The Witcher: Lord of the Empire

Geralt mentally reviewed the battle plan once more, then asked curiously, "What kind of poison did Kolgrim even use on the Nilfgaardians? He poisoned the water source upstream, but Lann insisted we can't damage Cintra's ecosystem. So to get as many Nilfgaardians poisoned as possible, they used something slow-acting—and took days to make it work?"

"Also, how did you just tell how deeply they were poisoned just by looking at their faces? Did all the accumulated effects really erupt at once tonight?"

Letho lowered his head and carefully organized his thoughts.

"The Viper School has been studying alchemical poisons for hundreds of years. There's always something suitable for the right occasion. But honestly, without Lann's financial backing, we wouldn't have been able to dose nearly ten thousand people. Even at its peak, the Viper School couldn't have provided that much on its own."

"And strictly speaking, it's not really a poison. It's a special herb that temporarily disables a person's ability to fight. True poisons tend to be volatile and aggressive—they're not suitable when you want to hit so many targets all at once."

"Herbology is… complicated. If you're interested in learning, we can go over it sometime later. We're all part of the same Order now, after all."

After answering Geralt's question, Letho turned to Yennefer.

"Can you use magic to change the weather tonight? I'd prefer it darker—it'll make the raid easier."

The sorceress, however, was far less cooperative than the White Wolf. She shot the Viper witcher a glare and said, "I'm a sorceress, not a druid."

Rejected, Letho awkwardly withdrew and glanced up at the already-set sun and the thick clouds blanketing the sky.

"Never mind… This should do."

"White Wolf, get back and rally your unit. Coordinate with Lambert. After tonight, Cintra's battlefield will be rewritten—because of us."

...

Hochebuz, Nilfgaardian Military Camp.

Major Mopka was reviewing internal reports submitted by the quartermaster.

After a long while, he let out a deep breath.

"You've done well. Keep the alert level high tonight. Until we reach Fort Ortagor, we can't let our guard down for a second."

Major Mopka was the commanding officer of the reinforcements sent by Duke de Wett. As soon as he arrived, he took over command of the logistics forces.

Even though he knew Duke de Wett had deliberately shifted frontline tactics to protect the supply convoys—drawing much of the enemy's attention in the process—Mopka still refused to relax.

After all, Hochebuz had once been the site of a battle that was widely known in Cintra's history—one of Queen Calanthe's most famous victories. Over 3,000 soldiers had been buried here, a staggering number for Cintra at the time.

For Cintrans, this place represented 'victory'—almost to the level of sacred belief.

A year ago, Mopka would've scoffed at such sentiment. But after more than a year stationed in Cintra, after witnessing the changes in both Cintra's people and the Western Army Group, all he felt now in Hochebuz was the need for extreme caution.

"The Sun Above Us," he silently recited in his heart.

But the sun had already set. The supply convoy couldn't move at night, so they had no choice but to light torches once again.

Perhaps treating the torchlight as a stand-in for the sun, Duke de Wett stared blankly into the flames for quite a while.

Suddenly, he felt as if the flames were forming a vortex, sucking at his nerves, devouring them one by one. The heat seemed to roast his brain through the air itself, making every nerve go slack—just like the hazy stupor after a long night of heavy drinking. His consciousness began to blur.

"Something's wrong!"

His sharp tactical instincts kicked in. Major Mopka snapped out of it in an instant. Looking at his personal guards, he realized that even though these men had rested during the day in preparation for the night shift, they now walked unsteadily, as if they hadn't slept in three days.

This hadn't happened on any of the previous nights, and now—on this night—they were all suddenly like this, just like him!

"Full alert!"

He didn't need to think it through. Major Mopka shouted the order reflexively at the top of his lungs.

And just at that moment, a sharp, piercing voice rang out from the edge of the camp, followed by the blaring of war horns—

"—Enemy—attack!"

…

At the edge of the Nilfgaardian camp, where it met the forest, a pair of amber eyes suddenly lit up in the darkness—like a predator lying in wait who had finally seized the perfect moment.

Another string of shadowy figures stirred behind those amber eyes. In an instant, they slipped out of the forest.

At that moment, the sentries stationed at the edge of the Nilfgaardian camp were already on the verge of collapse. They couldn't even see clearly whether anyone was really approaching through the darkness—or if they were imagining it.

[Thwip, Thwip, Thwip—]

Only when the first volley of arrows came raining down on them did the searing pain manage to drag the Black Army soldiers' minds back to reality. With trembling, weakened arms, they tried to draw their bows and retaliate—while shouting toward the main camp:

"It's the Cintran guerrillas!"

But their cries were cut short—choked off by the next wave of arrows.

And then, the vertical slit pupils that had become a nightmare for the Western Army Group carved an amber arc through the air, rapidly closing in.

Quen Sign

Casting a protective magic barrier over himself, Lambert charged into the enemy's field of vision.

Arrows flew haphazardly from deep within the Nilfgaardian camp toward him—but they were feeble, so weak that even after he stormed into the encampment, not a single one managed to do any real harm.

"Sun Above Us!"

A few Black Army soldiers, seeing Lambert charging in, raised their spears and moved to intercept. Spears, with their reach, should've given them the upper hand—but the soldiers stumbled as they ran. Lambert easily parried their clumsy thrusts with his steel wolf-head sword, then took a few light steps to close the distance.

"It's nighttime. Your Sun won't reach you now,"

Lambert sneered. "But I can."

He raised his hand. A flash of dazzling white light burst forth as aether surged directly into their minds.

[Axii Sign – Puppet]

Enhanced by the elemental circle of Kaer Morhen, the sign caused the staggering Nilfgaardian soldier to momentarily regain some strength. But under the influence of hypnosis, he swiftly turned and drove his spear into his own comrades, plunging the camp into chaos. In the confusion, more soldiers were killed by their own allies.

Although the Nilfgaardians quickly realized what was happening and killed the entranced soldier, all their attention around the outpost had already been drawn to Lambert and his magically-compelled pawn.

Meanwhile, the hundred-plus guerrillas that Lambert had brought took the chance to break through the perimeter. But they didn't start cutting down enemies or charge deeper into the camp—instead, they began hurling alchemical bombs in all directions.

Explosions rang out in a continuous barrage.

Fire bloomed through the darkness, and soon, dozens of tents were ablaze.

Naturally, screams of agony followed.

When it came to killing in groups, this was far more effective than swords.

"Now that's satisfying!"

Watching so many alchemical bombs go off at once, the usually cash-strapped witchers couldn't help but feel a rare sense of elation.

To achieve results with just a hundred or so fighters—without sacrificing lives—they had to burn money instead. Fortunately, the wealth Lann had wrung from the Mirror Master ran deep.

"I'm starting to understand the Viper School and the Cat School a little better…"

Lambert muttered under his breath.

"This really is more fun than hunting monsters."

Despite the chaos, this was still only a limited strike. The casualties from the raid likely totaled just around a hundred—barely a drop in the ocean for a camp housing tens of thousands.

But Lambert hadn't come to inflict damage. His mission was already complete.

Sensing more Nilfgaardians being drawn to the commotion, and knowing that the central command tent had now taken notice, Lambert decisively called his guerrillas back.

"Fall back!"

Strike and retreat—he didn't give the Nilfgaardians a single chance to regroup.

…

"How many enemies are there? What direction are they coming from?"

Even in crisis, Major Mopka remained a hardened man. He knew full well: if he failed to protect the logistics unit, he'd be a dead man—whether he died here or made it back to Nilfgaard.

He sheathed his short sword. Blood streamed down his arm, but he forced his body to squeeze out one last surge of strength.

At the same time, Mopka was shouting to the side, "Where's the quartermaster? Tell him to bring out every antidote and stimulant we've got! Doesn't matter what kind—just get it distributed!"

The force of his roar nearly left him breathless. His vision swam for a moment, and he almost collapsed on the spot.

Fortunately, a messenger arrived just then and reported: "Major, it's the Cintran guerrillas. They're everywhere—"

"What the hell do you mean, everywhere?! Which directions? Are we surrounded? How many men do they even have? How could they possibly surround us?!"

The messenger was met with a full-on barrage of shouting. Flustered, he quickly tried again, carefully reorganizing his words: "East, south, and northwest—guerrilla units are attacking from all three directions. But their numbers are small—just a few hundred… no, maybe only a hundred or so in each group. They haven't been able to break through."

Mopka slammed both fists against his own head and sneered coldly.

"Charging our encampment with guerrilla units? That's suicide. Sound the horn. Round up anyone still able to fight in the main camp and prepare for a counterattack. Try to capture some of those guerrillas alive—we'll interrogate them…"

"Wait!"

He stopped himself mid-sentence, suddenly rejecting his own plan. Several pieces of information were beginning to click together in his mind: the unexplained poisoning, the fact that a few hundred-man squads dared to attack a camp of ten thousand—and how all of them retreated the moment they struck.

How many soldiers could they have possibly killed like that?

The Cintrans were bold, yes—but they weren't suicidal.

"Sound the alarm. Prepare everyone for battle, but do not act recklessly! The Cintrans must have received reinforcements from somewhere—we just don't know where yet. These guerrilla squads are only trying to throw us into chaos. Double the guards around the supply depots. Their main assault is coming soon…"

[BOOM—]

A deafening explosion shook the air, far more powerful than anything the guerrillas had unleashed before.

This blast was powerful enough to tear open a gap in their defenses. But instead of panicking, Major Mopka's eyes lit up.

"They're going for the main assault now? So impatient?"

"Sound the retreat for the outer perimeter—draw those Cintrans inward. Mobilize every able-bodied soldier from the other sectors. We'll crush this support force they brought!"

"Yes, sir!"

…

At the site of that massive explosion, which had created enough commotion for a thousand-man unit, Geralt was gathering his guerrilla squad—barely a hundred strong.

He could feel the Nilfgaardian army shifting around him and had trouble discerning what the enemy commander was planning.

But the mission—to draw enemy attention and buy time for the others—seemed to be complete.

"Use up every last bomb, then fall back!"

Geralt barked the order, fully accustomed by now to this kind of explosive warfare.

After giving instructions to his second-in-command, he turned and walked toward Yennefer.

Behind him, the sorceress stood with arms raised high.

Violent waves of chaotic energy swirled around her, and Geralt's wolf medallion pulsed madly against his chest.

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