Psionic Ascension Starting with The Witcher

Time passed quickly.

Four days passed in the blink of an eye.

Brondaen led the group through Sintra, passing through empty, burned fields, deserted villages, and even catching a glimpse of the ruined city of Sintra—a scorched wasteland, the entire city blackened by the fire.

They encountered neither Nilfgaardians nor local inhabitants. They deliberately chose to pass through the devastated areas, where patrols rarely ventured.

These places were filled with horrific scenes, with corpses lying across the roads and heads hanging high on the courtyard walls.

Gradually, Effensor also came to understand some of the reasons.

The Nilfgaardians were ruthless from the start, massacring the city of Sintra. Their methods of rule were cruel, and their treatment of the local inhabitants was extremely poor, treating them as inferior beings.

The Sintra people already had a deep-seated attachment to their homeland, and having fought the Nilfgaardians for many years, they harbored a deep-seated hatred for them. The Nilfgaardians' atrocities finally triggered their outburst, and they retaliated in kind.

Along the way, there were quite a few Nilfgaardian corpses, but in the end, it was the Sintra people who suffered the most.

The bloodlust stirred up was insignificant before the cold steel sword. Soon, under the powerful sweep of the Nilfgaardian army, large-scale and organized resistance was repeatedly crushed, leaving only elite guerrillas and bandits who took advantage of the chaos.

In any case, Sintra is now completely finished.

This place will never be able to regain its former glory.

As the sun set, but the afterglow still lingered, Brondann once again ordered a rest.

He summoned his deputy, discussed the matter briefly, handed over the camp to Drakalov, and then entered the forest with his deputy, Gitov.

Effensor glanced at it from afar, then ignored it, went into the tent, and continued studying the sign.

It's called a tent, but it's really just a rain blanket. Compared to Effensor's leather raincoat, it's just a bit bigger and thicker, and it's just a small space supported by wooden sticks.

The other people's tents weren't much better; most were made of rags sewn together.

The sky gradually darkened.

Effensor lit one last section of candle; it was the final section.

But after he picked up the charcoal pencil and started writing, his inspiration began to dry up. Looking at the thick notebook, he really couldn't think of anything else to write.

Even the most skilled cook can't make a meal without ingredients. To continue improving the Signs, I must return to Kaer Morhen and learn from those dusty spellbooks.

Then he took out the runestone.

The runestone the forest god gave him exuded a cool aura, which felt comfortable to touch on a hot summer day, and it was always cool, unlike other things that could be warmed up.

Affenso was a little bored. He noticed that the runestone had a pointed bottom, so he stood it on his notebook, pinched the top of the runestone between two fingers, and gently turned it.

"bite……"

Then came a strange sound, like the clinking of glasses.

Effensor looked around, ears perked up, but couldn't find the source of the sound.

When he looked down, he saw that the rune stone was spinning like a top, just as he had expected.

Rotate...

Rotate...

Rotate...

……

Is it still spinning?

Effensor realized something was wrong.

Is that right...?

Two words flashed through his mind—"illusion."

Effensor instinctively reached for his steel sword, only to find it empty. He looked up and around, only to find that the surrounding scenery had somehow transformed from inside the tent into a vast, snowy landscape.

The cold wind lashed his face, snowflakes drifted onto his hair, and all around him were frozen mountains and forests, a pure white snow country.

The snow and ice blend seamlessly with the sky, seemingly merging into one. The dense, snow-covered pines stretch as far as the eye can see.

In an instant, the sweltering summer turned into a freezing winter.

"When...?"

How did this illusion manage to pull him in? Apart from that "ding" sound, he didn't notice anything unusual at all.

Effensor frowned. He had been playing with the runestone before without any problems, so why did this happen this time?

Could it be that the act of "spinning" inadvertently triggered the trap hidden within that rune stone?

In the pure white world, he looked around and suddenly noticed a patch of icy blue in front of him.

Effensor hurried toward that direction, wanting to find out what was going on there.

He trudged forward with difficulty through the thick snow, his steps sinking deep and sinking shallow. But no matter how far he went, until his body was almost frozen, he still hadn't reached his destination.

The icy blue entity seemed to have remained stationary in the distance, without moving.

Effensor stared at the icy blue object and suddenly stopped in his tracks.

Does this thing move backward as he moves forward?

Or...did it stay right in front of him the whole time?

Realizing this, Effensor abruptly reached up and wiped his face. Looking down, he saw that his hands were rapidly turning the color of frostbite, his nails were gradually turning blue and then purple, and his fingers were swollen and red.

Even his arm became eerily transparent, like a block of ice...

so cold...

A thought flashed through Effensor's mind, and then everything in front of him turned into a stream of light and rushed backward, leaving him alone to go against the current.

The next moment, everything quietly came to an end.

The world before his eyes plunged into darkness, then quickly brightened again.

Effensor opened his eyes.

It was a tattered tent roof supported by wooden sticks, which seemed unstable and could collapse at any moment, making the tent look precarious.

Upon waking, Effensor's first instinct was to touch his sword.

As he gripped the steel sword hilt tightly, the icy touch made him breathe a sigh of relief, and he felt much more at ease.

He sat up, lifted the curtain, and saw that it was still dark.

However, glancing at the soldiers on night watch, it became clear that the five soldiers currently on night watch were responsible for the latter half of the night.

Looking at their tired appearance, it's probably not long before dawn.

Effensor closed the curtain and turned to look at the runestone.

The runestone has lost its magic; the runes on it no longer glow.

But when Effensor picked it up, the patterns on it glowed with a ghostly blue light.

It was icy cold and carried an air of deathly stillness, as if it contained some of the chill I had seen in my dreams.

He could sense that the power within this runestone was usable by him, but it was somewhat unstable and not entirely subservient to him.

"What is this thing?" he wondered, but couldn't come up with a reasonable explanation.

Effensor put the runestone back in his pocket, then lifted the tent flap, just as a ray of morning light shone out, illuminating the world.

Its daybreak.

As if set to an alarm clock, Brøndane woke up precisely at the moment of dawn, then quickly regained his senses, crawled out of the tent, and began waking up the others.

The entire campsite was set up in about half an hour. Everything was packed away, and the original signs of camping were disrupted.

In the morning mist, they set off again.

……

Brondan rode at the front, his second-in-command following behind. The two were chatting, but the atmosphere was somewhat tense.

Effensor remained silent in the group, just as usual.

Ahead is Streep.

Yesterday evening, he could already see the peaks of Streep. In the glow of the setting sun, the mountain peaks were faintly lit, tinged with the red of the evening glow.

Of course, "looking at a mountain makes one's horse run itself to death"—it may seem close, but it's still at least a day's journey away.

However, seeing Streep also meant they were in a dangerous situation.

Unlike the desolate and abandoned places they had passed through before, this place was teeming with refugees, defeated soldiers, bandits, outlaws, and—thousands of Nilfgaardian soldiers.

Because this region was too close to the Nilfgaardian army and extremely chaotic, Brondaen didn't have much reliable intelligence. Everything here was unknown.

Of course, there was some good news as well. This land was still in the stage of "refugee clustering," with the majority of the population still alive. And the number of corpses had not reached the point of piling up like mountains or causing a plague.

This also means that, unlike the places we passed through before, this place won't be full of monsters attracted by corpses.

Effensoro had long been prepared for battle and had taken precautions against a sudden attack.

However, he did not expect the danger to come so quickly.

The morning fog was too thick, obscuring the view.

With visibility limited to no more than thirty meters, as Brondan rounded a corner, he suddenly spotted a strange knight not far in front of him.

Both of them were taken aback for a moment, but after looking each other over...

The knight opposite him was dressed in Nilfgaardian officer's armor, with a golden sun banner slung over his shoulder.

Brondaen was dressed in Sintra-style armor, with Sintra lion heads engraved on it.

Without saying a word, the two men reached for their weapons.

The Nilfgaardian knight dropped his banner and was about to draw his longsword and charge, but Brondann pulled out a crossbow and, to the Nilfgaardian knight's astonishment, fired an arrow that struck him squarely between the eyebrows.

The next moment, more than a dozen Nilfgaardian soldiers emerged from the distant morning mist, while Effinso and the others also turned around the corner, and both sides witnessed this scene together.

After a brief moment of shock, Drakarov let out a battle cry.

"Rua!"

As if the starting gun had been fired, a chase along the country roads began in an instant.

"Don't let one escape!"

Brondaen roared, stuffed his crossbow into his saddlebag, and charged ahead, brandishing his greatsword. However, Drakarov overtook him, easily passing Brondaen on his swift horse and becoming the first to break into the enemy ranks.

Then, apart from a few people on packhorses guarding the supplies, everyone else—including Effensor himself—joined the chase.

The Nilfgaardians opposite were almost all infantry, about a dozen men, seemingly a patrol. Apart from the knight leading the way with the flag, only two officers among the rest had horses.

However, when faced with the charge launched by Brondan, the two officers did not hesitate to abandon their soldiers, turn their horses around, and flee.

Unfortunately, they didn't get far before Drakarov caught up with them on his fast horse. One of them had his horse's leg cut off by Drakarov's sword, fell off the horse, and was captured by the others. Another was shot by a crossbow bolt, fell off the horse, and broke his neck on the spot.

What followed was a one-sided massacre.

Ordinary Nilfgaardian soldiers were not worthy of finely crafted armor; their armor consisted of two rough iron plates protecting the chest and abdomen, and chainmail that protected the limbs like sleeves and trousers.

It looks passable, but it's actually just scrap metal. This inferior metal is no match for Effensor's well-made steel swords, which are made of high-quality steel. If he were to strike these chainmails, they would shatter into a bunch of small iron rings; if he were to strike a breastplate, he could even cut a notch in it.

Their combat skills were also worrying. Most of the soldiers sent out on patrol were slave soldiers, soldiers from Nilfgaard's vassal states or captured soldiers, etc., and were considered cannon fodder.

Without officers to command, the first wave of the charge cut down the vast majority of the men. A few survivors tried to escape into the woods, but were caught up by the dismounted Sintra soldiers, and then…

Effensor gazed at the torture scene in the distant woods, where the Nilfgaardians' agonizing screams echoed through the air, mingled with the Sintra people's venting laughter.

This scene perfectly illustrates what it means to experience pain, screams, and pleasure.

He shook his head, twirled his sword, then pointed it vertically downwards before thrusting it down, delivering a swift and deadly blow to the already weakened Nilfgaardian beneath his feet.

Under the retaliatory torture of the Sintra, the Nilfgaardian in the forest soon breathed his last, but the unsatisfied Sintra continued to whip his corpse until it was unrecognizable.

The Cordwins under Derakaroff did not participate; they were more focused on plundering the Nilfgaardians for spoils.

Finally, after the entire battlefield was cleaned up and everyone had finished their tasks, the last survivor was dragged over by a Sintraman and thrown into the middle of the crowd.

He was one of two officers who tried to escape. Unlike the other unfortunate man who fell from his horse and died, it's hard to say whether that was lucky or not.

Seeing his companion's gruesome death and then looking at these ferocious gods who wished they could tear him to pieces, the Nilfgaardian officer couldn't help but tremble.

He tried to straighten his chest and adopt an arrogant posture of unyielding defiance, but he just couldn't do it.

Brondan walked over, didn't waste any words, and directly instructed Gitov to pin the officer's hand to a wooden stake. Then, he grabbed a knife. With a flash of cold light, he swiftly sliced ​​off the officer's thumb.

"Aaaaaaah!"

A scream echoed through the sky as the officer struggled desperately, only to be kicked in the groin by Brondan, silencing his cries abruptly. He could only tremble and breathe heavily, his eyes nearly rolling back in his head.

In Effensor's view, those two blows were mostly an act of venting anger.

The purpose of keeping them alive was definitely to interrogate them, but before they could even ask any questions, they had already entered the stage of torture.

Drakarov remained calm, reaching out to press down on the dagger that Bronn had raised high, and shook his head.

Brondaen glanced at Drakarov, then at the Nilfgaard officer's little finger, and finally plunged the knife in.

However, he deliberately missed the mark, and the cold blade grazed a layer of skin off the officer's finger before pinning it to the wood.

"Can you speak Common Tongue?"

"Brondaen said coldly."

The officer, forcing back his pain, turned his head toward Brondan and uttered a single word.

"meeting."

"Now, I'll ask, and you'll answer."

Brondan's tone left no room for argument.

"it is good."

The officer answered with another single word.

"How many of you are in Streep?"

"5000, no, 6000."

"Snapped!"

The officer was dazed by Brondane's slap. After the iron gauntlet made intimate contact with his face, he was first briefly numb, and then felt a burning pain.

"I'm warning you."

Brondan crouched down and forcefully turned the officer's chin so that he looked into his eyes.

"I don't have the patience to tell the truth from the lies. You can lie, but if I think you're lying, I'll cut off one of your fingers."

"So you'd better, you'd better be sincere."

"Also, unfortunately, I believe what you just said is untrue."

The dagger twirled in Brondan's hand, then a flash of cold light appeared, and a piece of his little finger fell to the ground.

"Ahhhhh!"

The officer screamed in agony, but everyone around him ignored him. Drakarov did not stop him again; he had only stopped Brondane earlier for fear that the man would kill him alive in a fit of anger.

And now, this is part of the interrogation.

Answer me!

"How many Nilfgaardian scum are there in Streep?"

Brondan's face flushed red, his eyes wide with rage, and he grabbed the officer by the neck with one hand, roaring almost face to face.

"Or are you saying you're a tough guy? Hmm!? Which finger do you want to remove this time?!"

As he spoke, he brandished a dagger, gesturing up and down.

"1500 people!"

The officer roared back, tears streaming down his face, completely breaking down under the pressure.

"Have you received a mission to find a little girl?"

"No!"

"Is anyone acting suspiciously, carrying out a secret mission?"

"have!"

"Who is it!"

"I have no idea!"

"Whoosh!"

The dagger fell, severing the officer's middle finger.

"fart!!!"

"Aaaaaaaahhhhhh!"

Brondan's roar and the officer's screams overlapped.

"Now fucking think of something! If you can't figure it out, I'll chop off all the fingers on both your hands!"

"Ahhh! I know some, I know some! The Stuttgart commander said they must be spies! Spies of the Emperor! They brought in a knight and locked him in the dungeon!"

"Look!"

Brondan roared at the officer's face.

"You know perfectly well! Are they still at the camp?"

"They're gone!"

"Answer me, where did they all go? When did they go?"

"Towards the Yaruga River! Most of them rode there a day ago! Only three men escorted that knight to Danlorin!"

"very good!"

Brondaen withdrew his angry expression, but his gloomy and cold-blooded look was even more terrifying.

He wiped the blood from the dagger on the officer's body, then stood up. As the officer shakily raised his head, he chuckled and said, "I won't kill you."

He said this, then turned and raised his arms to shout to the Sintra soldiers.

"Cut off his limbs! Hang him from the treetop!"

"yes!"

"yes!"

"yes!"

The soldiers excitedly swarmed forward. The officer, who hadn't even sat up straight, collapsed to the ground upon hearing this. Faced with a group of burly men wielding sharp blades, he could only clutch his mutilated hand and writhe in agony, struggling and rolling around, his words incoherent, sometimes begging for mercy, sometimes cursing.

Effensor turned his head to look at the natural scenery of the wilderness outside Sintra.

After venting his anger, Brondan calmed down completely and discussed the next steps with Drakarov and Gitov.

On the other side, the officer's voice disappeared after a while, leaving only the sound of sharp blades cutting through flesh and breaking bones.

When Effensor looked back, the officer had already died halfway there. The Sintramen had cut off his two arms and one leg, and were now cutting off his other leg.

Someone even put a makeshift noose around a thick tree branch.

If the officer had remained conscious, he would have watched helplessly as he was chopped into a human stump and then strangled to death with a rope.

……

Delakarov spoke first, voicing his doubts: "Are those Nilfgaardian spies really tracking the princess?"

"I don't know," Brondane replied dejectedly.

"But it's highly likely," Gitov analyzed calmly. "Nifalgardian spies have always been unbridled and undisguised in their territory. Their direction overlaps with the princess's clues; judging from the surface, they are indeed tracking the princess."

"However, if we follow this line of thought, the imprisoned knight must be involved in this matter. He must know something about it."

"That knight?" Brondan shook his head. "They're too far away. By the time we find them and capture them, the information we get will be outdated."

"so……"

Brondan's eyes brightened, and he turned back, calling out, "Witcher!"

"Um?"

Effensor looked at Brondan, only to see the other beckoning to him.

He walked over and heard Brøndane say to him, "It's your turn to do your job, Witcher."

"What do you mean? Monster?"

"No, no." Brundane shook his head and explained, "Let's head towards the Yaruga River now and see if we can catch up with those spies. If we do, all the better; capturing them will reveal everything."

"If we can't catch them, or if they enter the military camp, then we'll need you to help us analyze their tracks and clues."

"But I must remind you, if they are deliberately covering up their tracks, then I can hardly guarantee anything..." Effensor said frankly.

"No," Bronn interrupted, "I believe you."

I can only trust you.

He sighed silently to himself.