287. To Whom Should the White Iris Lance Charge!!!

"Huh?"

Allen was taken aback and turned sharply to look at the old duke.

The old duke, however, looked as if he had never said those words, his eyes deep and indifferent as he gazed at the bustling priests of Melitele below the city walls. Yet the sudden buzz of conversation around them proved that the words were not a figment of the witcher's imagination.

"Lord Mason... does he intend to gather witchers permanently in Ellander?"

"Not impossible, I heard yesterday from a distant nephew of mine in the royal guard that if it weren't for this witcher named Allen, everyone in Ellander would have perished..."

"What? Really? I don't believe it. Lady Agatha told me just a few days ago that our survival that day was due to her tirelessly holding up a magical shield to protect the inner city..."

"You're listening to Agatha? Just before May Day, she was at Lady Betty's salon complaining that Duke Mason was overreacting, making her, a graceful senior sorceress, transport some extremely unseemly items to Vizima. She thought nothing would happen on May Day. If not for archpriestess Ianna's prophecy..."

"Indeed, we are fortunate for the archpriestess. Praise be to the goddess Melitele..."

"Praise be to the goddess Melitele..."

------------------------

"Ladies, silence. Witchers have sharp senses; they can hear you even if you whisper. Besides, I can hear you all clearly from here."

Finally, an aged male voice spoke up, and the commotion subsided.

At this moment, the old duke turned his head and gazed at the witcher, who looked a bit bewildered:

"I understand the School of the Wolf has recently encountered... some difficulties."

"But as long as you're willing to relocate to Ellander, no one—no force—would dare trouble you under the protection of the Temerian royal family."

The old duke's voice was powerful and commanding. Yet no one present doubted the truth of his words. Although Temeria had just experienced war, plague, and rebellion, no one could deny it remained the strongest nation on the Northern Continent.

In other words, It was precisely because of these wars, plagues, and uprisings that the nations of the Northern Continent had come to see Temeria's strength and resolve.

Not only was it one of the three oldest human nations on this continent,

It was also home to the Northern Continent's most formidable Order of the Flaming Rose, a military force considered first-rate.

Even Falka, who had ravaged the Northern Kingdoms, could only falter under the iron cavalry of the kingdom, eventually dying at the hands of the Temerian king. Temeria's own currency, the orens, was even one of the few currencies used across the Northern Continent, accepted in nearly all countries.

Therefore,

Temeria's military, economic, and political power was self-evident.

Allen did not doubt this.

Temeria did indeed have the strength to protect the School of the Wolf—and with ease. Moreover, Ellander indeed had a monster problem and a great need for witchers.

After all, many lives were lost on May Day, many died in vain.

Even with the priests of Melitele praying over and burying the dead, the chances of them becoming wraiths or similar specters weren't low.

Allen just didn't understand why the old duke would ask him this question. He was merely an unremarkable witcher who had only been a master of the School of the Wolf for half a year.

What qualifications did he have to speak on behalf of the school and agree to such terms?

As if to ask, "Now that it's colder, do you wish to clothe me?"

Allen glanced at Vesemir, who stood beside him, head lowered in contemplation, and, after carefully choosing his words, said: "This matter will probably have to wait until I return to Kaer Morhen, where Grandmaster Sol can decide..."

The old duke seemed to have anticipated this response, nodded slightly, and said no more.

"Tap-tap-tap~"

Neat footsteps echoed from below the city.

"It's starting," the old duke murmured.

Allen suppressed his lingering doubts, standing beside the old duke as he looked in the direction of the footsteps.

A group of warriors in black armor, marching four by four, filed out from the city gate. These were the old duke's monster-hunting army. Following them was a large crowd, each holding a white flower, faces filled with sorrow.

Although their movements were disorganized, unlike the uniformed black-armored warriors, The somber and mournful atmosphere was even more pronounced.

After passing through the city gate, they naturally dispersed to both sides of the road, watching as the black-armored knights received large urns from the hands of temple priests.

"Two thousand seven hundred and sixty..."

"Two thousand seven hundred and sixty people died in Ellander on May Day..."

The old duke, gazing down below, seemed to murmur to himself. However, in the next moment,

The witcher felt a glance cast in his direction.

"Witcher, do you know how many citizens are officially registered in Ellander?"

Allen did not reply. Knowing the old duke's speaking style, he understood it wasn't really a question. However, the witcher could roughly guess the figure.

"Eight thousand five hundred seventy-four..." the old duke said.

Indeed.

Even as one of the largest cities in the Northern Continent, Ellander's population did not exceed ten thousand. Thus, the death toll on May Day accounted for over one-third of the city's total population.

Of course,

On May Day, many people from outlying areas came to celebrate, and in this medieval-like witcher world, the registered population often didn't match the actual numbers. But even so, The total population of Ellander on May Day wouldn't have exceeded ten thousand.

One could imagine what it would mean for a city to suddenly lose a quarter of its inhabitants...

"The Wild Hunt bears truly unforgivable sins!" the witcher thought.

He stole a glance at the old duke, whose face was expressionless.

To be realistic, taxes, conscription, the city's prosperity...

In this medieval-like world, nearly everyone in Ellander was essentially Duke Mason's property. So, for him, this single May Day brought significant losses. After sharing this number, the old duke fell silent again.

The witcher refocused his gaze on the scene below.

The sky was overcast, and the morning wind was cool. Below, the black-armored knights moved in pairs, carrying large urns down the road.

The citizens attending the funeral on both sides held white flowers, walking alongside. Many occasionally wiped their eyes.

Time can dull sorrow.

But four days alone are far from enough.

"Rest in peace, eternal rest..."

"May the Mother of All shelter you in Her care..."

"Through Her love and mercy..."

"Maiden shall guide you safely to the land of harvest, the place of abundance..."

"Mother shall sing you a gentle lullaby as you sleep..."

"Crone shall light the way for your kin, so they may not stray in the darkness..."

"Sleep in the light, rest in peace..."

"All burdens now come to an end..."

---------------------

At some point, the priests following the black-armored soldiers began to hum a sacred and solemn hymn.

People on both sides of the road quietly joined in the chant.

Over and over, again and again.

With sobs, hidden by tears.

On the city walls, noble ladies, sensitive to the atmosphere, discreetly drew out handkerchiefs to wipe away their tears.

Mary couldn't bear to look away and turned her gaze to the grassy field beside her.

Lysa closed her eyes tightly, and Vesemir let out a faint sigh.

Vera looked up, lost in thought, at the gray clouds in the sky, pondering something unknown.

In the end...

A song echoed from within the city, as if every household were softly humming a sorrowful melody.

A blessing for the departed to forget their worries, their pain, their sorrow in another world. Yet, they hoped the dead would remember the names of their loved ones, never to forget them.

Amid this singing, soldiers in black armor arrived at their destination.

They set down the large urns and took up shovels prepared on a nearby open plot, beginning to dig on a side close to the main road.

"Hm..."

Allen let out a soft gasp in his heart. The place seemed somewhat familiar. After a moment of thought, he remembered...

Wasn't this the spot where the Wraith Tide appeared on May Day night?

He had been puzzled at the time—why would wraiths gather here?

A suspicion formed in the Witcher's mind.

And indeed.

As time passed, the black-armored soldiers carefully unearthed a container that looked similar to the urns they carried and lifted it onto a cart that had been waiting there.

In the blink of an eye, the driver of the cart cracked a whip, speeding up the horses. It was unclear where they intended to take these containers.

Once the black-armored soldiers had placed all the large urns into the pit and began to fill it with soil…

"…Rest in the light, rest in peace…"

"All your troubles have now ended…"

-------------------------

The voices chanting the holy hymn swelled, and though the words spoke of peace, it was as if they were pleading with the souls in the urns to wait a moment...

Wait a moment…

Don't rush into the embrace of the All-Mother, don't follow the girl's light steps away, don't hurry to hear the eternal lullaby sung by the Mother…

Look once more...

Look once more at those who are reluctant to let you go…

"Ah—"

"My little Par, don't go—"

A heart-wrenching scream suddenly broke out from the crowd, as a middle-aged woman with graying hair rushed out from among them, only to be blocked by priests who had anticipated it.

She was pulled back by others who were also weeping. But the woman continued to struggle, hoarsely crying out:

"…Let me through… My little Par was only seven… How could he die so young… Please, let me through…"

People around her, including several priests, tried to console her. But the middle-aged woman, as if possessed, refused to stop, her disheveled hair flying as she struggled against the hands holding her back.

This caused the black-armored soldiers who were digging to unconsciously pause.

"Mm—"

Beside him, Allen suddenly heard a stifled sob.

Following the sound, the Witcher saw the young priestess with her head down, her hands tightly covering her face, as thick tears dripped between her fingers, falling to the ground.

Vera glanced at Allen and Mary, sighed softly, and wrapped her arms around the priestess.

The young priestess struggled for a few seconds, but when she realized she couldn't break free, she clenched the hem of her robe tightly and silently cried.

In the crowd…

A woman's foot stepped forward slightly, but then she withdrew.

Allen sighed as well and was about to look back down when he noticed the expressionless, ever-serene old Duke.

The Duke's hands were clenched tightly, so much so that his knuckles were pale.

For some reason, Allen suddenly felt a trace of guilt over his earlier thoughts about his "property" and "heavy losses."

The singing stopped.

In the distance, the middle-aged woman continued to struggle, and there was even a faint ripple of unrest in the crowd.

Just as the Witcher was wondering how the priests of Melitele would handle the situation…

Suddenly…

It began to rain.

Gentle raindrops floated down from the sky.

As the first droplets landed softly on the woman's face, her body suddenly stiffened.

With empty eyes, she looked up at the sky.

A few seconds later, she slumped to the ground, utterly spent.

The next moment…

"Ah—ah—"

The woman covered her face, crying out in grief.

The unrest in the crowd subsided instantly, replaced by a chorus of sobs, as if the sadness accumulated over the past four days had finally been washed away by the rain.

In that instant, no one could distinguish between tears and rain.

The funeral continued.

Thud, thud.

Dark brown earth fell against the clay urns.

The dead—sons, daughters, wives, husbands, mothers, fathers—were buried deep in the soil.

"Rest in peace, eternal peace…"

"The All-Mother will guard you within Her embrace…"

"Through Her love and mercy…"

"The Maiden will guide you safely to the land of plenty…"

"The Mother will hum a gentle lullaby, guiding you to rest…"

"The Crone with her lantern will watch over your kin, so they do not lose their way in darkness…"

"Rest in the light, rest in peace…"

"All your troubles have now ended…"

----------------------

The funeral was over.

At some point, the crowd began to hum the sacred, solemn hymn once again.

One by one, they placed white flowers onto the nameless grave.

"Lord Mason, the ritual has ended, and the rain is picking up. Please, seek shelter!" one of the servants approached on the city wall to remind him.

But the old Duke only lifted his hand to stop him.

And then he stood in the rain, watching those below, humming the funeral hymn in the wind and rain, and the nameless grave slowly turning a pure white.

Behind him, nobles gradually soaked by rain looked at each other, yet no one dared to speak.

After a long silence…

As the people below finished laying flowers, bowing to whisper their last words to the dead, and slowly returned…

The nobles around the old Duke turned their gazes to the young noble at his side. After a few moments of hesitation, the young noble turned and softly said: "Fa…"

Before he could finish, there was a sudden thud.

The old Duke struck his cane firmly against the ground, silencing the young noble.

The surrounding whispers ceased immediately.

"Witcher…" the Duke suddenly turned to face Allen, his deep brown eyes burning with an unquenchable fury.

Allen could see that fire blazing within what looked like a calm gaze.

"I seek revenge, no matter the cost…"

"So tell me, Witcher…"

"The lance of the White Iris—whom should it charge against?"

....

📢20 advanced chapters on p@treaon📢

For advance chapters: p@treon.com/Uchiha_Itachi007 (replace @ with a)

288. Knight Allen.

289. "How Should I Kill Them?"

290. Divine Dreamwalking [Melitele].

291. The Death of Gods, the End of the World.

292. The Saviour, the Chosen One.