, handing over both his and Allen's swords to the guard.

"Without our swords, how are we supposed to rescue Hughes?"

Watching the guard struggle to carry all four swords, Danthe glanced at Allen and subtly moved his lips.

"I can summon staves," Allen whispered.

Summon staves... When Danthe heard it, his mind momentarily stalled—confused about what summoning staves had to do with the swords that were just taken.

Then, after a brief pause, his eyes widened.

"Those swords?" he whispered.

Allen nodded.

Just as Danthe was inwardly praising Allen's reliability, a thought suddenly struck him.

Wait a second...

Summon staves... summon staves...

Wasn't that the most well-known spell warlocks used to show off and flaunt their identity?

"Summon staves... that's a Sign?" he couldn't help asking.

"Of course it's a spell," Allen replied, giving him a strange look—then realized not everyone was as accustomed to his uniqueness as Vesemir was, so he explained further, "It's just a spell warlocks commonly use. I happened to learn it by chance."

"Don't worry, it can summon longswords too."

"Oh... oh… learned it by chance, huh..." Danthe nodded slightly, but inside, waves of shock were surging.

Learned it by chance...

So casually said—like it was just swimming, cooking, forging, or sewing... some human skill you could pick up eventually if you wanted to...

But Witchers didn't learn formal magic spells, only Signs—not because they didn't want to.

Of course not!

It was because we Witchers simply aren't gifted enough. We can't learn them!

Allen… just what is going on with Allen?

Unfortunately, now wasn't the time to investigate further—so Danthe kept all of that off his face.

"By the way, Master Danthe," Allen continued, "I also know Telepathy and Magic Flash. If it gets inconvenient to speak later, I'll use Telepathy to communicate with you. Also, when I shout 'Flash,' make sure to close your eyes..."

As he spoke, his faint voice shifted from Danthe's ears to directly inside his mind.

Danthe blinked slowly, his expression numb, and gave a slight nod.

"Master Danthe, let's go." The guard had hung their four swords on the weapon rack.

"Alright, please lead the way quickly..."

Danthe picked up the now fully-eyes-shut Allen and followed the guard out of the cabin.

But just as they exited into the wide inner courtyard, the guard leading them suddenly stopped: "Master Danthe, you're not really here to see a physician for healing, are you?"

--------------------------

Inside Drakenborg, the layout was layered and maze-like in three dimensions.

Bridges of slate crisscrossed above chasms that seemed bottomless on either side.

Piercing screams, vicious curses, thick blood stench, and the putrid rot of food and flesh rose from the depths.

It was as if hell itself had taken shape here.

Every bridge was guarded by at least three soldiers. Within visible range, there were hundreds—some standing sentinel, while others, better equipped, patrolled steadily in groups.

And their destination seemed to lie deep within the easternmost part of Drakenborg.

In such a tense atmosphere, no one spoke.

Only the lead guard occasionally presented a rusty iron badge during checkpoints, mechanically explaining their origin and purpose.

The strict security made the two Witchers, who had briefly relaxed upon seeing the sleeping guards in the watch room, tense up again.

Clang, clang, clang~

The guard walked ahead, lantern in hand, the clang of iron boots against the ground even making the screams along the way grow timid.

"Will we find Bond?" Danthe asked in his mind.

Allen squinted one eye and looked down.

On the ground, covered in eerie brownish patterns, a trail of glowing crimson footprints stretched into the darkness.

"The tracks match. Bond is also in the East District."

"Good!" Danthe nodded, glanced at the lead guard ahead, hesitated, then asked again in his mind, "Allen, do you think the people who knocked out Bond might've guessed our plan?"

Danthe had, of course, denied the guard's earlier sudden question.

He couldn't be sure whether it was a probe. Though they had willingly walked into the net like fish to a fisherman, it didn't mean there was no need for testing.

"Doesn't seem like it." Allen frowned slightly but couldn't be certain.

After Danthe denied it, the guard didn't pursue the topic—simply resumed leading the way as if nothing had happened.

If you assume someone instructed the guard to ask, then this kind of "just-do-enough-to-get-by" attitude seems plausible for a subordinate.

But they were dealing with Witchers.

If he were truly just going through the motions, would he really risk his life by saying something that could provoke a powerful Witcher?

What if he had guessed correctly and revealed the truth—wasn't he afraid the Witcher might kill him on the spot?

"But whether it was a test or not doesn't really matter," Allen said in Danthe's mind. "The ones who knocked Bond out won't have thought of everything. Don't worry too much."

True enough… Danthe thought.

Who would've imagined that a Witcher could actually use spells? That a giant griffin soaring above Drakenborg could carry eight Witchers on its back? That of the two Witchers walking into the city, the more dangerous one would be a fifteen-year-old boy?

Though slightly embarrassed, when he thought of Allen's power back when they killed the Leshen, Danthe—an older Wolf School Witcher—couldn't help but feel a strange sense of reassurance.

"The moment Drakenborg's gates open, every step we get closer to Bond, every second we stay undiscovered, becomes our advantage."

Allen's voice continued to echo in his mind.

A fifteen-year-old kid… comforting him.

Thinking of that fact, Danthe couldn't help but sigh softly in his heart.

"Sorry. About Bond... I'll have to trouble you in a bit. I'm still not fully recovered from my injuries, and I can only…"

"Don't say that, Master Danthe," Allen interrupted. "Bond may be your journeyman apprentice, but he's also my friend—and my subordinate in the future. There's no need to speak of 'troubling' me."

"What a mature kid…" Danthe thought.

Only then did he remember that Allen was technically the commander of that so-called "playacting" Witcher corps.

And at Allen's age… Danthe himself only knew how to visit brothels the moment he stepped into town.

Well… Vesemir was no better.

"The Chief really is the Chief…" Danthe sighed inwardly.

The three of them walked on in silence, passing through the western sector where the gates were located, entering the eastern sector, leaving behind the screams and sickening stench.

Of course, they didn't truly disappear.

They just faded into the background—vague and intermittent—present yet not, like the buzzing of mosquitoes on a summer night: invisible when you looked, but impossible to ignore.

Allen didn't understand.

Sure, Drakenborg was a prison, but was it really necessary to torture prisoners twenty-four hours a day?

Especially now, with the moon high overhead, it had to be around midnight by regular reckoning.

Were the thousands of people in this place all such twisted freaks that they couldn't sleep unless they heard screaming?

Of course…

Another possibility came to his mind. Maybe...

Thud—

The guard leading them suddenly stopped, cutting off Allen's train of thought.

Allen narrowed his eyes, scanning their surroundings.

They had reached the edge of the eastern sector. Towering black walls loomed close beside them, blotting out the moon and stars, casting a heavy shadow. Two tower spires jutted from the uneven darkness, their pointed tops stabbing into the dark, bluish-black sky.

A crimson trail, like a line of blood, led straight toward one of the towers.

This wasn't their destination—clearly not.

No guards were posted here, and there were few patrol tracks on the ground. It was a blind spot in Drakenborg's defenses.

So…

Why had the guard stopped?

Standing with his back to them, the guard seemed to hesitate. Then he looked toward the distant tower, took a deep breath, and turned back around, gritting his teeth.

"This is your last chance, Master Danthe!"

"No matter why you've come here… I can still take you back. You can retrieve your swords and leave this living hell called Drakenborg. But go one step further…"

"And there'll be no turning back."

His lips were trembling, bloodshot eyes pleading with Danthe—begging him to turn around now.

He was completely unlike the indifferent, expressionless middle-aged man they had met back at the gate.

His sincerity struck Danthe so deeply that he couldn't even bring himself to repeat the lie that they were simply here to treat injuries.

"You know who I am."

It wasn't a question.

It was a statement.

The guard was silent for a moment, then nodded:

"I'm from Tretogor. Fourteen years ago, you killed the drowner who dragged my father down, devoured his innards, both legs, and half his face."

"I remember all my contracts," Danthe frowned, "but I don't recall being hired by you—or any contract just fourteen years ago…"

"Of course you wouldn't remember me, Master Danthe," the guard gave a bitter smile, "because I wasn't the client. I'm just the son of a farmer. That day, after you cleared the drowner nests outside the village of Meizanka and upstream, you confiscated the village chief's bounty, stayed one night, and left…"

"You probably never even saw me… but you… Master Danthe…"

"After fourteen years, you still look exactly the same as you did then."

Danthe saw no falsehood or disguise in those bloodshot eyes—he even sensed a struggle.

It was easy to understand.

After letting them go, this guard would surely face punishment. Considering Drakenborg's reputation, that punishment could be cruel and terrifying.

Danthe was silent for a few seconds.

"What's your name?"

"Sam. Just call me Sam."

"Why did you stop me?"

Sam took a deep breath, his expression suddenly serious: "Master Danthe, I swear by the name of the Prophet, there is a huge trap hidden ahead of you…"

"A deadly trap…"

.....

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