471. Klar’s Chosen Death! Fred’s Mutation! The Siege of the Tower!

The iron-bound oak door was pushed open. The moment the two sides came face to face, they were both stunned.

"Little House!"

Although not the one they were looking for, the thin, middle-aged man seated in a high-backed chair with a wine goblet in hand, wearing a tight and luxurious purple doublet, was clearly someone Danthe knew.

Thud thud thud—

The wine goblet fell, shattering on the plush red carpet.

The gray, worn-out carpet was instantly stained dark red.

The sound of the cup hitting the floor seemed to flip a switch—snapping Little House back to reality.

He sprang up from the chair, retreating in panic, stammering:

"Ma—Ma—Master Danthe? Why are you here? You were supposed to… supposed to…"

"Supposed to be dead down there?!" Danthe advanced, dragging his longsword behind him, brown beast-like pupils narrowed into slits, blazing with fury.

"No… no…"

Little House, frozen by that glare, shivered and stumbled backward until he was cornered against the wall with nowhere to run.

Didn't Master Padrek Vasquez say everything was foolproof? That they were just some test subjects?

What about Lord Evenson?

How could the witchers have made it up here? Unless… unless…

A sudden chill at his neck—Little House looked down.

A cold, gleaming longsword was now pressed against his throat.

Though there was no blood on the blade, the overwhelming metallic scent of fresh iron hit him like a storm.

Little House nearly collapsed, letting out a pig-like shriek: "Master Danthe! Master Danthe!"

"My father was your best friend! Your best friend!"

"You can't kill the son of old House!"

At those words, Danthe's hair almost stood on end with rage: "So you do remember I was your father's best friend?!"

But staring at that face—so eerily similar to his late friend Old House—

The blade pressed a little harder but finally stopped, leaving only a shallow red mark on Little House's sickly pale neck.

Little House screamed again in fear.

"Spare him for now," Allen spoke, giving Danthe an out. "There are too many unanswered questions about this setup. Let's find Bond first."

Danthe, in his fury, had nearly forgotten why they came.

"Y-Yes… yes…" stammered Little House, seizing the opportunity to survive. "I know a lot—I know a lot…"

Danthe ignored him and swept his gaze around the room.

It was spacious, though not overly large. A partially hollow wall separated the interior and exterior.

The remnants of the banquet were still outside, and the air was thick with the smell of grease and alcohol.

Behind the wall stood a bed.

It looked unused—likely a guest room.

Padrek Vasquez had attacked them for experimental subjects, and this certainly didn't look like a lab.

"Bond isn't here," Danthe said, frowning.

"Y-You mean that kid who was brought back?" Little House, under Danthe's glare, didn't even dare wipe the blood off his neck. "He… he's not here. Master Padrek Vasquez had him taken to the lab…"

"Where is the lab?" Danthe asked.

"I-I… I don't know…"

"Hm?!"

"Don't kill me! Please don't kill me!"

Seeing the blood-dripping sword, Little House collapsed to the ground, trembling.

Never in his life had he felt so close to death.

"I really don't know! After… after that kid was brought here, Master Padrek Vasquez had him taken away, and then we… we…"

Before he could finish—

A darker stain suddenly spread from Little House's tight breeches.

"Pathetic." Danthe wrinkled his nose in disgust and spat blood-tinged saliva on the floor. "Hard to believe a brave man like Old House sired such a coward."

"Who took him? What kind of boots were they wearing? Roughly how heavy?" Allen cut in.

Little House froze for a moment. Seeing Danthe's vicious glare once more, he quickly said:

"Two—two guards. Normal guard iron boots. One was about my size… one fatter… maybe… maybe…"

"Enough." Allen waved him off.

When tracking, you could pinpoint the path someone took, but not necessarily everything they did along the way.

Using indirect traces was prone to errors.

But for now, it was sufficient.

Allen had already found Bond's trail among the dozens of red footprints on the carpet.

"Master Danthe, bring Little House. We—"

Allen abruptly cut off mid-sentence, turning toward the window.

The next second—

A freezing gust roared in, carrying chaotic, thunderous shouts, and the entire tower began to tremble faintly.

Even the collapsed Little House sensed it, a gleam flashing in his eyes—hope flickering to life.

Of course!

There's no way Master Padrek Vasquez and Lord Evenson were slain by just one witcher.

That damned witcher must've sneaked in, hiding and sneaking like a thief to get past them.

With that thought—

Little House sat up slightly straighter.

And then—

He saw Allen and Danthe exchange a grim glance.

And then the world spun—Danthe and that blue-eyed child vanished from his sight, and a sudden pressure on the back of his neck sent him reeling.

"Move!"

The child's voice echoed in his mind like a sharp blade.

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

The Skies Over Drakenborg

"They all rushed in! The soldiers of Drakenborg all rushed in!" Clay shouted in alarm as he lay on the back of the giant griffin, squinting down at the city below. "They must be going after the Captain and Master Danthe!"

For some reason, Allen, Erni, Klar, Clay, and the other witchers—seven in total—were not riding in the griffin's claws, but on her back.

Of course, Good Girl's back was broad enough to carry nine witchers. But that also meant the previously spacious area now felt extremely cramped.

Clay's sudden jolt of excitement nearly knocked Klar off balance.

Klar didn't seem to mind, as everyone's focus was fixed on Drakenborg below. But the slight shift in weight made the griffin herself uneasy—she twitched her thick neck like there were fleas crawling on her.

"Easy, Good Girl! Easy!" Vesemir, clutching the griffin's thick mane, quickly tried to calm her down.

"Skree~"

The griffin let out a soft, unhappy cry and gave a small shudder of her neck before settling down.

She didn't understand Vesemir's words, of course—but after several weeks together, some basic understanding had formed.

"Phew…"

Vesemir sighed in relief and shot an angry glare at Clay, who looked back sheepishly.

"How many times have I told you—don't move around or panic when you're on Good Girl's back!"

"She's Allen's partner, not mine! Move around a bit more and she might toss all of you right off!"

Feeling the fierce wind howling at this altitude, Clay instinctively turned to look down at the tiny, ant-sized figures in Drakenborg far below, and he couldn't help but shrink his head back and swallow hard.

Klar, seated next to Clay, was so startled he threw his arms around him, terrified that if Clay kept moving, he'd be the first one tossed off.

It wasn't that Klar feared death.

Of course, with the beautiful Nina—lovely as a pink tulip—waiting for him at the temple, he didn't want to die. But if he had to choose a way to go…

Being killed by a monster, a warlock, or even the soldiers of Drakenborg—those were all acceptable deaths.

But to die because of a reckless companion's antics—flung off by Good Girl?

What kind of death was that?

Would his sweet Nina even be able to hear about such a disgrace?

There were few deaths more embarrassing—maybe only getting skewered by a farmer's pitchfork…

"I'll stop! I'll stop moving!" Clay suddenly cried. "Loosen up, Klar—loosen up! I can't breathe—I can't breathe…"

Whatever Klar had just imagined, he quickly loosened his grip on Clay's ribs.

Clay turned back with irritation. "Klar, are you trying to kill me?"

"It's your fault for moving around!" Klar deflected the blame, then quickly changed the subject before Clay could argue. "Master Vesemir, aren't we going down yet?"

"If the Captain and Master Danthe are trapped in the tower by all those people, wouldn't that be the end of them?"

Everyone on the griffin turned their attention back to the situation below.

"When Allen needs us, he'll call the griffin," Vesemir replied, glancing at the dark, looming tower. Worry was evident in his eyes. "No one understands better than Allen when it's the right moment for us and Good Girl to strike."

The young witchers fell silent.

Fred, who had just been rescued, listened quietly to the exchange between Vesemir and the others…

For a moment, he couldn't help but feel out of place—disoriented, even.

Why did everyone—Vesemir included—seem to take it for granted that when the griffin landed, Erni, Klar, and the others would actually be of help in a situation like this, instead of becoming a burden?

This was Drakenborg...

The most escape-proof prison in the world, as Master Danthe had said.

Even he—who had passed the official mountain trials over a month before Erni and the others—wouldn't dare claim he could break out of Drakenborg.

Yet the auras Fred could sense now made the back of his neck tingle. Even the weakest among them—Silo—felt significantly stronger than him.

"What happened to Erni, Klar, and the others?" Fred wondered, clutching the griffin's mane, bewildered. "Was I really just unconscious for half a day from the Leshen's attack... not six months?"

He had a gut feeling Allen had something to do with it.

But then again, in terms of time...

He, Hughes, and Bond had spent nearly half a year with Allen, whereas Erni and the others had only started following Allen and Vesemir down the mountain a month or two ago. It didn't add up.

"Fred, still not feeling well?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Fred looked up, just in time to meet Vesemir's concerned gaze. His cheeks flushed red and he quickly shook his head.

Then, as if remembering something, he asked, "Right, Master Vesemir… can Allen really summon the griff—uh, summon Good Girl from that far away?"

"Of course," Vesemir chuckled. "Even across half of Temeria wouldn't be a problem."

"That's... that's good to hear."

Fred ran his fingers through Good Girl's thick mane, feeling the eerie pressure emanating from beneath him. His heart was a swirl of emotions.

He suddenly remembered that moment in Kaedwen, after the Cat School witchers launched a night raid. He, Hughes, and Bond could only watch helplessly as Allen left on his own. Even Vesemir had stayed behind to protect them.

And the words Vesemir spoke then echoed in his mind—

"Remember this day, my apprentices."

"Remember that back, and the shame you feel now, young witchers."

"The reason you couldn't go with him, the reason you couldn't fight at his side, is simple—"

"You're too weak."

"So weak…"

Fred rubbed the back of his neck, which still throbbed faintly, and pressed down hard, forcing his nails into the flesh. The dull pain became sharp and unmistakable.

"After half a year of training, why have I been rescued by Allen again? Why am I still only a bystander, unable to draw my sword and fight beside him?"

"Why do I feel even weaker than I was before?"

"Why?"

In a daze—

Fred seemed to hear a voice.

Warm, kind, radiant—like a lush forest in the height of summer…

But the voice felt distant, boundless, as if it echoed from the ends of the earth.

No one noticed that at that moment, the blood trickling from the back of Fred's neck glowed with a faint green hue.

Rather than dripping down with gravity, the blood was instead reabsorbed into the skin from which it had come.

"..."

Half-asleep, half-awake, the voice grew clearer in Fred's ears, but just as he instinctively leaned in to listen more closely—

"Wait!"

Erni suddenly spoke, breaking the trance.

"Master Vesemir, I remember the Captain once said that the mages have rituals that can block magical interference, right?"

Vesemir paused, then nodded. "Yes, there are such rituals. Ban Ard's anti-teleportation barriers and a ritual called Mana Slow can both do that."

"So what are you trying to say, Erni?"

Erni stared intently at Drakenborg below. "In a field like that… can Allen still summon Good Girl?"

"Of course he c—" Vesemir's words caught in his throat.

He realized he honestly didn't know. The griffin had only recently been tamed, and they'd never encountered this situation before—Allen himself probably didn't know.

But the problem was, such a scenario wasn't just possible right now—

It was likely.

Fundamentally, all long-range communication depended on the use of magic and elemental forces.

And Drakenborg had withstood assaults by elves—famous for their magical prowess—for over a hundred years without falling. Its fortifications almost certainly included anti-magic defenses.

Moreover, as far as Vesemir knew—

In a mage's laboratory, to prevent ambient magical energy from contaminating experiments, such anti-magic fields were commonly deployed.

"It's very possible." That wasn't a question—it was a statement. Erni's expression darkened.

Before he could say anything more, Clay suddenly cried out: "Look! Drakenborg!"

Everyone leaned over the griffin's back—and their expressions changed dramatically.

Within the dark, massive fortress, countless lights resembling fireflies surged from all directions toward the tower.

But on closer inspection, it became clear they weren't fireflies at all.

They were soldiers—at least several thousand of them—armed in various ways, converging on one location.

"Their… their target…" Clay was so shocked he could barely speak.

"The tower," Vesemir's golden beast-like eyes narrowed to slits.

"The tower where Allen is."

.....

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