The Witcher: Serpent School Witcher's Otherworldly Journey

La Valéry Castle is a large complex of castle and town built right next to the Pontal River. The castle and town, like two wild beasts gnawing at each other, perch together on the cliff.

Any nobleman with a modicum of insight, whose territory is near this most prosperous waterway for trade in the north, would not hesitate to build a fortress on the shore.

This wasn't just about ensuring the flow of goods within their territory would make the manor more prosperous; more importantly, it allowed them to levy tolls on every passing ship. Oren, Florin, Novigradron—any currency would do, as long as it filled the lord's coffers.

La Valéry Castle stands out among them, a colossal structure built of obsidian and granite perched atop a cliff on the west bank of the Pontal River, its twelve arrow towers casting jagged shadows in the morning light.

As a vital choke point connecting the trade routes of the Pontal and Yaruga rivers, even the most conservative tax collectors admitted that the Oren traded daily by this castle was absolutely no less than that of Novigrad, the largest city in the north.

To protect this inner prosperity, after completely capturing the outer city, which served as an outer defensive structure, the Foltest army faced a long bridge built atop a hill. Half of the bridge was suspended in the air, like the spine of some giant beast extending from a cliff, connecting to the more bustling inner city.

The stone bridge, designed to ensure smooth transportation, is covered with cable grooves left by caravans over the years. The bridge surface, wide enough for eight carriages to travel side by side, bears the marks of an era of prosperity. However, the broken railings on both sides now reveal its fatal flaw.

To the east, waves surged eighty yards below, with broken pottery jars, cargo box wreckage, and a corpse, its body whitened by the river water and of unknown allegiance, floating in the mist. Its lower body was wedged in a crevice in the rocks, while its upper body was rhythmically swayed by the current, like a signboard forgotten by a tavern owner at the door.

The western cliff resembles a rib stripped of its skin and flesh. On the rock cone formed by the collapse of the outer city wall, there are still saddles left behind when the merchants were attacked last year. The leather has been torn into strips by the wind and rain, and it shakes in the wind.

The midday sun cast long, distorted shadows of the statues at the bridgehead—the bronze scales that symbolize fairness. The goddess, whose features are now obscured by moss, is covered in raven droppings and rust, which have tainted the word "fairness" with a foul stench.

In the past, this long stone bridge would have served as the strongest defensive line for protecting the inner city. Even with its wide surface, it wouldn't be enough to deploy an entire infantry square; both sides would have to fill the gaps in waves, turning it into a meat grinder for both sides until one side was completely defeated. Countless siege battles in history have taught posterity: a good bridge is worth more than a thousand good soldiers.

Unfortunately, with Foltest's unstoppable offensive, the heir to the lord of the territory being captured, and the baron himself reportedly being held captive by his wife deep within the inner fortress, the remaining troops retreated almost entirely into the depths of the town.

This demoralized the remaining defenders, making them as listless as a pile of trampled mud, and they even seemed distracted when throwing a few stones onto the bridge.

Naturally, no troops were stationed in this strategically vital location.

"Even for a border territory, this castle is far too large for a baronial estate," Kilyam said casually, weighing the steel sword in his hand. "I imagine our beloved emperor has long coveted ownership of this castle. It's all pure cash—slipping through his pockets every day."

"I didn't expect witchers to know so much about politics. Didn't you all think you were indifferent to the king's affairs?"

Triss, who came from the other side of the attack to join them, glared at Gillian. Although Foltest didn't have the same keen hearing as the Witcher, she didn't want anything to happen that might endanger her situation.

No king likes having his actions judged.

"We're just unwilling, not stupid," Kiriam shrugged slightly.

"Kings always suspect... that it might be something they were born with, or a skill they automatically acquired by sitting in that position."

Geralt's voice was hoarse as he awkwardly tried to change the subject. His amber eyes were slightly turned to one side, looking neither at Giliam nor Triss. He didn't want to strain the relationship between his friend and the sorceress, so he opted for a compromise.

"Oh! Just like you, Geralt. After the Trial of the Grasses, I want one of your skills to develop quite well." Gillian didn't miss this rare opportunity to tease the other. They were currently behind Foltest, and the king was reorganizing his soldiers' ranks, preparing for the next attack. Those ears hidden in the crown-shaped helmet couldn't hear them so easily.

"I think I must go to Kaer Morhen this winter to learn from your school's mutation drugs and find out what the 'side effects' are. I hope Vesemir will welcome me."

Upon hearing this, Triss couldn't help but cast a meaningful glance at Geralt, raising an eyebrow before speaking in a tone remarkably familiar with Kaer Morhen: "Vesemir will welcome you; he always complains that the castle is too desolate. But some things can't be learned simply by going there... it depends on talent."

Kilyam paused, momentarily unsure whether the sorceress was simply agreeing with his joke or subtly hinting at something. But he quickly lost track of time.

The screeching of the cast iron hinges interrupted their conversation.

In the shadows slowly rising from the inner city's iron-clad oak gates, the chainmail of the blue-clad guards gleamed with a cold, raven-feather-like light. They seemed to emerge one by one from the shadows of the city gates, their footsteps terrifyingly synchronized, and even as they walked through the rubble-strewn, ashes-filled passageways, not a single one made a sound.

Clearly, aside from the troops launching a frontal assault, King Foltest, who was very adept at handling battle scenes, did not put all his bets on the same card.

Emerging from the shadows of the dissipated city gates, the first to emerge was a man in a blue and white military uniform. He wore a hood that appeared to be covered in grease—a hood that offered no protection but was perfect for concealing things: daggers, poison, and other unexpected items.

who knows?

The newcomer appeared quite agile. Although he was not as physically robust as the Witcher, his taut muscles revealed a surprising burst of power.

There was a fresh slash mark on his left shoulder armor, but no blood seeped out. Either the injury wasn't serious, or the blood wasn't his own. A standard Temerian-made weapon sword was slung diagonally across his obviously frequently used belt, and he also carried a half-sword on his back. If this man wasn't planning to play the Witcher, he must be doing some kind of special job—the kind that requires stabbing in confined spaces and hacking in open areas.

What impressed Giliam even more were his sharp eyes that locked onto the Witcher the moment he looked at him. There was no respect, no curiosity, not even the instinctive avoidance that most people have towards Witchers.

There was only distrust, an overwhelming distrust, as if they were looking at one of the traitors.

"I swear in the name of the lily, the city gates have fallen, Your Majesty."

Roche's voice was like two iron swords dragging on a stone slab. As he turned to his monarch and placed his hand on his breastplate, a short, metallic clang echoed. "The surrender of the traitor Aryan has made our attack even faster, but if I may be so bold, Your Majesty—"

His hawk-like gaze suddenly swept over Kilyam, who was used to standing in the shadows, and lingered for a full two seconds.

"Accepting a traitor's surrender is like giving a viper a second chance to bite. If it's left to me, I guarantee I can find everyone who supported the La Valéty family in launching this rebellion. From the Baron's groom to his wet nurse, not a single one will be missed."

"Roche! My Blue-Clad Iron Guard." Fortest raised his hand, his tone carrying a hint of weariness, like a parent who had dealt with countless similar disputes over household matters. "Well done. But I must correct you, if Louisa is willing to surrender, then her son is not necessarily a traitor. The biggest traitor is only old La Valetti."

"Yes...my Majesty."

Roche lowered his head. Unlike the witchers who were merely hired, the Blue Iron Guards were a special force belonging only to the king. Their loyalty was unquestionable, and the king's words were orders.

Although the city gates were open, the stone bridge leading to the inner city was high enough that even the most skilled witch hunters would fall to their deaths.

One side of the stone bridge extends down the hillside, with the semi-encircling outer city wall resembling a coiled python, while the other side faces directly onto the surging waters of the Pontal River.

The river water now had an indescribable leaden gray color, neither the azure of dawn nor the dark green of dusk, but a heavy color that seemed to have been mixed with lead.

Kiliam felt the strong river wind blowing from the Pontal River, and the excessive moisture made him feel that his inner shirt was already getting damp.

He licked his lips almost imperceptibly; the smell in the wind was off. It wasn't the cool, slightly fishy scent that river water should have, but something... indescribable. Like the oppressive feeling before a downpour, or like something burning somewhere in the distance, but the smoke hadn't actually reached him yet.

He glanced instinctively at the sky. The sky was still clear, the midday sun almost blinding. There were no clouds, no rain; the sky above the west bank of the Pontal River was a pristine blue, a blue that sent a strange unease through him.

"I suspect the King of Temuria won't be willing to wait for his beloved special forces to clear out all the enemies in the way before advancing..."

Kiriam shook his head with a slight sigh of relief; the siege seemed to be much simpler than expected. Foltest appeared to have everything arranged: catapults to wear down the morale of the city walls, heavy armored units for a frontal assault, and the Blue Iron Guards for infiltration.

He felt that Foltest might be planning to use this rebellion as a training exercise to prepare for the next defense against or even a counterattack on Nilfgaard.

"Look at this straight and high stone bridge. I bet if there were a sorcerer in the baronate, he would be overjoyed to see the king dare to cross such a place..."

"Luckily they didn't," Triss's voice came from the side. "La Valetti couldn't get a sorcerer."

"Can't you invite them?" Kilyam raised an eyebrow. "The number of ships that can cross this castle in a day is enough to support an entire street of sorcerers in Novigrad."

"Money is not the issue," Geralt said. "Whether the sorcerer is willing to come is another matter."

That hit the nail on the head. Kiliam thought about it and agreed—as a border baron, the La Valedi family was certainly wealthy, but for those arrogant fellows in their silver-embroidered robes who regarded the academy as their "eternal home," money was never the primary reason they would deign to come to the side of some bumpkin northern baron.

They valued proximity to the center of royal power, the ability to participate in politics, and the chance to have their names recorded in the annals of which capital city. A border castle guarding a river that only collected tolls and couldn't even muster enough nobles for a decent court ball could at best invite a few mediocre fortune tellers or some down-on-their-luck sorcerers expelled from academies who couldn't even perform magic properly.

Someone of Triss's caliber, someone who truly has influence in the Warlock Council, would absolutely not want to waste their lifespan in a place like this.

Yes, that's generally true. But the world is never short of surprises, it's just a pity that this lucky surprise hasn't befallen our old Baron yet.

"Tsk, so in the end it's those robed guys who are too picky." Giliam shook his head, gesturing with his chin to Foltest, who was standing respectfully before Roche. "But then again, I don't think His Majesty of Temeria is much better than him. Look at that crown-shaped helmet—that thing would trip you up even if you were to fight a wild boar, let alone a battle."

Triss let out a half-sneer and didn't reply. It wasn't that she didn't want to, but her professional instincts told her that saying even half a word more on this topic could later become a secret report written by an informant to the king's attendants. She simply pressed her hairline near her temple very discreetly with one finger, a small, subconscious gesture a sorcerer makes to enhance their awareness when it's inconvenient to cast spells.

Kiriam noticed the movement but didn't think much of it. He simply sneezed.

"What's wrong, Miss Sorcerer? Even you think this wind is a bit strange?"

"..." Triss paused, seemingly considering how to answer the question. She looked up at the direction of the Pontal River, then at the sky.

"wrong."