The Witcher: Serpent School Witcher's Otherworldly Journey

"Master...we mean no harm."

The team leader clearly sensed something. His reaction was unexpectedly sharp; almost the instant Kiliam's brow furrowed, he stepped forward, spread his hands in front of him, palms up, making a deliberate and exaggerated gesture of reassurance.

"I really mean no harm." He lowered his voice by half a octave, trying to create a sense of intimacy—the kind of tone a low-ranking soldier uses to curry favor with a superior. "It's just that there's...someone of high standing who might want to see you. I can't say more, but you have to believe me..."

"I believe you," Giliam repeated, his voice devoid of emotion. "Just fifteen minutes ago, your men were calling me a mutant, and they had crossbows pointed at my stomach. Now you want me to believe you."

He tilted his head slightly, glancing at the positions of the two spearmen behind him out of the corner of his eye.

"And your men are flanking me from the rear. You think that's building trust?"

The leader's face flushed red, and he gave a sharp wink to the soldiers behind him. The two spearmen sheepishly took two steps back, their spear tips veering slightly off course.

"Make them back off." Kiriam's tone left no room for negotiation, his calm demeanor carrying a power that commanded obedience without needing to raise his voice. "All of them. Back off to where I can see you. Whether I follow you or not depends on what you say next, not on how many spears are behind you."

The leader hesitated for a moment, then gritted his teeth and waved behind him. The soldiers retreated to both sides of the road, some looking reluctant, others relieved.

He paused, seemingly considering how to phrase his next words in a way that wouldn't reveal too much while still getting the witcher, who exuded a dangerous aura, to obediently follow him.

"...This is definitely not a bad thing for you."

Kilyam remained silent, his gaze passing over the leader's shoulder and landing on the camp under the iris banner in the distance.

That's not right.

The size of this camp far exceeded the garrison size expected of a border baronial territory. Patrols of light cavalry circled the camp at fixed intervals; the horses were well-fed and strong, and the riders' armor still reflected a well-maintained metallic sheen even in the dim light. The wooden palisade surrounding the camp was fitted with chevaux-de-frise and abatis, and the trenches were deep and straight, the soil freshly turned.

This is not a temporary encampment. It's the posture of a long-term deployment, or even preparation for some kind of large-scale operation that is about to take place.

A border barony. A garrison far exceeding the usual size. A "distinguished figure" of unknown identity.

There was also a witcher who happened to be passing by.

But his wallet was indeed too light.

He silently loosened his fingers from the mudra, letting them relax back to their natural state from the specific gesture.

"I have three conditions."

The team leader blinked.

"First, my horse will not enter the camp. Find me a place outside the camp with grass and water. Second, my sword will never leave my side. If your superior demands that I disarm before entering, then our conversation ends here. Third, whatever this 'honorable one' wants me to do, I have the right to refuse after hearing it, and then leave freely. No one will stop me, no one will follow me."

He paused for a moment and looked into the team leader's eyes.

"Can you make the decision on these three points?"

The team leader opened his mouth, then closed it again, his mind clearly racing. These three conditions weren't unreasonable, but for a low-level team leader, agreeing to anything beyond his authority was a risk.

"The first two... I can decide." He finally spoke, his voice stiff with the gambler's bet. "The third one, I can't decide, but I can pass on your message. Master, I swear on my aunt's grave, this really isn't a bad thing for you."

"Your aunt's grave." Kiriam repeated expressionlessly.

A heavy crossbowman couldn't help but interject, "Boss, isn't your aunt still alive?"

The team leader's expression changed.

"Shut up."

Giliam's lips twitched almost imperceptibly. It was hard to tell if it was a smile or not; the Witcher's facial expressions were as rare as the sunlight in a northern winter.

"Alright." He took the mare's reins, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather. "Lead the way. But let me warn you, if things go wrong, you'll find that your short sword can't draw as fast as mine. Don't blame me for not warning you then."

The team leader visibly relaxed, a relieved smile spreading across his face beneath his red beard. He turned and gestured to his comrades, who then abandoned their overt or covert hostility and made way for him.

Kiliam followed behind them, leading his mare, his gaze discreetly sweeping over every detail along the way. Fresh wheel tracks lay on the muddy roadside, their width and depth indicating the recent passage of heavy supply wagons. The air carried a stench of water ghosts, mingled with the faint smells of blacksmith's soot and the heavy odor of livestock dung.

They are preparing for war.

The question is, with whom?

The mare snorted behind him, seemingly uneasy about the scent ahead. Kiliam patted her neck to comfort her, while silently making plans in his mind.

If things went wrong, he had several escape routes. The river east of the fence was shallow enough to wade across on foot. The heavy crossbowmen's crossbows were strung but unloaded, meaning they could only fire one shot at a time. The four spearmen's stamina and reaction speed were roughly equivalent to half a well-trained Nilfgaardian regular soldier. The shockwave from the Aard sign was enough to knock down at least two people within three steps. If it really came down to running, he still had the Igni sign. A wall of fire could create a three-second buffer between him and his pursuers—enough time for him to vault over the fence and disappear into the river.

These numbers reassured him somewhat. Not many, but enough.

Witchers never build their security on the promises of others, but only on their own escape routes. This is one of the ancient teachings of all witchers, more practical than any sign or swordsmanship.

As they drew closer to the camp, the iris banners fluttered heavily in the damp wind, like a curtain about to fall.

But what awaited behind the curtain, Kilyam had a premonition, was not a simple commission.