The Witcher World: The Path to Domination Begins in Velen

In the central military camp of Nilfgaard, the quartermaster's office tent was pitched in the southeast corner of the camp. The tent flap was rolled up with a leather strap, and the light shining through illuminated a map spread out on the table.

Tawa Aigbraj sat behind the table, not wearing armor, but only a black military uniform.

Two buttons were undone at his collar. His hand rested flat on the table, his fingers pressing down on an unfolded letter. The handwriting on the letter was messy and short, consisting of only two lines.

The agent in Velen has gone missing, the vessel that was handling the shipment has not returned, and the whereabouts of the cargo and equipment are unknown.

His fingers tapped lightly twice on the letter, beneath which lay another document bearing the emblem of the Nilfgaardian Empire's Quartermaster General Bureau.

That was his application for the disposal of supplies. Every item on the application form was checked off, and the bottom column was stamped with a red "Approved" seal.

He personally transferred this batch of equipment from the warehouse. Every piece was "scrap" on the books and should have been in the hands of Willen's agents, who used it to arrest people, transport goods, and make money for him.

Then it was replaced with a letter of recommendation from the Nilfgaardian Merchants' Guild.

He took a pendant from a drawer in the low table; the pendant was a triangle made of gold.

The hollowed-out center is engraved with a star surrounded by flames. He is not yet qualified to hang it around his neck, but every time he touches it, his fingers linger a little longer.

The Merchants' Guild is the most influential organization in the empire, backed by the vast noble population of the empire.

Guild members can legally appear in any city, and despite the ongoing war between the North and South, the guild's pass is more effective than an army pass.

As long as he maintains the Velen line well, with stable profits and a clean trading record within one to two years at most, he can get a letter of recommendation.

His promotion ceiling is just above his head. To go further, what's needed is no longer seniority, but rather for some important figure to say, "This person is usable."

The agent in Velen couldn't have run away on his own, and the ship that made the rendezvous couldn't have sunk by itself. There was cargo, equipment, money, and a ship full of northern barbarians waiting to be delivered to the customer. These things wouldn't just disappear into thin air; someone must have disrupted his connections.

Redania? No, impossible. They're being pushed back by the Nilfgaardian army along the Pontal River line; they can't even reach as far south as Velen.

Remnants of Temeria? Temeria is dead. Wild dogs without a master don't have such a big appetite. To devour an entire ship's armed escort would require manpower, equipment, and intelligence, which wild dogs lack.

He folded the letter, took out a quill pen, dipped it in the ink bottle, wrote a few lines on a blank piece of military order paper, sealed it with sealing wax, and stamped his seal on the wax.

"Summon the scout captain."

Someone outside the tent flap responded, and the footsteps faded away. He couldn't send troops; troop movements required a commander's signed order, and a commander wouldn't sign such an order for a "civilian trade route."

However, scouts can be mobilized without the need for a commander. The quartermaster department has its own scout unit responsible for surveying supply routes and ensuring the safety of material transportation.

Send a small team of seven, lightly equipped, to the camp quickly and back, to ascertain the situation: who is there, how many people are there, and where did they come from. Then, based on the situation, decide on an appropriate course of action.

If they are just bandits or mercenary groups, that's the easiest thing to do: pay them a sum of money and send them away or to their deaths.

If it were the power of a northern lord who were to interfere, even if he did not believe it was possible, it would still require a more severe punishment.

Whoever crossed his line must pay the price. The camp must be reclaimed, and everyone must be warned: Don't touch this line, or you'll die.

The tent flap was lifted from the outside, and a tall, thin scout captain walked in, stood in front of the low table with his heels together, and said nothing.

Tawa pushed the sealed military order over: "Seven men, lightly armed." The scout captain took the order without asking where they were going.

Tawa tapped his fingers one last time on the edge of the table: "Confirm the camp's current status, numbers, identities, defenses, and patrol patterns. Just observe, don't make contact. Once confirmed, withdraw immediately."

The scout captain put the military order into his pocket and nodded.

Dusk comes slowly in Velen. As the sunlight filters through the edge of the treetops, seven figures emerge from the shadows of the treeline and move along the edge of the bushes.

The tall, thin man at the front squatted down, raised his left fist, and the six people behind him stopped at the same time. The tall, thin man took out a monocular bronze mirror from his waist, the surface of which was wrapped with anti-reflective linen strips. He held the bronze mirror in front of his right eye and aimed it at the open space across the river bend.

In the bronze mirror, the outline of the camp appeared. Half of the roof of the castle's main building had collapsed, but the courtyard wall had been repaired. The land behind the wall had been plowed, with rows of neat furrows. People were walking on the ridges, carrying hoes and barefoot.

They weren't soldiers, but civilians. The camp gate was wide open, and a soldier wearing a purple robe walked out, with a long sword hanging at his waist and a bundle of spears on his shoulder.

He walked to the edge of the field, leaned his spear against the wall, and said something to the commoner carrying a hoe. The commoner stopped, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and nodded.

Purple robes, the collar of chainmail peeking out from beneath, spears leaning against a low wall, civilians carrying hoes, soldiers in chainmail.

After recording the information, the tall, thin man tucked the bronze mirror back into his waistband, made a gesture behind him with his right hand, indicating that the intelligence had been confirmed and they were ready to retreat.

The seven people began to move backward, but the tall, thin man at the front suddenly stopped. It wasn't because he heard a sound, but because it was too quiet, as if the entire forest had held its breath at the same moment.

He slowly looked up and saw a person standing in the shadows of the trees opposite him. The person was 2.2 meters tall, with shoulders that almost filled the gap between the two tree trunks. He was holding a two-handed battle axe, the blade of which was placed on the ground, the edge of which was embedded in the soil, leaving a shallow mark.

The tall, thin man's hand slammed down on the hilt of his sword. The moment his fingers touched the hilt, his right hand moved, and the axe blade sliced ​​through the bushes, cut through the air, and pierced the side of his breastplate.

He didn't feel pain, only a force that hit him from the side, lifting him off the ground.

The breastplate split open in the middle, the broken iron plate curled inward, revealing the leather lining underneath, and his upper and lower body separated and became displaced in an instant.

He fell to the ground, his eyes still open, and the axe blade, after cleaving him, didn't stop, sweeping horizontally into the thigh of the young scout behind him.

The young man's thigh bone was as fragile as a dry twig under the axe blade, snapping in two with a crack. He fell to his side, his hand still on the hilt of the sword, unable to pull it out.

The remaining five people reacted almost simultaneously with the same thought—"Run!"

There was absolutely no chance of fighting them. They were scouts, wearing leather armor and carrying short swords. Their mission was to remain undetected. Now they had been spotted—spotted by a two-and-a-half-meter-tall monster wielding a two-handed battle axe with one arm.

They ran towards the swamp, no one looking back. Looking back would slow them down, and slowing them down would mean death.

Carl stood at the edge of the treeline, silently watching the backs of five figures desperately fleeing into the depths of the swamp.

Old Gort had already drawn his sword and was holding it in his right hand, about to rush out, when Karl blocked his chest with one hand.

Carl's left arm was across his chest.

"No need to chase," he said softly, yet his voice was like a nail driven into place.

Karlli gestured behind him.

The five Fiona champion archers raised their bows almost simultaneously, and before old Gott could react, the arrows were already shooting into the sky with a whistling sound.

Three hundred paces away, the last Nilfgaardian soldier was struck in the back by an arrow and fell into the mud; the one in the lead, at least four hundred paces behind, was pierced in the thigh by an arrow, screaming as he fell, leaving a long, muddy trail of blood in the swamp.

Five arrows, five hits!

Old Gort opened his mouth: "This...this fucking...can be shot from a bow and arrow??"

Old Gote recognized the shooter; he was the veteran who had fought Karl before. He turned around and said in broken Common, "Champion Fiona."

When he said this, there was no pride on his face, only an expression of taking it for granted.

The sound of a bell signaling the end of the workday came from the direction of the courtyard. Soldiers carried their spears and walked back from the edge of the field. Smoke slowly rose from behind the wall.