Chapter 50

Chapter 50: Kill All Who Would Harm Me

The horse's steps and sounds were not light. Although this small camp seemed unguarded, in Velen, anyone without defenses in the wilderness would have already become fertilizer.

"Who's there?"

First came the sound of steel clashing, then a long spear emerged from the large canvas. Initially horizontal, it rose vertically as the blade cleared the canvas. Following it was a soldier struggling to straighten his helmet. His face was dark, not from skin color or labor. Lan had the answer as soon as he glanced up—it was a layer of grime formed by neglected dust, sweat, and grease.

The soldier's unkempt beard was evident as Lan, now leading Popeye, approached closer. A quick glance inside the canvas revealed two more soldiers, sprawled out and trying to rise from storage boxes.

The initially questioning soldier, with the dark face, grew impatient and repeated himself.

"In the name of Sir Vserad! Stranger, tell me who you are and what you're doing here?"

Lan lowered his eyelids, not answering but instead asking a question of his own. "Vserad? You serve the lord of Velen?"

"Well, isn't it obvious?" the dark-faced soldier tapped the Temerian white lily emblem on his breastplate, looking self-evident.

Calling it a "breastplate" was somewhat of a stretch. Unlike the soldiers under Phillip Strenger, who were battle-hardened veterans, these soldiers had a far less impressive set of armor. While not high-quality, Phillip's soldiers wore Temerian standard armor—chainmail with large plate armor over the torso, and steel protection for hands, feet, and knees.

In contrast, the armor of the soldiers before Lan was a tattered cotton armor, with only a curved iron plate protecting the abdomen. The quality of the cotton armor was even inferior to Lan's initial equipment. It was nowhere near the standard armor.

Lan quickly lifted his eyes and then lowered them again. At least the emblem was correct.

The young man understood why Vserad's soldiers were here.

Phillip Strenger's professional soldiers were considered elite units under Vserad. But to maintain control over his territory, a lord needed more than just an elite squad. The vast number of "rabble soldiers" like the ones before Lan were the lord's tentacles of control over Velen. Setting up outposts in various villages, each with just three or four soldiers, they rotated regularly and received salaries and supplies.

This force, numbering in the hundreds or even thousands, was Vserad's most significant power. They didn't need to be strong, skilled in battle, or even brave. Their mere existence signified Vserad's firm rule over Velen.

Honestly, these men might only visit Crow's Perch four or five times in their lives. They were far from the professional soldiers who could dine and live with the lord. The large communal dormitory in Crow's Perch was for the professional soldiers.

"A passerby, sir. I mean no harm, but I have a child missing in this area. Have you seen anything?" Lan didn't want the other to see his eyes, as racial prejudice might complicate the conversation unnecessarily.

The dark-faced soldier absentmindedly looked at the two swords behind Lan, holding the spear shaft against his chest. The other two soldiers, equipped with swords and shields, stood behind him. In this situation, the dark-faced soldier seemed to relax.

"A child? Haven't seen any. Besides the flower farmers, who else would be here? Pah—" He tilted his head and spat a thick phlegm. Looking for a child here, you must be out of your mind."

"Maybe so, goodbye." Lan nodded indifferently and prepared to leave. The golden 48 hours were ticking away, and he had no time to waste.

But as Lan turned Popeye around, the dark-faced soldier's voice called out again. "Wait."

Lan slightly lifted his eyelids. How to describe the tone of the dark-faced soldier? It carried a smile, but not a friendly one. It was a mocking laugh. The malice was unconcealed, like thick black mud invading the air.

Something hard and sharp pressed against Lan's back. It was the spear's blade.

"Hey, passerby. We are soldiers under Sir Vserad. Do you know how much effort we put into protecting Velen's safety? You walk, earn, and live on this land. Don't you think you should thank us?" The spear blade lightly tapped Lan's back, as if in consultation.

But the young Witcher knew that if he didn't want to "consult," the next thrust wouldn't be just a tap. Behind him, the two sword-and-shield soldiers seemed amused by Lan's rigid stance, laughing heartily and without restraint.

This joy, born from arbitrary oppression and the advantage of violence, naturally affected the spear-wielding dark-faced soldier. His spear blade advanced a few more inches.

With his back to the three, Lan took a deep breath. He didn't want trouble. At least not now. White could die at any moment or be sold away. He couldn't afford to lose track of time. At this already tense moment, he shouldn't conflict with the lord's men.

Lan wanted to control himself. Try not to get angry, try to suppress his anxiety and rage, as these emotions would only cause trouble.

"Inhale—exhale—"

The sound of breathing, to the dark-faced soldier behind, seemed to represent cowardice and panic. Lan reached into the saddlebag on Popeye's back and handed a package over his shoulder.

"Sir, you're right. You've worked hard. Here are two roast chickens, a jar of berries and raspberries, and some bread. Consider it a meal on me."

The dark-faced soldier chuckled and one of the sword-and-shield soldiers grabbed the package from Lan's hand. Opening it, he inhaled deeply with pleasure.

"Huzzah! Fresh roast chicken and fruit! I'm so sick of the salted meat."

Lan ignored the noise behind him, raised his hands, and slowly turned to face the three.

"Sir, can I go now? I need to find the child."

But he didn't see a satisfied expression on the disgusting black face. Instead, greed was rising. The spear blade pressed against his chest again, this time pushed further forward. The dark-faced soldier tilted his head towards Popeye's back.

"Continue! Keep digging!"

Lan didn't say anything. Spare clothes, dried fish, a water bag filled with wine—everything was handed over to the three. The soldiers were delighted and surprised by their haul, laughing so hard they could barely close their mouths.

Lan calmly said, "Can I go now?"

The three soldiers looked up from their joy, and without hesitation, they sneered contemptuously at Lan. Amidst the thick scorn and disdain, their greedy eyes turned to Lan himself. The dark-faced soldier raised his spear again, as if it were the most intimidating weapon in the world.

"Sword, pouch, armor, take it all off!" His voice was more confident than it had been seconds ago.

Lan exhaled slowly but didn't move. Seeing that Lan didn't yield, the dark-faced soldier seemed deeply insulted and was about to thrust the spear into Lan's chest.

But a purple magical glow flashed, and a circle of magical runes appeared on the ground. The dark-faced soldier, who was just inches away from stabbing Lan, found himself inexplicably delayed.

The Yrden sign caused the enemy's movements to lag, providing ample reaction time. Lan pursed his lips and, with one hand, pushed the spear blade aside while immediately closing in.

"Boom!!!"

A fist, clad in a spiked leather glove, landed squarely in the middle of the dark-faced soldier's face. The jawbone deformed and shattered under the immense force. Teeth flew out of their sockets one by one. The fleshy features were crushed into a pulp by the punch. There was no scream; the punch suppressed it in the throat.

The dark-faced soldier, standing at 1.67 meters, lost his height almost instantly as the punch drove his head into the ground. The back of his head hit a stone, causing a spray of red and white, staining the area.

Then, amidst this bloody tableau, Lan slowly raised his head, his cat-like eyes bloodshot. He looked at the other two sword-and-shield soldiers, who were now stunned. He pulled his fist out of the dark-faced soldier's face.

Within two minutes, Lan, with bloodied hands, had reorganized his gear.

"You just lost control, sir," Mentos spoke up mentally.

Lan calmly acknowledged this. "Yes, I lost control."

"Should I re-strategize? I'm concerned you might not remain rational in the face of unexpected situations."

"No, Mentos," the young man's voice was calm.

"Losing control is fine. The next plan is simple anyway."

"Kill everyone who tries to harm me."

***

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