Explosive Killing

Leaving Francesca behind, Wayne took to the skies once more, this time heading towards the heart of the town. He donned a helmet. Though witchers rarely wore them, Master O Henry had thoughtfully included one in his armor set. It was a closed knight's helmet, akin to those from the Middle Ages, with a Y-shaped visor revealing only a narrow slit for the eyes and nose, rendering the wearer's face unrecognizable.

Wayne arrived at the town square, now transformed into a macabre execution ground. The fifty or sixty surviving non-humans were bound hand and foot. Some women were stripped bare, while the elderly and children lay huddled together on the ground, resembling livestock awaiting slaughter. A few men, captured for resisting, were tied to makeshift wooden posts, some dead, others still alive and wailing in agony. Their bodies bore numerous cuts and wounds, evidence of brutal torture.

The square was filled with the raucous laughter of soldiers, the gleeful curses of the mob, and the desperate pleas and curses of the bound and tormented non-humans.

Adding to the horror, several rows of makeshift gallows stood in the center of the square. Each gallows bore five or six nooses, and though it was unclear how long this torment had been ongoing, eight corpses already hung lifeless, eyes glazed over, tongues lolling out. They had been strangled to death.

A corpulent man, who seemed to be the captain of the soldiers, gleefully tugged on a rope, tightening and loosening it, toying with his victim. At the other end of the rope, a young elven girl, barely past childhood, dangled with the noose cinched around her neck. Her eyes bulged, her face pale and bruised from the lack of oxygen, as she desperately clawed at the rope.

The captain, as he pulled, bellowed, "It's because of these elf whores, dwarf bastards, and halfling scum that our land is cursed, plagued by disease and famine! They've defiled our sacred beliefs and brought ruin upon us."

"Today, we cleanse our land, our town!" he roared. "We'll kill these non-human bastards, these thieves and scoundrels!"

"Then, we'll divide their wealth among our glorious townsfolk! It's rightfully ours, stolen by these wretches through their deceit. They don't deserve it!"

The mention of riches further ignited the mob's frenzy. They roared like wild beasts, as if their acts of murder and arson were noble deeds worthy of celebration.

Fueled by their response, the captain grew even more excited. With a triumphant cackle, he yanked the rope with both hands, lifting the elven girl off her feet, her desperate struggles only tightening the noose further.

With a loud bang, as if a heavy object had fallen to the ground, Wayne, clad in heavy armor, leapt from his carpet and landed upon the portly soldier captain like a divine warrior from the heavens. There was no warning, no curse, no exchange of words. In the moment of shock as the armored knight descended, Wayne's sword flashed, instantly severing the captain's head. The captain had no time to react, his head rolling away as blood gushed from his neck. The ropes he held slackened, freeing the bound elven girl.

Wayne's movements didn't cease. His left hand, encased in a dimeritium gauntlet, formed a fist and slammed into the face of a nearby soldier. The force, amplified by the hard metal, caved in the soldier's face, sending a spray of red and white across his armor. The soldier staggered back, collapsing lifelessly.

The sword continued its deadly dance. Spinning to avoid a charging soldier, the sword sliced through the soldier's throat. The man clutched his wound, gasping desperately as he fell.

In a matter of seconds, three lives were extinguished. Wayne straightened, his figure stained crimson. The mob, their violent fantasies shattered, along with the remaining soldiers, were jolted back to reality. Some cried out in terror, others roared hysterically. A group charged towards Wayne, weapons raised.

A cold smile touched Wayne's lips. Though he wouldn't use his witcher signs to reveal his true nature, he possessed a vast arsenal of otherworldly techniques. He could unleash them without fear of discovery.

Facing the horde of crazed enemies, Wayne showed no mercy. He gestured with his right hand, the one bearing the runestone bracelet, towards the group charging him. As his magic power surged, a red gemstone on the bracelet glowed faintly, then quickly faded. After the glow subsided, a massive storm cloud materialized above the group of soldiers and mobs at an alarming speed.

The cloud enveloped not only the warriors and mobs but also many of the buildings behind them. Within the swirling storm, lightning crackled and intensified.

Ten seconds later, in the terrified eyes of those below, hundreds of lightning bolts, accompanied by deafening thunder, rained down.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

Crack! Crack! Crack!

The blinding flashes illuminated the square, turning it into daylight for a fleeting moment. In less than a minute, the lightning transformed a third of the soldiers and mobs into charred corpses. Even many buildings behind the group were struck, causing fires and collapses that engulfed numerous structures.

This was a sixth-level spell, Thunder Cloud Storm, a group attack designed to obliterate large numbers of foes. To be honest, it was overkill to use a spell of this caliber against such low-level enemies. However, for Wayne, the three-day cooldown was not wasted; it was the perfect way to deal with such garbage.

After the storm of thunder and lightning subsided, the square was a scene of utter devastation. The air was thick with the stench of burnt flesh and the acrid tang of urine and feces. Not only were the townsfolk and soldiers traumatized, but even the captured non-humans bound in the center of the square were shocked to their core.

As ordinary folk, they had never witnessed the raw power of a true magic-wielder. Stories of warlocks and mages were the stuff of legends, whispered in hushed tones and passed down through generations. To see such power unleashed before their very eyes was unimaginable.

The first among the mob and soldiers to regain their senses cried out in terror.

"It's an evil sorcerer, a mage!"

"A mage has come to slaughter us! Quick, kill the mage!"

Their shouts snapped others out of their panicked stupor. Some immediately turned and fled, their courage shattered by the display of arcane might. Others succumbed to a reckless frenzy, heedless of the danger around them. They grabbed their weapons and charged towards Wayne, as if their mere proximity could somehow vanquish him.

Yet, the majority remained paralyzed with fear, uncertainty, and a desperate hope that someone else would step forward to slay the mage. They were too afraid to act themselves. With their numbers reduced to a mere hundred, some clung to the delusional hope that what they had just witnessed was a mere illusion. But regardless of what the mob and soldiers thought, Wayne had no intention of showing mercy.

In Wayne's worldview, those who could kill others were equally vulnerable to being killed themselves. Embracing this principle, he charged forward in his heavy armor, a fearsome juggernaut descending upon the hesitant, enraged, and terrified mob. As the distance between them closed to a mere dozen meters, the blue gemstone on his right bracelet flickered once more.

To the Kaedwen soldiers, the armored knight blurred, then split into six identical figures. Seven terrifying warriors, indistinguishable from one another, surged into their ranks with the aura of a one-man army.

Clank! Clank! Clank!

Swords clashed, blood splattered, and screams filled the air. Whether Kaedwen soldier or mobs, their king had not equipped them with sturdy armor. Their weapons were mere longswords, pitchforks, and spears. Each of the seven figures was not an illusion; they were lethal realities. Their sharp blades, like the Grim Reaper's scythe, sliced through flesh and bone, spilling blood and claiming terrified souls.

Slashing, punching, charging, and trampling, these knights were vastly superior to ordinary humans in strength, speed, and resilience. Each attack was vicious and deadly, overwhelming the mob and soldiers who seemed to have transformed into helpless lambs before their onslaught.

They crumbled under the relentless assault. Even the most desperate efforts by some of the mob and soldiers proved futile. Their pitchforks and iron swords clanged harmlessly against the knight's draconid armor, leaving only sparks and scratches. The force of the impact would often injure the attacker's arm before a swift, merciless blade ended their life.

This was a slaughter. Faced with the merciless witcher, most of the mob and soldiers perished in under ten minutes, leaving behind over a hundred corpses. The remaining few, driven by sheer terror and survival instinct, fled into the town, their clothes soiled with their own waste, not daring to look back. The square was littered with severed limbs, heads, and bodies.

Wayne's armor was now stained crimson with blood. He shook the gore from his sword, the ordinary blade now chipped and cracked from the force of his blows. Along with his blood-soaked armor, he resembled a death knight risen from the depths of hell.

The unbridled carnage had left Wayne strangely exhilarated. Perhaps, deep down, despite his outward indifference to their insults, he had harbored a desire to slaughter these unruly peasants. They were indeed unruly, deserving of their punishment. If not for the principles that bound most witchers, these troublesome rabble would have been dealt with long ago.

Wayne shook off these thoughts and turned to the six mirror images standing beside him. The sixth-level spell, Mirror Image, was truly potent. With a single casting, it created six clones, each possessing half the strength of the original. While the clones couldn't wield powerful magic and lasted only fifteen minutes, they were a boon for any warrior, effectively tripling or quadrupling their strength for a short time. It might not be as useful against skilled opponents, but against such fodder, it was a spectacle of effortless slaughter. After all, for the clones, half strength or full strength was irrelevant; the outcome was always death.

Confirming there were no more enemies, Wayne gestured to his clones, transmitting his thoughts. Like obedient soldiers, they moved to the captured non-humans still bound in the center of the square and severed their ropes. However, the sight of the blood-soaked clones terrified the survivors, fearing they might be next.

As Wayne pondered how to comfort these terrified civilians, Francesca's voice crackled through the communicator he kept in his pocket. "Wayne, allow me to calm them down."

"As much as I'd like to say you did well, I must admit you went a bit overboard," the sorceress's voice was filled with shock and exasperation, yet still as melodious as ever. "Killing hundreds of humans at once, using such unconventional methods and strange magic, will surely attract the attention of the Brotherhood of Sorcerers."

"However, I must thank you. You did what I've always longed to do."

"I, too, wish to be like you, slaughtering those who harm our brethren without hesitation, but I cannot."

"The Brotherhood knows me too well. If I were to use large-scale magic, they would surely detect it."

"Now, remain as you are. Don't speak. Maintain your disguise as a magic puppet knight."

"I'll take care of the rest." As Francesca's voice faded, a slender figure cloaked in black materialized before the non-humans.

Simultaneously, a disguised yet equally melodious voice, speaking in Elvish, reached the ears of all the non-humans present. "Compatriots, fear not, we will get you out of here."