The Witcher: Lord of the Empire

[Crash!]

With a loud clatter, the Black Sun banner behind the high-ranking officer suddenly snapped, tumbling to the ground with a sharp gust of wind. Only then did the rest of the battlefield finally register Lann's presence—

—along with the blood-soaked corpses of the commander and his guards lying all around him.

"What a mess... and they even managed to shatter my Active Shield," Lann muttered with a twitch of his lips. "Scared the hell out of me…"

When the shield broke earlier, he had thought he'd walked into a meticulously laid ambush. But as it turned out, it was merely a result of this enemy unit having a higher-than-average standard configuration.

"Duke Lannister! Duke Lannister has returned!"

The morale of the Eastern Coalition troops suddenly surged. It was as if someone had injected them with raw courage—what had been a steadily retreating force now found new strength, managing for a brief moment to halt the advance of the Black Army.

They slashed with longswords and battleaxes, thrust with spears and halberds, struck with clubs and flanged maces. The roaring infantry charged in the direction of Lann, eager to rally around their newfound commander.

By contrast, the Nilfgaardians fell into chaos at the sudden death of their leader. One cavalry unit charged straight at Lann, unaware of the full extent of his power. To them, a lone footsoldier—even if a famed one—should be no match for a mounted charge.

But in the next instant, the incoming riders were consumed by a blast of Igni. Their consciousness was scorched away before they even understood what hit them. The cavalry unit was scattered with a force greater than their own charge. Horses trampled their own riders as they rolled to the ground like rag dolls.

"Duke Lannister!"

The coalition soldiers finally caught up. Lann glanced at the insignia on their armor—Black Eagle with Red Lozenges.

"Where is your queen? And the Aedirnians?"

"Her Majesty is fighting on the other flank—please, you must hurry and save her!" a soldier of Lyria shouted, swinging his blade desperately to hold off nearby attackers, doing everything he could to clear the path for their savior to reach the queen.

Lann scanned the surroundings. With a flash of golden light, he charged behind the Nilfgaardian lines. Just before enemy blades could reach him, he slammed a palm to the ground.

[Aard Sign – Piercing Cold – Aard Sweep!]

He refrained from unleashing a mana burst, wary of harming allied troops in the chaos. Instead, he blinked repeatedly through the enemy rear ranks, each burst leaving behind screams and surging gales. In moments, the Nilfgaardian front lines began to falter and shake.

Then he plunged straight into the heart of the melee. He no longer used Signs. Drawing his curved black magic blade Iris with his left hand, he dual-wielded both weapons and deflected incoming blades from every direction, spinning like a storm through the battlefield, reaping enemy lives with ruthless precision.

Wherever he moved became a death zone. And yet, every strike of his blades miraculously avoided coalition allies—each slash finding its way precisely through gaps in Nilfgaardian armor.

No one knew how long the slaughter lasted before the Black Army finally understood how few of them remained.

With no commander, no enforcement units, and barely any comrades left at their side, the remnants of the Black Army broke and fled. Some tried to escape on horseback, others simply stumbled off on foot, fleeing the battlefield in total disarray.

The coalition troops didn't give chase. Instead, they stood where they were, panting heavily—eyes burning with awe as they gazed upon the golden-haired lion clad in silver and black armor.

"Men of Lyria and Rivia—ride with me to save your queen!"

…

The remaining Nilfgaardians were merely standard human soldiers—well within the range that Lann could handle with the help of the Lyrians and Rivians.

He chose not to summon Saskia or Keltullis. The presence of anti-magic archers and mages suggested this enemy unit was better equipped than those of the Eastern and Western armies. With the enemy's full capabilities still unknown, Lann decided to continue probing.

After all, while the two dragons were powerful, they were still just dragons. And flying blindly through an army without knowing what was waiting could very well get them shot down.

After heavy casualties on both sides, the Black Army was finally driven out of the city.

When Lann found Queen Meve, she was pressing a handkerchief with lace trim against her lips. The cloth was stained deep red with blood.

A knight in a purple cloak embroidered with gold stood by her side, his expression filled with worry.

The moment he spotted Lann approaching, the knight straightened and bowed gratefully.

"Thank you for your timely aid, Duke Lannister. I am Reynard Odo of Lyria, commander of this force."

Then, with a look of apology, he added, "As you can see, our situation is far from ideal. Her Majesty… she…"

Lann turned his gaze to Meve, and in an instant, understood the source of Reynard's unease.

"Th-thank y-you, L-Lann…" came a muffled voice from behind Meve's bloodied handkerchief, the tone oddly humorous.

She pulled it aside and spat out a mouthful of blood, cursing hoarsely under her breath. A few crimson droplets stained the ornate breastplate over her chest.

Before she covered her lips again, Lann caught sight of a horrifying wound—and noticed she was missing several teeth.

Reynard Odo gave him a look that was both admiring and apologetic. "As you've seen, Her Majesty fought on the front lines like a man, like a knight. Wounds may cause pain—but they are no cause for shame."

"In a way… this kind of facial injury is quite literally a blow to her face," Lann attempted to lighten the mood.

Meve burst into laughter, only to be seized by sharp pain and a hiss of breath.

Lann quickly tried to comfort her. "It's alright, Meve. You know I have good ties with the dryads—and plenty of druids came over from Skellige… They're all very skilled in healing. A few teeth, that's nothing…"

At that, Reynard visibly relaxed.

When the soldiers of Lyria had realized that their queen—renowned throughout the North for her beauty—had suffered facial injuries at the hands of Nilfgaardians, most of them had wanted to throw away their weapons and chase the enemy cavalry on foot.

"Since Her Majesty's speech is… compromised, allow me to explain the current situation on her behalf."

"L-Lann, y-you can tr-trust Baron R-Raynard!"

Your Majesty… maybe speak a little less for now…

Reynard gave the queen a respectful bow before continuing his report. "The force you just encountered belonged to the Morteisen Battle Group of the 7th Daerlanian Cavalry Brigade. That was their main combat unit."

"The 7th Cavalry Brigade, in turn, is part of Nilfgaard's 4th Cavalry Corps. Alongside them, the Nausicaa Division was also deployed."

"After King Demavend learned of the invasion by Kaedwen in the North, he split off from our forces to address that threat. That left us severely undermanned—but fortunately, it drew the enemy's main force away in pursuit, giving us a small window to regroup…"

'That didn't look like a regrouping. When I arrived, you were all about to be crushed.'

Lann kept that comment to himself, maintaining a serious expression as he listened to the report, then lowered his gaze in thought for a moment.

"Meve… no, don't speak—just listen."

"I understand the situation. I regret what you've gone through recently. But this may also be an unexpected opportunity for us."

"Cintra crushed the Western Army just yesterday and is now free to join the battlefield. This is our chance to launch a counterattack—but we must plan carefully."

Lann reached down and grabbed the fallen Black Sun banner from the ground.

"If Marshal Menno has split his cavalry into smaller groups and sent them piecemeal… then we've got the perfect chance to cut off one of his arms."

...

"Marshal Menno! Urgent report from the front!"

Upper Sodden, command center of the Central Army.

Marshal Menno was staring intently at the sand table before him, deep in thought. At the sound of the report, he jerked his head up.

"Speak!"

Peter, the executor sent by Emhyr, struggled to steady his breathing. "The 7th Cavalry Brigade dispatched the Morteisen battlegroup to engage Meve of Lyria, while the main force, along with the Nausicaa Division, pursued Demavend. But Lannister appeared unexpectedly and crushed the Morteisen battlegroup. Colonel Morteisen has fallen, and the mage unit we deployed was also—"

"Damn it!" Menno slammed his fist down hard. "Morteisen was a tough bastard… Elan underestimated the enemy!"

Major General Elan, commander of the 7th Daerlanian Cavalry Brigade, had been Colonel Morteisen's direct superior.

"But just as we thought—Lannister has shown up. His Majesty predicted this correctly."

"Sound the horns, relay my orders! Leave the infantry to guard the camp. We're riding with only the cavalry—full speed to Aedirn!"

"And don't forget the mages. All of them!"

...

"Any more tricks up your sorcerer's sleeve I should know about?"

In the dim underground of a castle, Sir Gray Owl, Imperial Coroner, walked briskly through the shadowy corridor, speaking with a mix of curiosity and impatience to the mage before him.

Vilgefortz raised his hand.

Instantly, the torches lining both sides of the hallway ignited in succession, lighting the corridor from the outside in.

But this was no ordinary basement. It more closely resembled a vast underground laboratory—or perhaps a dungeon. Thick stone walls divided the space into countless cells, each sealed by a heavy steel door etched with magical runes. Every door had a window just large enough to peer through—no bigger than the palm of a hand.

[Bang!]

A violent thud echoed from behind one of the nearby doors—perhaps triggered by the sound of human footsteps. Though the steel door didn't budge, the bestial roar from within could not be silenced.

That single noise seemed to set off a chain reaction. The dozens of cells ahead began to stir in unison, filling the air with howls and growls.

The sound made Gray Owl furrow his brow. Even he, a veteran of the Empire's interrogation chambers, found this place distinctly unnerving.

Vilgefortz, however, ignored the uproar. He walked forward at a steady pace.

"If your Emperor's plan proceeds smoothly, we'll be facing—only—a town that's been turned into a war fortress. Maybe a few witchers or mages, at most. Your elite squad, along with my mercenary company, should theoretically suffice."

"But if we want to ensure absolute success… we'll need other forces as well."

He gestured toward the cells surrounding them.

This underground facility was built taller and wider than anything above ground—it was hard to even imagine what kind of magical creatures might be contained within.

At that, Gray Owl's expression shifted to one of interest.

Though clearly uneasy about the monsters capable of shaking solid iron doors, he stepped toward the only silent cell and cautiously peered through the small window.

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