I'm not a Witcher anymore.

Zieg glanced at the number of horses.

They already had mountain horses given to them by the Mahakam dwarves. Now, with these purebred Nilfgaardian warhorses, each person could have two horses to rotate.

Next, we'll head to Novigrad. Even if we have to drive a bit further, we don't need to worry about the horsepower not being enough.

At that moment, the Temurian officer also walked over quickly.

His armor was stained with blood, and there was a band of cloth wrapped around his shoulders.

Several Temerian soldiers followed behind him, not getting too close, but just watching Sieg and his companions from a distance.

The sergeant was carrying two saddlebags, one of which was bulging and had undried bloodstains on the edge, weighing heavily in his palm.

"grown ups."

The sergeant's voice was still a little hoarse.

He seemed to want to say something more, but in the end he just handed over both saddlebags.

"We found this on the back of a Nilfgaardian guard's horse."

Zieg took it, his wrist sinking slightly.

The bag is heavy.

He opened the first bag and peeked inside; it was full of gleaming florins.

The finely crafted Nilfgaard's Frolloin, gleaming with a cold, hard light in the dim daylight, almost filled the entire bag.

Dandelion leaned closer, his eyebrows immediately rising.

"The men in black have gone deep into the heart of the territory. This is most likely the bribe money they carry with them to buy off local informants or to get through checkpoints."

The other saddlebag contained far fewer items, mainly some gems, necklaces, and rings.

Zoltan stroked his beard: "These things, could they have been looted from the manors along the way?"

Sieg didn't stand on ceremony, nodded to the sergeant, and then hung the two saddlebags on the tall warhorse that Dandelion had chosen for him.

He took one last look at Baiguoyuan, then mounted his horse.

"Let's go."

The four men rode their horses through the lingering cold fog and smoke, leaving the Bridge of Lamentations under the almost awe-inspiring gaze of the Temurian soldiers.

……

After leaving the White Orchard, Zieg and his party continued northward along the road.

They bypassed Vigema, the capital of Temuria.

That once bustling city is now shrouded in an atmosphere of desolation.

Despite the fact that Nilfgaard's central army was firmly pinned down by Temeria's last great general, John Natalis, with limited forces in the area between Brug and Maina Fortress...

However, because Nilfgaardian light cavalry bypassed the main defenses and penetrated deep into the heart of Temeria to burn, kill, and plunder, a tense atmosphere permeated the air, and everyone entering or leaving the city gates had to undergo strict checks.

Zieg knew that the city would eventually be covered by the Japanese flag.

Going in now would be tantamount to sending oneself into a grave that could be swallowed up by war at any moment.

Therefore, Zig and his companions went around them from a distance.

The roads were filled with refugees, and the Temurian army was no longer able to check them one by one.

Since the Nilfgaardians crossed the Yaruga River, the country has had no shortage of refugees.

A few days later, they entered the province of Velen in Temuria.

Further north lies the Pontal River, and on its north bank stands the northern pearl – Novigrad.

But before they could get there, they had to cross the province.

Wellen and White Orchard are completely different.

This place seems to be a cursed land.

Looking around, all you see are swamps and jungles.

The dead trees resembled skeletal hands reaching towards the sky, twisted and grotesque.

The muddy road winds through the swamps, with puddles on both sides forming a continuous stretch. If you're not careful, both people and horses can get stuck in this mud.

The air was filled with a putrid stench, the peculiar smell of a swamp, a mixture of decaying plants and the stench of dead animals.

The sky is always gray.

Since entering Velen, Sieg has never seen a sunny day.

It was either raining or covered in dark clouds, as if a huge gray curtain was forever shrouding the land, blocking out all the sunlight.

The rain fell in a drizzling sound, hitting the leaves and the muddy ground, making a monotonous and irritating noise.

The roads are becoming increasingly difficult to travel.

The rainwater soaked the dirt road in Velen into a muddy mess.

The ruts were deeply embedded in the middle of the road, the water was murky, and when a horse stepped in, mud would squeeze out from the edges.

On both sides of the road were low shrubs and puddles. Further away, reeds swayed in the cold wind, and the muffled sound of bubbles bursting could be heard from time to time.

Zig and his group had been walking along the road for a short while when they saw that they were blocked by a group of people.

That was a group of nearly a hundred refugees.

Seven or eight horse-drawn carriages were parked on the muddy road, with wooden boxes, blankets, iron pots, and hastily bundled belongings tied to the carriages.

The area around the car was crowded with women and children. Several elderly people who could not walk sat by the roadside wrapped in thick blankets, their faces pale from the cold wind.

A child, exhausted from crying, nestled in his mother's arms, sobbing.

The woman next to him squatted by the muddy water, wiping the mud off the child's boots little by little with a damp cloth. Halfway through wiping, she looked up at the carriage blocking the road ahead.

The wheel got stuck in a mud pit, and most of the wheel was swallowed by black mud.

The two horses pulling the cart had their heads down, constantly exhaling white breath. The leather straps around their bodies were very tight, but their hooves were just slipping in the mud.

More than thirty men were scattered around the group.

A dozen or so people had gathered around the carriage that was stuck in the mud, trying to figure out what to do with the wheels.

The man, whose face was half burned, pushed the wooden pole into the bottom of the wheel, gritted his teeth, and pried the pole down.

Behind the carriage, several men braced their shoulders against the carriage floor, working together with the horses to pull the carriage.

The remaining people did not all crowd around.

They stood guard at the front and back of the convoy, keeping watch over the road and woods at a distance, each carrying a weapon.

Ziegler stopped the horse.

The men who were waiting at the back of the group were the first to spot them.

The women led the children to the middle of the carriages, and the elderly were helped to the front of the procession.

A man with half his face burned out pushed aside his companion and walked out.

He stopped a few steps ahead of Zig and his men.

"Sirs, we apologize for blocking the road."

The man's voice was hoarse, as if his throat had been injured by fireworks.

"The wheels are stuck in the mud, and we're trying to pull them out. Please give us a little more time. If you're in a hurry, you can go around to the right outside the woods—but the ground there is soft, so be careful not to let your horses sank too deep."

Dandelion glanced at the wagon stuck in the mud, then looked to the wet woodland to his right.

"His warning sounded very sincere, but I didn't want my horse to get stuck in there either."

Just then, a series of piercing and sharp cries suddenly rang out from the depths of the swamp beside the road.