The Witcher World: The Path to Domination Begins in Velen

When Anna opened her green eyes, the first thing she saw was the Baron, who was standing there, crying.

The baron's face was covered in tears, murky tear tracks running down his cheeks. His lips moved twice, and he managed to squeeze out a hoarse sentence.

"Anna, I'm sorry, I...I will never touch a drop of alcohol again, I will never lay a hand on you, Anna, Anna..." Her voice was swallowed by sobs.

Anna slowly raised her hand and gently touched his tear-streaked face. Her voice was so hoarse that she could barely speak, but her murmured words were still audible to him.

"Philip," she paused for a long time, her voice so soft that only he could hear, "I want to go home, not to Crow's Den." A cough interrupted her, and she continued after a moment.

"Shall we go back to our old house by the Aina River? That's where we met, and there's still the garden I planted myself."

"Alright, I promise you," the Baron said, grasping her withered hand. "The old house by the Aina River, the garden."

Tamara walked away from Ron, slowly moved to the other side, looked down at her mother, and swallowed hard for a while.

Anna turned her head slightly, raised her hand and touched her daughter's face. "Tamara, my dear daughter, you have your own friends and things you want to do. I'm so proud of you."

Tamara's gaze flickered between her mother and the Baron, but she said nothing. Anna raised her finger and brushed it across Tamara's chin, asking no further questions.

Ron turned around. Gradden and several witch hunters were still standing in the courtyard. Gradden's gaze went over Ron's shoulder and onto Kayla behind him.

"Hosting a witch in a meeting place is a serious crime. There's still time to fix this. Hand her over to us."

Ron didn't stop walking, but just turned his head to look at him. "You should thank Tamara for surviving the swamp today, so you'd better get out of here before I back out."

Graz's voice continued to rise from behind, "You should know that we are His Majesty Radovid's men. He will find out about what happened today sooner or later."

He harbored a deep hatred for Philippa Ehrhardt, the leader of the Sorcery Guild, and would never let go of a sorcerer who might know her whereabouts.

"If His Majesty Radovid, whom you speak of, wants to reach into Velen, I wouldn't mind chopping it off for him."

A witch hunter behind Grazan immediately drew her sword, but stopped halfway through its stroke. Grazan reached out and pressed her down.

He wasn't scared off, but he clearly saw dozens of fully armed regular soldiers standing on both sides of the courtyard, not to mention the veterans the baron had brought.

He didn't start cursing; he just looked at Ron and said in an unusually calm voice, "I hope you won't regret this. This world will punish everyone who doesn't know how to respect others."

Ron didn't turn around. Kayla followed half a step behind him. His vision flashed silently in the upper right corner, and a new name appeared on his companion interface: Kayla Metz.

Crow's Nest Hall.

The fire in the fireplace was still burning. Geralt sat in the old chair opposite the fireplace, his silver sword resting against the armrest.

Ron placed the two glasses on the table, picked up a tin jug from the side, refilled it, and pushed it in front of Geralt.

"So Ciri headed towards Novigrad," Geralt said, picking up his cup and twirling it in his palm.

"The Baron said that before she left, she glanced towards Crow's Nest and then headed north," Ron said, placing the wine jug back on the table.

"Tamara went with the witch hunters, Graden and his gang."

"In my mind, the Eternal Flame is a hypocritical and xenophobic religion; I hope she doesn't regret it."

Ron didn't respond to the question about religion, but picked up his cup, took a sip, and looked at the flames in the fireplace.

"The guys chasing Ciri are those Wild Hunt we saw in the elven ruins. Why are they targeting her?"

Geralt placed the cup on his lap, the firelight flickering on his face.

"The Wild Hunt, a ghostly cavalry force from another world. Their armor is made of ice, their mounts are the bones of the dead, and their king is called Eridin." He paused, his cat-like pupils slightly contracting in the firelight.

"What they want is not Ciri herself, but what flows in her blood—the ancient blood, an ancient bloodline that can transcend time and space. Ciri is the sole inheritor of this power."

Her bloodline can open the gate to another world, and the Wild Hunt has been waiting outside that gate for far too long. Their world is being devoured by something called "White Frost," and they need someone who can open the gate, bringing their army to this world.

"So they've been chasing Ciri for all these years," Ron said.

"Yes, some people want to use the Ancient Blood, and the Wild Hunt wants to use her to escape destruction. Everyone is chasing her, and she has been on the run for a long time." Geralt picked up his cup and took a sip.

Ron leaned back in his chair, the firelight casting his and Geralt's shadows on the stone wall. He remained silent for a moment before speaking, his voice more casual than before.

"Geralt, what are your plans after you find Ciri? Will you continue being a Witcher, wandering the world, or consider retiring?"

Geralt glanced at him, seemingly surprised by the question. "Retire? Like the Baron, find an old house and grow flowers?"

"Almost," Ron said, putting his cup on the table. "If one day you get tired of fighting, my manor will always welcome you. I'll reserve a position for you as a sword instructor, with a generous salary and property provided."

If you get bored, take the new recruits out to kill monsters and go hunting. Karl can't handle all the yelling on the training field by himself, and Weiss is also training the new recruits every day. If you go there, you can at least take half of the workload of yelling.

Geralt looked at him from above the cup, then lowered it after a moment. "A job and a house. You know, Witchers usually don't live to retire."

"That's why we should consider it even earlier," Ron leaned back in his chair.

"You've helped me a lot. If you ever run into trouble and need help, just ask. You can consider whether to refuse this job when you're really too old to run anymore."

Geralt's cat-like pupils flickered in the firelight of the fireplace. He didn't answer immediately. The Witcher's face rarely showed any expression, but his voice was no longer as indifferent as usual when he replied, "Before retiring, I need to find her first."

Ron nodded, shifting the topic away from the Witcher's retirement plans, and picked up the flask again to refill his glass.

"You really came from another strange continent?" Geralt moved his silver sword aside as he took the cup. "Your guards say you're an imperial prince, is that true?"

"Indeed, Calradia, the Calradia Empire, but in this swamp, a prince's title is worth less than a sack of wheat."

"That's a really pragmatic idea."

"Here, let's prioritize everyone's survival before considering anything else."

The conversation took a turn here. Geralt looked at the sediment at the bottom of his glass, as if he had thought of something.

"Have you thought about how to govern this land? As you can see, it's all swamps and wasteland, teeming with bandits, and the common people can't even get enough to eat. Where do you plan to begin?"

"Food, bandits, trade, that's all," Ron said, setting down his glass and turning his gaze to the documents on the table.

There's an old saying in my hometown: "When the granaries are full, people know etiquette." It means that only when people have enough food will they consider things beyond survival.

Whether it's military looting or rampant banditry, it all boils down to food shortages. When people are starving, morality, law, and dignity are all less valuable than a piece of bread.

"Craldia, do all the people there think like you?"

"No, most people there are only thinking about how to survive."

Jero nodded and didn't bring up the topic again.