Chapter 57

Chapter 57: Amateur Assassination

Lan shook the blood droplets off his Bear School steel sword and wiped it clean with a piece of cloth before sheathing it behind his back. The ground was littered with corpses, just like the first small camp he had tracked down by scent.

"This is the fourth one... it should be enough," the young witcher muttered to himself.

Mentos, in his mind, confirmed his estimate. "73% probability, sir. That's quite high."

"They set up outposts on a two-day rotation to avoid detection and couldn't use smoke signals for warnings. This couldn't possibly achieve rapid information transmission; it was just for interception and vigilance. Eliminating four outposts should ensure the passage is clear."

Mentos added a rigorous supplement. "Of course, this probability only takes effect if you successfully rescue the person. And if you get injured or your actions are compromised, this probability will plummet."

"I understand, but you know, such words don't scare me."

The dense forest rustled, and amidst the shaking branches, the witcher's footsteps echoed as his figure slowly disappeared into the shadows.

Walking downhill. Relying on the intelligence obtained from interrogations at the four outposts, Lan had a rough understanding of their main base, the secret port. The number of personnel varied between forty to fifty, including both members of the cannibal group and others they didn't know.

According to them, "These are the people which 'Head Eater' brought in, sent by the buyers. It's a big business, so it's normal for them to send a group of people to follow."

Thinking of this, Lan sneered. The cannibals must have eaten their brains to believe such nonsense. Most of the cannibals, who were the main force in the business, were sent to the peripheral outposts, and only a small number were allowed back to the port during shift changes. They were clearly treating the cannibals as laborers.

But for the witcher, these weren't the most pressing issues. Child trafficking, cannibalism... either way, they deserved to die.

Lan's pace was planned so that by the time the sky was darkening, he arrived at this main base according to the enemy's confession. The defense wasn't as complete as expected, allowing Lan to crouch in the bushes and observe some scenes in the camp.

After all, they had set up many outposts on the periphery. Human resources were valuable resources, and it was already absurd for a crime syndicate of over a hundred people to exist in Velen. The resources of an organization are limited, and it's normal to balance and weigh the pros and cons.

"The situation is far more optimistic than expected. Mentos, it seems we don't need to argue anymore."

The amber cat-like eyes moved slightly.

The camp wasn't large. A small port was built in the direction of the sea, with a few shallow-water boats docked there. They probably used a transportation method where goods were loaded onto small boats at the port and then transferred to larger ships in deeper waters.

In the camp, armed personnel mostly lived in simple tents, arranged in a crescent shape, half enclosing a dark, cage-like prison. The largest tent in the middle of the crescent was likely the leader's position.

They didn't care about lighting the prison area because the side of the prison not enclosed directly faced the sea. And before civilization developed electric lights, nighttime illumination was always a luxury. Candles, oil lamps, firewood... these insignificant things were shiny money.

So, in Lan's modern eyes, not only was the prison area pitch dark, but the armed personnel's living area could only be described as "dim." A few fixed fire pits and a dozen or so patrolling personnel with torches were the only lighting measures.

Darkness was the witcher's advantage.

Mentos also relaxed immediately upon seeing the camp. It was too dark... perfect. At least the main body wouldn't have to risk its life.

"The rescue success rate has increased, sir. But I believe you should still covertly eliminate more than a third of the armed personnel in this camp to be safe."

'Damn it, you fucking bastards! Do you know how it feels to watch that mood curve like a bomb fuse?! All of you 'A holes', deserve to die!' There's no doubt that biological AI can learn swear words. But according to the Education Law, they can't use them in conversations with children.

Lan could hear a hint of excitement in Mentos's intelligent voice. But his own mood was the same; the rescue target was in that dark prison area... and he was very close now.

He took off his silver sword and placed it on the ground. He tightened the various iron buckles on his armor to prevent them from clinking during movement. Finally, Lan took out a potion from his pouch. Potion [Cat], granting the witcher low-light vision. The witcher had cat-like eyes, but under normal circumstances, they only enhanced observation. Only by drinking the potion could he temporarily gain super-sensitive vision.

"Huh, I didn't expect the first potion to enter my body would be this one, apart from the Trial."

Lan exhaled lightly and then drank the potion in one gulp. The strange sensation of the potion entering his body was both unfamiliar and familiar, and Lan's mouth twitched slightly as he endured the pain of the toxicity.

The black toxin, or rather the potency, spread from under the armor's collar, through the blood vessels, and to his face. Finally, it converged near the eye sockets, a dense point of blood vessels. Now, Lan's face was pale, and his eye sockets were deep black, making him look more like the monster he was supposed to hunt.

This was still a potion with relatively low toxicity; a stronger one would turn the eyeballs completely black. This drugged appearance was also a major reason why witchers were discriminated against.

Lan drew a hunting knife from his waist and smeared some dirt on the blade and his steel vambrace. These were the few exposed reflective points on his body.

"Let's begin, Mentos!" Lan crouched and moved towards the secret port, his heavy armor making him look like a stealthy black bear.

Anyone who has used a torch at night without auxiliary lighting would understand how weak it is as a light source. A patrolman followed his route to the outskirts of the camp, stretched out his torch to scan around, and prepared to move elsewhere. Lan was less than ten meters in front of him, watching the man turn around quietly. He could even see the sheen of the man's hair reflecting the light.

The witcher's body, superior to normal standards, allowed Lan to walk faster even while crouching. A pair of hands emerged from the darkness, brutally covering the patrolman's mouth and nose from behind, pulling him close, and slashing his throat.

Just like a killer in the movies. Lan thought. But there was a "difference. A struggling human seemed to exert even more strength in the first few seconds of dying.

The man's body began to instinctively resist, flail, and convulse. Lan had to entangle his hands and legs to prevent him from making too much movement. The hand holding the torch was directly gripped by the witcher to prevent the torch from shaking.

Slitting the throat didn't kill instantly, a problem Lan hadn't noticed before. Because he was more proficient in frontal sword fighting, if slitting the throat didn't kill, he would stab the chest or cut off the head, which took no more than half a second.

But in assassination, the struggle period of up to half a minute after slitting the throat soaked a large part of Lan's cotton armor in blood. He had previously cleared four camps without letting the enemy touch him once.

***

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