C40: Foe Vanquished!!!

A month speeds by faster than a dog in an open field—probably due to how much fun I had adventuring with Ciri, working to decipher and improve both my new Spells and tweak the Trials…

Before I realize it, the day of reckoning has arrived.

Today is the day Triss leads the 'elves westward to the Blessed Lands'—Kovir!

It's also the day Ciri and I will unleash the fury of human upon the Wild Hunt and the raw power of magic upon Redania.

Radovid wouldn't know what hit him.

The poor fool should have stayed in Tretogor, just like Whoreson in Oxenfurt.

According to Triss, there's been a rumor of Whoreson negotiating with Nilfgaard's officers. The Mad Dog must have thought a few threats were in order and hurried to Novigrad.

It's unfortunate, though, as I now have no business visiting either city.

Oh well, if Novigrad's already such a shitshow, I can only imagine how intolerable life must be in Redania's capital, and Oxenfurt was terribly dull from what what little memory I still have of 'Wild Hunt.'

Getting out of Oxenfurt had always been a pain. Blame my idiocy for keeping the map permanently zoomed in, which led me to mistake Oxenfurt's red rooftops for Novigrad's every single time. Took me an embarrassingly long time to remember I could zoom out, but by then, Whoreson's little 'fiefdom' had earned a special place in my heart—a place reserved only for those I loath with a passion.

"Ready, she-witcher?"

I call out, turning to see the ashen-haired Witcheress perched over the ledge, her face hidden by the rough linen cloak that drapes over her shoulders and head like a trailer for a terrible Assassin's Creed knock-off while she anxiously palms the pouch tied around her waist.

She is silent too… Too silent, which is pretty unusual.

While hers is a quiet confidence compared to Rin's, the Witcheress is usually more talkative than this.

"Ciri, if you're having second thoughts, you don't have to go through with this."

Usually, I'd be upset when plans fall through, but this time, I suppose I can let it slide.

She's summoning those who have hunted her for her entire life, it couldn't be easy.

To make it worse, she's also burdened with my problems…

If she succeeds in the endeavor, I will be able to rid myself of the thorn in my side.

"I'm fine. But in case I won't be, I'm glad to have met you."

"Don't be so melodramatic, you'll be aight."

Even without me around, Ciri has been evading the Hunt and Nilfgaard for ages.

She'll be fine… Probably.

"Whenever you're ready."

Nodding, the Witcheress closes her eyes to concentrate. The issue with the Elder Blood isn't its firepower—it's the lack of control. Once she taps into the Source, it'll be like opening a floodgate.

According to Ciri, the process is both unpleasant and horrifying, like vomitting uncontrollably in the bathroom of a club after a rough night of booze; secondhand smoke and blinking lights that will send an epileptic person straight to the ER.

"At long last, a massacre worthy of my presence!"

The Daemon's voice rasps from behind, putrid breath escaping its maw as a ghastly grin stretches across its face, revealing rows of decaying, yellowing canines. It next melts into the shadows, head twitching back and forth as if intoxicated by the thought of the impending carnage.

"Peace." I murmur warningly to the Daemon, voice barely audible as Ciri snaps her head up, a bloodcurdling scream escaping her lips, her eyes now turning an eerie, milky white.

The sky above Novigrad twists as if to mirror Ciri's agony.

The air itself thickens—charged, while a sweetness coats my tongue like spoiled milk. Below, the screams of terrified citizens rise to match the Witcheress', while the Elder Blood pulses outward, a shockwave of pure, primal Magic.

It washes over me—scouring, burning, and leaving strange tingles on my skin.

I've seen the Elder Blood unleashed in full through television screen and monitor, but to see it in person is like staring at a tornado that is moving ever closer—it is scary, it is humbling and yet it is simultaneously euphoric.

"That power… It could be yours… All you have to do is be a Magus and carve her open."

Oversized tongue writhing like a serpent, the Daemon tempts, its face looming large in my vision.

Its appearance has been shifting dramatically of late, as if adapting to my own fears.

I'm not afraid of humans—slasher movies were like Christmas to me—but creatures with warped proportions and twisted features trying and failing as humans? That's another matter entirely.

I stifle my fear with a grunt, channeling my anger at the Evil's suggestion instead. "Back off, ya' cunt."

"Oh, what's this? Is the Magus getting cold feet?" Realizing temptation is failing, the Daemon immediately changes its tactic to shaming, but I have done a remarkable job ignoring the World's Evils so far, I'm not about to break the streak now.

Nothing good will come out of further engagement, after all.

All I'll do is allow it the opportunity to study my weaknesses and exploit them in the future.

At times, keeping quiet is just about the wisest thing a person can do.

Sure enough, just whem the biting winds of White Frost begin to herald the Hunt's coming, Angry Mango backs off; bored by my reaction, or the lack thereof. "C'mon Leo, don't be such a bore! Just think about, which expression of love can top making the girl a part of yourself?! She'll be with you fEreVOr!"

That is quite possibly the most asinine and ridiculous thing I have ever heard in my lives, but it is Angra Mango I'm talking to.

Such preversion is to be expected… Sidestepping the Daemon, I wait outside the pillar of pure, unadulterated Magic swirling violently around the Witcheress.

High above, clouds converge,

While below, elves and monsters descend upon the Redanian army.

Not many troops are stationed here since Novigrad's still considered a 'free city', on paper at least, but the Wild Hunt isn't a large force either.

One side relies heavily on quantity and homefield advantage; the other quality, with their Magic-tinkering navigators and Frost Hounds.

"Wanna bet?" I call out.

The Daemon swerves left and right to check our surrounding, its neck elongating in a grotesque, surreal manner, eyes drooping from their sockets as it leans close to my face—a fever nightmare manifested.

Then, Angry Mango hisses; the nickname sapping away at the fear I feel towards the Unbirthed God. "You talking to me?"

"Who else? Go on, pick the side you think is going to win this battle—human or elf?"

* Ding!!!

"What games are you playing at?"

Sullenly, the Daemon crawls towards me with curious eyes, as though I've just grown a second head in front of him.

We lock gazes, the air thickening with tension one can cut with a dull knife.

"Gambling. You in or out?" Deadpanning, I magick up a coin and flick it through its face.

Whichever side he chooses, I'll come out victorious…

But, if Angra sensed even the slightest whiff of deceit, I know for certain it wouldn't agree to the bet.

"Prizes?"

Hook, line and sinker.

"Whatever you want… If I win, I want power."

It hums thoughtfully. "Hm, I don't know… What can you offer—"

"I'm not in the mood for these games, Angra. In or out? Give it to me straight."

I interrupt, a look of bored contempt etched across my features.

"What power can I offer you?"

"I'm not sure." I shrug. "Why don't you tell me… It better be something impressive, or no bet."

Instantly, a rush of information floods my mind with a Skill—a Noble Phantasm caliber Skill… Which really begs the question: "Why the fuck were you using [Verg Avesta] when you have this?!"

I can't even recall what his NP actually does… That's how fucking garbage it was.

"There existed the Nameless Evil Spirit; the Spirit of Evils, and lastly the 'Great Adversary' to Ahura Mazda—the Unholy Trinity. The Evil Spirit was the frailest, merely a martyr chosen to bear the sins of man. In spite of the Curses etched into his flesh with obsidian shards, he was never much of a threat to anyone."

Hair floating behind it in thick mass the humanoid creature scuttles to the ledge like an enormous spider, its eager eyes darting over the frozen city. "The 'Great Adversary' does not yet exist."

The 'Great Adversary', I assume, is the last Incarnation.

If the Greater Grail is the uterus, then the God being willed into existence is the fetus—weak, yet filled with endless potential for destruction, and said 'Evil Spirit' is dangling quite the treat in front of me.

[Fra-azaāta Ātṛ Mašyā]—the Last Fire of Man.

It's a diluted form of the Grail Muds, which explains why the cursed magical energy looks as a ghastly, red and dark purple flame rather than the thick sludge that would have engulfed the world if not for Baeber's destruction of the Grail.

It caries only 10,000 Curses out of the 6 billion the Persian God of Darkness is believed to embody in full…

In terms of function, it operates identically to the Grail Muds, incinerating everything—everyone in its path, and tainting all it cannot, driving them into psychotic rage which is thankfully not permanent like the 'Blackening' Avenger's known for doing to Heroic Spirits.

Those who perish from its effects have their torments transformed into cursed Mana, which then seeks out more victims.

However, I can also opt to absorb this Mana to replenish my own reserves, assuming I'm able to withstand the pain, of course.

I'll likely never use [Last Fire of Man] in such a way.

By now, I've been stabbed, jabbed, burned, electrocuted, punched, and more—I've experienced it all. But this sounds like it would be quite the hindrance in battle.

To make the [Authority] worse, the 10,000 Curses cannot be dispersed once it has been unleashed…

It'll act like a normal wildfire to seek out victims and replenish itself or burn out on its own.

Funnily enough, the Fire won't cause needless destruction to the world around it, just the people, existing for the sole purpose of killing as many human as possible. 'He who adored the world; but detested Humanity for their sins.'

My brain sharply delivers the line of information while I marvel at the Skill.

"So which is it, Spirit of Evils? Elf or human?"

"Elf–they're stronger, faster, better equipped and have their Mages." It answers without any hesitation. "Provided you do not fight alongside the human, of course."

"I won't."

Does not mean I won't interfere with my own methods.

"Shall we shake on it?"

"Let's. But if they come near Ciri, I get to—"

I pause, gunning down a group of elves that has teleported onto the roof, then continue a moment later. "I get to retaliate."

"Seems fair. How shall we judge the victor?"

"Percentage." I suggest. "We determine the victor based on the percentage of losses. Deal?"

My hand and his clasp, conjuring ancient Iranian—Avestan, if I'm not mistaken—symbols that glow ominously.

"To seal the deal."

Novigrad is engulfed in flashes of icy blue and panicked screams. Luckily, the chaos is confined to the dock and isn't spreading to the city at large.

Speaking of Docks, you wouldn't believe how fast the local strumpets can run in those heels.

They bolted at the first sign of trouble.

Though to be fair, I'm sure the drunken sailors would have done the exact same thing, if not for how wasted they are.

Instead, they draw their blades to get cut down or ripped apart by the Frost Hounds. "This is kinda hilariously chaotic…"

"It'll be even more hilarious when you lose."

"Good thing I won't then."

Clad in polished steel and crimson cloth, Radovid's personal guards encircle the ship, striking at every Rider within reach, yet their swords find little purchase against the skeletal armors enchanted by Elven Mages.

The number of Red Riders has increased since our first encounter, but if Eredin thinks throwing more soldiers at me will do the job, he's in for a rude awakening.

A soft thud draws my attention as I find Ciri sprawled unconscious on the ground.

With the pillar of Magic around her gone, I can approach the Witcheress again.

Drawing the emerald I had infused with the drop of blood Ciri gave me a month ago, I toss the Mystic Code near Radovid's ship and grin.

The emerald was made to release weak pulses of Elder Blood Magic, which I'm hoping will confuse the Red Riders their 'prize' is in the hands of Radovid V.

Carrying the Witcheress, I wrap us in a dark cloak that will blend right with the starless sky, and leap off the building, vanishing before the elves even notice—too absorbed in the battle to realize their actual target's gone.

To be honest, I don't expect the fighting to last the night.

The Wild Hunt will realize Ciri is no longer here, just a device that filters the ambient Mana to mimic the fluctuations of the Elder Blood, and leaves. "Let's pray they put on a good show for us."

The Daemon grins toothily. "Yes, let's."

— [Infinity] —

In the shadowy recesses of his ship, Radovid V taps his knee nervously.

Even the sailors have been dispatched to join the battle.

The most vexing part is he doesn't even know who this enemy is.

Emhyr, he can anticipate and strategize against; Philippa, he can manage, but these… "These filthy non-humans!"

The King of Redania hisses through gritted teeth, his face flushed purple with rage.

They've taken him completely by surprise.

As if it's not bad enough that some cowardly Mage has made a mockery of his authority for the better part of the month and made a mess of the King's plans by killing Whoreson.

And now, they are making him look like a fool.

Nothing has gone right since he set foot in this cursed city.

If not for its overflowing coffers, Radovid would have burned the place to the ground already. He might still do it after beating Emhyr back to the far South.

But first, he has to survive the night, which is easier said than done.

"Why isn't the ship moving?!" Radovid snarls, pointing at his eerily silent royal guards. "Have the bunch of you gone deaf? Speak up!"

As if pulled by invisible strings, the royal guards turn around, drool dripping from their mouths as they groan. "Y-You…"

Horrified, Radovid stumbles back, tripping over the glass of wine he had dropped earlier.

He recognizes those symptoms; he's seen them before on one of a Mage's victims.

But how?

When?

The Redanian royal guards haven't left his side since their ship docked.

They only take three breaks each day for personal relief, totaling just 15 minutes per day. While this regimented schedule has led to some rather embarrassing and uncomfortable 'accidents' for all parties involved, Radovid cannot sleep, eat, or even take a piss without them close by, especially with Mages out for his blood and rumors circulating that his old 'teacher'—that frigid old witch-bitch might have survived what he did to her.

These guards are his most trusted, compensated equally to his actual advisors...

How has the Mage gotten to them?

His face pales when the guards begin to approach, their movements jerky, foreheads sweating profusely as they struggle against the unseen force.

"I AM YOUR KING!"

Desperate, the King of Redania screams, but the guards only mumble incoherently, their minds waging a futile war against the Spell that has taken over them.

Then, they jump to attention all of a sudden, posture stiff like decaying corpses.

"""Before you die—""" Echoing in unison, the guards surround Radovid, blocking even the secret escape hatch that'd havw brought him to the other end of the ship. """I want you to know the name of your killer—Leonis Magnus. Carve it into your mind while you breath your last."""

Shrieking, the King of Redania attempts to mount what he believes to be a valiant defense, but it is more of a childish tantrum.

His efforts achieve nothing of note besides ensuring him a more painful death.

The youngest royal guard, designated as his executioner, draws his blade.

In his panic, Radovid manages to knock the sword from the hypnotized guard's hand due to how rigid the puppet's grip is.

Undeterred, the guard leaps onto his former King, fingers tightening around Radovid's royal neck. "I- I'm yOuR KING!"

Over and over, he repeats the statement, his face drained of blood while his nails dig into calloused palms.

Deep down Radovid V knows that nothing will save him from this fate…

Not his crown; not his gold; not all the fancy titles and embellished army.

Tonight, Redania weeps for the death of its King.

— [Infinity] —

Finally able to pinpoint the exact location of the last known Elder Blood-bearer, or what he thought was her, Liraethin lets loose an irritated curse as he retrieves the enchanted gemstone from beneath the rubble.

"We've been had..." The navigator mutters in his mother tongue.

If his suspicion Is correct, the Child of the Elder Blood has manipulated them; turned them against her enemies.

But she isn't that scheming, not according to the Hunt's profile of her character.

She couldn't—wouldn't have devised such a vicious plan on her own, which means someone else did…

"The human Mage."

He still remembers their last encounter, and how the young Mage had slaughtered his men like bumbling fools.

That's why his King sent such a large reinforcement this time, but it seems both he and High King Eredin have overestimated the human's sense of honor, or the lack thereof.

The thought fills Liraethin with frustration that he sharply stomps in favor of searching for his general—Imlerith, which shouldn't be much of an issue given the man's hulking figure even by their people's standards.

"General, I believe we've been played."

Resting atop a mountain of corpses—all of them human, the sullen-looking elf grunts in acknowledgement.

If there's anything Liraethin wants to hold against the General besides his violent, psychotic episodes, then it's this type of communication style. 'What does that even mean? Does he agree? Disagree? Are we retreating or pursuing? Speak up!'

"Litter the grounds with their entrails…"

In a steely tone, Imlerith commands, his expression concealed by his dark helm.

"Milord, this serves no purpose but the death of the soldiers. I beg you to reconsider!"

Liraethin protests, knowing full well his pleas will fall on deaf ears.

"It does serve one purpose…"

The General growls.

"To send a message."

— [Infinity] —

Watching from the tallest building in Novigrad, Angra and I bond over past matters.

I don't enjoy it any more than he does, but we are so incredibly… Bored.

Around the third hour mark, the fighting finally subsides.

Cradling Ciri in my arms, I smile as she twitches.

Despite all appearances, the Witcheress has already recovered ages ago, she's only playing pretense in order to help me.

"Who won?"

"There were 525 combatants on the human side… 121, including the elemental mutts, on the elf side. By my count, 83 elves remain, while fewer than a hundred Redanians are left."

Grinning, maws dripping with saliva that looks like it can corrode solid metal, the Daemon trills triumphantly.

"In other words, I won, I won, I WON!"

Feeling Ciri's reassuring squeeze as our hands lock, I have to suppress a smile to ensure the Daemon will not notice anything unusual, and it, overwhelmed by the thrill of victory, doesn't.

"YOU THINK YOUR [HYPNOSIS] DID ANYTHING?! I WON, LEONIS!"

It took me over a week to create a small squadron of 50 hypnotized soldiers and hunters who were devoid of pain or fear to serve as my eyes and ears within Radovid's ranks.

Even with these literal adrenaline-pumped, unfeeling super-soldiers, the Redanian army and the witch hunters still lost, which I would have been angry at, if not for the fact I have predicted this. I don't take risks, not anymore.

They've fulfilled their purpose, and now it's time for Ciri to complete hers.

Tapping her hands twice to signa tol the Witcheress, I breathe a sigh of relief when her hand successfully slips into the black pouch she's been holding onto all night.

"Do what you must." I murmur, forcing cold sweat from my pores, my arms shaking with a fear I don't have to feign.

If this fails, I and this world might be doomed, but it must be done.

Things will be much worse if Angra's influence is allowed to fester in my Vessel.

The sooner I eliminate this threat, the easier I can breathe easy.

I will not repeat the error I made with Kirei. Henceforth, every rabid animal shall be put to death with extreme prejudice.

'I will have to take them out for dinner after this…'

Ciri, for accepting such a burdensome task, and Triss, for deciphering the encrypted messages my hypnotized victims sent in my stead, and creating a Mystic Code that will hopefully seal Kirei's cursed heart and the Daemon away until I can find a way to expel it, or kill it outright.

Though I suppose the biggest contributors must be my mind-controlled minions…

They were the real heroes.

Now, the only problem is, it needs to be in the possession of my Vessel for the artifact to work, which the Battle of Novigrad has thankfully provided an excuse for—one that hasn't roused its suspicion yet.

A circle of Avestan symbols forms around me, constructed from ashes and the Uncelean. "You act tough, but I can see it now! I can see it clear as day! You're afraid, aren't you?" The entity taunts excitedly.

Feeling more disgusted than afraid, I play along, saying whatever I think it wants to hear, exaggerating my outrage and fear.

The Daemon laps it all up like a starving mutt.

After some back-and-forth, it rushes forward, unable to resist the temptation of life. "Accept your position as the World's Evils! Say it! You have to say it! Surrender your Vessel to me!"

The symbols shine, puppeteering my body against my Will to voice the words.

It is weak, for even as a true Daemon, the Spirit of Evil cannot interact with the natural world without a Vessel from which it shall be birthed.

That's why it plagued Shinji, whose body wasn't even a particularly good Vessel.

I shudder to think what it can do with mine.

"I'll fight you every step of the way…" I spit 'disdainfully' as the Curses swallow me whole. In an instant, I'm transported from the red tiles to an ocean of hate, drowning in the Darkness. Now I know how the Alters feel all the time—no wonder they're so murderous.

Suddenly, a sharp pain wrenches me out of that Oblivion, accompanied by Angry Mango's panicked shrieks.

Using what I had taught her about the Elder Blood, the Witcheress had bypassed my [Shield] and stabbed my Vessel in the heart with the ritualistic blade Triss fashioned from obsidian and animal claws—tools that have been used against the human who was later crowned Angra Mainyu.

"This wasn't the deal!"

The Oblivion morphs and twists to resemble a jackal-headed creature, before shifting to take on my own appearance.

My 'twin', eyes flashing red, growls, "This wasn't our deal! You weren't supposed to resist!"

Grinning wickedly, I click my tongue. "I didn't… I practically gifted my Vessel to you on a silver plate. It's not really my fault you're such a huge fucking failure, is it?"

Angra Mainyu screeches, lunging at me like a rabid animal, but are instead restrained by vines—vines which look suspiciously like the morning glory vine the Sorceress used to hold the blade's obsidian tang to the hollowed bone handle.

"LEONISSSS—! You can't do this!!!"

It roars—helpless while I cackle triumphantly, gawking with glee as the spiritual entity is sucked into and imprisoned within the knife sticking out of my chest. It's a hollow victory, given how mentally unstable the Spirit of Evils is as a sentience being born from pure hatred, but a W's a W.

"I can, I am."

* DING!!!