Chapter 52

Chapter 52: I Don't Want To Either

A group of fifteen horses made the already poor road conditions even worse under their hooves. Phillip and his soldiers approached the Condyle outpost.

They weren't expecting any supplies from the outpost; Phillip knew all too well what was prepared for the lower-ranking soldiers there. Moldy black bread, potatoes, carrots, onions—they might not even have a whetstone.

He was just there to ask some questions and do a quick inspection to fulfill his duties. You couldn't say they were shirking their responsibilities, as every soldier here would draw their sword and charge at human traffickers the moment they saw them. However, solving cases and tracking down criminals, these tedious and difficult tasks, did wear down morale and breed laziness. No one was immune to it.

But as they neared the marked location of the outpost on the map, a soldier with a keen sense of smell in the group issued a warning.

"Guys, something's wrong! There's a smell of blood!"

The group, which had been lazily scattered, immediately tensed up like a drawn bowstring. You could say that battle-hardened veterans lacked manners and culture, but you couldn't say they didn't know how to kill or survive.

Phillip, slightly slowed by the alcohol, felt a chill down his spine and broke out in a cold sweat, sobering up considerably.

"Stay alert!"

The nervous cavalrymen charged towards the outpost with thundering hooves. This aggressive way of riding was usually reserved for approaching battlefields, allowing them to remain vigilant while being ready to charge at full speed at any moment. Like a bayonet ready to be thrust out.

As the situation at the outpost became visible, Phillip and his men couldn't help but frown simultaneously.

"No one around, no monsters or beasts." Soldiers on both sides of the cavalry formation dismounted to scout the area but found nothing.

Only after confirming there was no danger did Phillip wave his hand, signaling to slow down. They finally stopped in front of the outpost.

"York, go check it out." Phillip sat on his horse, his alert and fierce eyes scanning the surroundings.

Except for the one he named, the others remained on their horses, ready to charge into battle at any moment. York dismounted, shouldered his halberd, and walked about ten steps, effectively crossing the entire outpost.

The signs of a struggle were unmistakable and visible from where he stood. Holding his halberd, York couldn't help but grind his teeth.

"By the plague... Boss, their heads are smashed!"

"Damn it, York, tell me something I can't see!"

Phillip felt an inexplicable tension in this scene, which shouldn't have been the case. He had seen plenty of gruesome battlefields during his life. He had even witnessed village massacres, so why was he feeling uneasy over just three dead men?

The warhorse sensed this unease through the reins and didn't stay in place. Instead, it shuffled its hooves, walking back and forth, ready to bolt at any moment.

"This is different, boss," York said, standing in front of the black-faced soldier's corpse, poking his already rotten head with the tip of his halberd. The red and white viscous material on the head quivered slightly.

"These three men had their heads smashed in one punch. Do you understand what I mean? One punch, and their heads went 'boom.'"

Phillip's face darkened as he realized the source of his unease.

These three corpses were abnormal. Their entire bodies had only one large depression on their faces. The wounds did look like they were made by a fist. But how was that possible?

Although a fist's force was an instantaneous impact, different from the sustained force of lifting or pushing heavy objects. But to cause such wounds, it would take at least nearly a thousand kilograms of force.

"Maybe it was a monster, York? We're not witchers; there are many monsters we haven't seen, and we wouldn't recognize the wounds they cause."

Phillip frowned, but York poked the corpse's head again with the tip of his halberd.

"You can't see it clearly from your horse, boss. But from here, I can see the traces of the three-edged spikes on the gloves in the wounds on their faces. The killer wore a nice pair of gloves, which is why the wounds are so horrifying. They were like being hit in the face with an iron hammer."

Faced with this irrefutable evidence, Phillip could no longer entertain any illusions. So far, no monster had been known to neatly wear human armor. But could a human fist really deliver nearly a thousand kilograms of force!?

"By Melitele, a punch to my stomach would knock my guts out!" Phillip's mouth twitched as he muttered under his breath. Although his voice wasn't loud, the brothers around him nodded in agreement.

Wait a minute! The sergeant suddenly raised an eyebrow. Wasn't there someone in Velen who could deliver such a punch?

Phillip and York exchanged a glance at the same moment. In that instant, they both thought of the guy with the spiked gauntlets and cat-like eyes.

The witcher!

York approached Phillip with a conflicted expression, and Phillip leaned down from his horse with a complex look.

"Boss, what about this... Lan has already killed soldiers."

"Let's not talk about whether they're soldiers or not," Phillip glanced at the three corpses.

These lowest-ranking soldiers could be considered soldiers or not, depending on the situation, and no one really cared. Although they wore armor bearing the white lily of Temeria, it was an open secret that they also moonlighted as robbers.

Phillip didn't dwell on the thoughts of those higher-ups; he just instinctively covered his stomach and said,

"The key is, I've never seen Lan so angry before!"

The sergeant's tone was conflicted, with a hint of fear. Damn it, the polite, kind-hearted witcher, in the blink of an eye, used his fist. His damn fist! To smash three people's heads flat! I've never seen such an effect even with a war hammer on the battlefield!

"I also think something's off," York replied to his superior. "When I was in the enforcement team, we were so scared we had arrows pointed at him, but he could still explain things calmly and avoiding bloodshed. That personality wasn't fake. But now..."

The two looked at the three heads, resembling smashed watermelons, in silence. The witcher had truly been enraged. They both realized this.

Then, Phillip noticed something crucial.

"Why was he enraged to this extent?" The sergeant's eyes flickered. "Or rather, in all of Velen, what could make him so angry?"

York was a bit confused, but a scene from that night flashed in his mind—Lan, with his fiery sword, cutting off the feet of the cannibals without blinking. "The cannibal... cult?"

"Slap! Idiot! Is Lan crazy? Why didn't he come to us if he found the cannibal cult?" A hand slammed on York's helmet, making his head ring.

"Maybe his children were kidnapped, and he was too anxious?"

These were the two most troublesome and infuriating cases in Velen right now.

"But wait, witcher's can't have children, right?"

"Slap!" The helmet was hit again.

"Who cares if he can have children or not? It must be a big case! Track the signs, let's follow them! But don't rush too much on the journey."

"Why not rush?"

"You definitely don't want to meet Lan without knowing for sure if he's calm, do you? Look at these three rotten melons, tut tut tut."

York shuddered and nodded.

Facing the confused halberd soldier, Phillip smiled kindly.

***

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