469. Fierce Battle! That Wolf Cub Is a Sorcerer!!!

There was no need to wonder about the hesitation in Sam's voice.

In the deep darkness, within the tower's shadows that even torches could not penetrate, many vague figures stood.

They held torches, but their faces remained hidden in the dark.

Only the glint of cold steel—armor and blades—flashed sharply in the howling wind.

Allen seemed to sense something and turned his ear to the right.

Heavy hoofbeats, the harsh scraping of plate armor, and low footsteps approached from all directions. They moved slowly, yet with a suffocating momentum, like storm clouds before a tempest, pressing down with deadly tension.

The torches flickered with bright flames.

Their fire encircled Danthe and Allen tightly at the center.

At a glance, it looked as if a prison forged of searing flame had been erected within this hellish prison of a world.

The "enthusiastic" people of Drakenborg were far more "hospitable" than Allen and Danthe had imagined. They almost regretted receiving them in the guest hall—they not only came down from the tower in person, but even laid out such an imposing formation to "welcome" them.

"Master Danthe—"

"Why stop? Keep walking…" Danthe, hunched over with Allen on his back, head slightly bowed and eyes squinting, "accidentally" leaned into Sam's back, shoving him forward and sending him stumbling into the shadows at the tower entrance. He loudly and confusedly asked, "How much farther? Where's the doctor? Why is it taking so long?!"

Evenson, the tall, broad man with a thick beard, brushed the stumbling Sam aside, letting him fall to the ground. Surrounded by a few guards, Evenson took a step forward, squinting into the torchlight as he examined Danthe.

"Master Danthe looks badly injured too," Evenson said quietly.

It was a statement, not a question.

Sam, lying on the ground, did not get up for a long while.

He looked at Danthe and his strange apprentice, Allen. A cold despair gripped his heart.

Wyatt stood with his shield guard, holding a massive shield radiating a dim magical glow, blocking Evenson and Drakenborg's stationed warlock, Padrek Vasquez. The wall they formed was as tall and unyielding as the Kestrel Mountains—impossible to pass.

Milo and his nearly fifty heavily armored cavalrymen stood on the stone bridge they had crossed earlier, holding lances gleaming with icy brilliance. Though their gear looked ordinary, lacking the magical glow of Wyatt's squad...

Their mounts were anything but ordinary horses.

Beneath their cold helmets, the creatures' eyes glowed crimson. Sulfurous mist spouted from their flared nostrils.

Their teeth were jagged, and shreds of bloody flesh were caught between them.

Sam didn't need to guess where that meat came from.

Even more terrifying…

Karlo hadn't appeared yet.

Sam didn't think Karlo had stayed behind—he feared that at any moment, Karlo would reveal himself, holding Danthe's or Allen's severed head, just as he had done with that elven Sage long ago.

"It's over!" Sam felt as if he had plunged into an icy abyss, frozen to the bone. "If we were in Lord Evenson' chambers, with Master Danthe's strength, even if we didn't find that missing apprentice, there would've been a chance to escape—but now…"

"With a disguised apprentice with no real strength, even if Master Danthe took out the three captains, there are still at least hundreds of fully armed guards surrounding us…"

"No way out!"

"No way out!"

Sam grew more hopeless the more he thought.

Evenson looked at Danthe, who staggered like he couldn't tell direction from injury, and chuckled: "Master Danthe, are you so injured you can't recognize where you are?"

"You've already arrived!"

"And you are…?" Danthe "struggled" to lift his head, his body trembling slightly, brown feline eyes slightly dilated. His expression was dazed as he slowly asked.

"I'm the overseer of Drakenborg. You may call me Evenson. On behalf of Drakenborg, I welcome you, Master Danthe…" Evenson stared at him, hand over chest, giving a performative bow.

While Danthe exchanged pleasantries with Evenson on the surface, he and Allen were having a rapid and intense discussion in their minds.

They had previously asked Sam in detail about Evenson' team, their strengths, and the terrain around the trap.

But the strategies drawn up in a cramped room didn't apply here.

Now that the enemy had deliberately brought the battlefield before the tower—an open, flat plain—their original plan needed significant changes.

This mattered a lot to both witchers.

After all, they had never fought side-by-side before. Even if they couldn't produce a synergy greater than the sum of their parts, they at least couldn't get in each other's way.

Otherwise, one poorly timed flash spell or blinding curse could leave an ally disabled—and turn a manageable fight into a disastrous one.

What's more, ever since coming to this world of witchers, Allen had only fought other witchers or warlocks. He'd never faced the world's human regular armies.

He didn't believe that the nobles who ruled this world through various extraordinary professions relied solely on politics or the Brotherhood's self-restraint to maintain power.

Especially not in Drakenborg—a massive prison fortress that even the magic-wielding elves had never conquered.

After quickly hashing out the rough tactics, Danthe asked, "Can you still see Bond's trail?"

"Over by that tower," Allen replied, leaning against Danthe's shoulder, squinting at the red marks on the ground. "The tracks disappear behind that warlock…"

"Then in a moment, we charge straight in and rescue Bond first—"

"No! Master Danthe!" Allen interrupted, "You need to probe for information first…"

"A local noble, the warden of Drakenborg Prison, and a warlock from the Rissberg Group's Civil Cooperative Organization suddenly teaming up to trap you two? That doesn't make sense. You've got no grudges with any of them."

"If a fight really breaks out, we might not be able to leave anyone alive…"

Danthe hesitated at Allen's words, his voice slightly weak: "Alright… I'll give it a try…"

Then—

"Evenson?" Danthe took a deep breath, blinked hard, and said in feigned surprise, "Why are there so many people here? No—never mind that! Lord Evenson, quickly, summon the physician! My apprentice—!"

Danthe's acting had clearly improved since Sam exposed him earlier.

Allen, clinging to his back, could feel the mix of extreme weakness, confusion, urgency, and desperation he was projecting—layer upon convincing layer.

One had to admit: any witcher master who could perfectly control his own body was also born to be an actor.

"What nonsense!"

Before Evenson could respond, the warlock Padrek Vasquez, clad in a brown mage's robe, cut him off impatiently: "He's just a weaponless, badly wounded experiment subject. Why are you wasting words on him?"

"Don't waste time, Evenson!"

"Have them captured immediately—two witchers and a witcher master, perfect for a control group. I can't wait to create a genetically enhanced being stronger than a witcher, in the name of Alzur and Cosimo Malaspina…"

Padrek Vasquez's voice was nearly manic.

The way he looked at Danthe and Allen, as if drooling over them, was nauseating—like his foul tongue was licking their wolf school faces.

That damned arrogant warlock…

Evenson, cut off and ordered around again, looked grim, but he still waved a hand and gave the order:"Milo, block their escape route. The rest of you—"

"Wait!" Padrek Vasquez interrupted again. "Try not to kill them."

"Living subjects are far more valuable than dead ones!"

The surrounding soldiers all stared quietly at Evenson, who had now been interrupted several times by the warlock.

Noticing the eyes on him, Evenson's face darkened. He bellowed: "What, are you all deaf?"

"What are you standing around for? Move!"

"Yes, Lord Evenson!" Startled by Evenson's glare, the burly Wyatt flinched and immediately raised his tower shield, ordering several of his shield guards to charge the witchers.

"You go yourself," Evenson added. "Follow Lord Padrek Vasquez's orders—don't kill Master Danthe or his apprentice!"

"But…"

"No buts!" Evenson snapped, his face cold. "What can a heavily wounded witcher do? Get going!"

"Yes, sir!"

With that, Wyatt and a large group under his command raised their massive shields and cautiously advanced toward the open space in front of the tower.

Aside from Wyatt, the regular guards also raised their torches and tightened the encirclement.

Only Milo remained on the stone bridge where Danthe and Allen had arrived, still stationed with his heavy cavalry.

"Sorry…" Danthe, ever the skilled actor but with a subpar script, apologized awkwardly in his mind. "Do we still need to keep anyone alive?"

"Stick to the original plan…" Allen replied, expressionless as he watched the enemy close in, then sighed.

Long-winded villains only existed in entertainment stories, after all.

He squinted at the approaching foes.

Wyatt, at least two meters tall and built like a fully grown black bear, was advancing with his massive shield raised. Meanwhile, Evenson was playing dumb, pretending: "Master Danthe, don't resist. These men are here to take you and your apprentice for treatment…"

"You're unarmed—just don't resist…"

Danthe rolled his eyes.

After repeatedly losing face in front of Vesemir's apprentice, he no longer had the patience to keep up the act. He lowered his head without a word.

His swaying, unsteady body was barely a response to Evenson' farcical attempt at deception.

Surprisingly, neither Evenson nor Padrek Vasquez seemed suspicious at all.

On the contrary, Vasquez actually believed Danthe was so badly wounded he was on the verge of collapse, and grew increasingly annoyed at Wyatt's caution—repeatedly urging him to stop dragging his feet and move in quickly.

Wyatt could only grit his teeth and raise his tower shield off the ground.

The shield, carved with dense ancient runes that shimmered like a field of stars, immediately dimmed the moment it was lifted.

And with that, the mountain-like aura surrounding Wyatt faded significantly.

At that precise moment—

Danthe's swaying figure suddenly stilled, like a wobbling top abruptly locking into place.

"Hold on tight, Allen!" Danthe roared mentally.

With a loud boom, he slammed his right foot down, shattering the already cracked stone beneath him.

Riding the howling wind, he shot forward like an arrow loosed from a fully drawn bow, heading straight for the still-smirking Padrek Vasquez.

Wyatt, who had just raised his massive shield, had no time to react. In the blink of an eye, before he could even realize what was happening, Danthe had already blown past him.

Then, with a sidestep and a lowered head—

He dodged the reflexive sword swings of the other shield guards and, in the same motion, extended his right hand, tracing a triangle in the air. Calmly, he cast a shimmering golden Quen shield around himself.

In a flash of movement—

Danthe had crossed dozens of meters and was now within striking distance—just two steps away from the warlock Padrek Vasquez.

At that moment, Padrek Vasquez finally realized something was wrong. His eyes widened in terror, flailing his limbs so frantically he didn't even summon his staff—he failed to cast even the simplest magical shield.

"Hmph, a so-called experimental warlock from Rissberg," Danthe sneered in his mind, then shouted, "Al—"

But Allen was faster than Danthe's voice. Just as Danthe's right foot stepped within striking distance—two paces from Padrek Vasquez—Allen moved, both hands empty but arms swinging, about to spin as he shouted in Danthe's mind: "Draw your sword!"

Immediately—

Clang!

The very air seemed to act as the scabbard for his blade.

With a sharp metallic ring, a sword emerged from the void—its obsidian pommel, dragon-hide wrapped hilt, squared crossguard, and meteorite blade etched with runes—an ancient steel longsword that tore through the air the instant Danthe drew it, cleaving straight down at Padrek Vasquez's thin, outstretched neck.

A heartbeat later—

Crack!

Like shattered glass, the emerald brooch securing Padrek Vasquez's robe burst apart.

The brown mage's robe was instantly enveloped in a layer of green light.

"Careful, Danthe!" Allen's voice echoed telepathically. "He has an instant-trigger—"

"I know!" Danthe's brown, cat-like pupils shrank to slits. He pressed his lips together and shifted his body to the side.

A burst of blue-green energy exploded like a high-tier Quen shield, unleashing a powerful shockwave.

Even though Danthe had expected it, he still positioned himself to shield Allen from most of the blast, not wanting his apprentice to reveal his strength prematurely.

The force halted him momentarily.

"I hate warlocks. Especially the rich ones…" Danthe muttered inwardly, frowning.

"Same!" Allen replied with conviction. "I really hate rich warlocks too."

"But it's fine. This one's not that rich. Just one gem," he added, eyes glancing at the stunned mage. "Want me to handle it?"

"No need…" Danthe stepped back, steadying himself with a shake of the head. "Next strike will finish him!"

"Also…"

"Not every warlock is as wealthy as Lady Vera. Even one gem is already rich—you can't just say 'only' one!"

As the word "only" still echoed in his mind, Danthe seized the moment the shockwave faded—his gaze sharpened, he spun, raised his sword, and charged forward.

At that instant—

"AHHH—!"

Padrek Vasquez had only just snapped out of the shock of his brush with death. His face, gnarled and ugly like oak bark, twisted in a high-pitched shriek more suited to a woman.

The scream snapped Evenson out of his daze—the shock of seeing Danthe draw a sword from thin air had left him frozen. He now pulled out the longsword at his waist and shouted, "Protect Lord Padrek Vasquez!"

Then he took a step back—unintentionally clearing a path—and hid behind the two remaining shield guards.

Moments later, another shriek rang out from Padrek Vasquez.

"That wolf pup is a sorcerer!?"

.....

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