System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 138
“Leave the prison to yourselves...”
The moment the witcher’s words fell, the lead soldier silently drew his sword. Around him, a squad of comrades bared their teeth in grim smiles and raised identical, regulation longswords, closing ranks as they advanced inward, step by measured step, compressing the space the two witchers had to move.
An absolute advantage in numbers made them believe the witchers would never dare resist.
Inside the tightening ring, the two witchers exchanged a glance.
“This whole road here ... it’s gone too far. I’ve had enough.”
The younger witcher spat the words.
In the very next instant, the soldier directly behind him felt his vision blur. The target snapped backward in a lightning-fast, effortless hop, the pommel of his sword slamming viciously into the man’s abdomen. White-hot pain exploded. The soldier collapsed before he could even react.
Another soldier nearby lashed out late, blade flashing toward the witcher. He slipped aside with ease, then twisted lightly into a turning step, the sheathed blade whipping around to crack hard across the man’s face.
“Too fast...” was the last thought that flickered through his mind before the second soldier dropped without a sound.
The entire street erupted in chaos. Someone screamed, no one knew who, and passersby began scrambling away, crawling and stumbling to flee the clash.
The soldiers cast terrified glances at their fallen comrades, then stiffened, gripping their swords tight and thrusting toward the center.
Then Gwyhyr cut through the air, letting out a series of light, joyful hums. The blade bent the light itself, dimming even the sun.
The two witchers made no flashy moves. They merely drifted like phantoms through the mass of soldiers, leaping and weaving a few times, sword pommels and scabbards tracing irregular arcs.
In less than five seconds, the formation burst apart like an ant swarm scalded by boiling water.
Six men lay on the ground. Some clutched their wounds and howled in agony; others had passed out entirely, their gently rising chests testifying that life had not yet left them.
Seeing the soldiers pull back, the witchers did not pursue. They stood back to back, bodies taut with vigilance, each guarding one side.
Both held their swords in two hands and flicked them through the air a few times, drawing bright arcs like rainbows.
No soldier dared approach again. Instead, they retreated step by step, icy fear crawling across their faces. They heard a demon speak.
“Do you understand now? Never threaten a witcher lightly, especially when there is more than one.”
The lead soldier swallowed. The wet, labored sound of his throat working was clearly audible.
“Rest easy. No one is bleeding, and no one is dead.”
As he spoke, both witchers moved in unison, slowly sliding their longswords back into the scabbards on their backs.
“This is only a lesson, soldier.”
Roy looked at the panicked faces across from him. The fury in his chest finally ebbed a little. “Now take us to see Prefect Velerad.”
“Y ... yes, ... Master.”
...
Prefect Velerad’s sharp eyes swept over the two witchers standing across from his desk, lingering longer on the burly, bald giant.
Past experience had taught him that witchers, strange as they looked, were sometimes more trustworthy than ordinary men.
His gaze settled on the serpent-shaped medallions hanging at their throats.
“A pity you’re not old friends from the School of the Wolf, but at least you’re not Cats.”
He ordered the guards to withdraw, then turned back to them.
“Masters Witcher, please sit. Come closer if you like.” He gestured toward the chairs opposite his desk.
“I am not like those superstitious fools who despise and fear you. On the contrary, I know witchers possess emotions, and often understand fairness and responsibility better than certain despicable mercenaries, with far better reputations.”
“So your idea of fairness is forcing two law-abiding witchers to sell their lives for you with violence?”
Roy could not help the jab of sarcasm.
“I truly had no other choice.” Velerad rubbed the scepter on his desk, apology plain on his face.
“Let me first apologize on behalf of those subordinates. I clearly instructed them to invite the two Masters here with the utmost respect. Who could have known they would take it upon themselves to provoke you?”
“Besides, you have already taught those useless fools a lesson. That should have cooled your anger, yes?”
The two witchers folded their arms and offered no response, faces cold.
“I was also too hasty.”
The Prefect sighed, then continued. “This afternoon, I received the good news that two witchers from afar had arrived in Vizima. I thought, is this not the reinforcement I have been waiting for?”
“But the reinforcement you imagined is already overwhelmed, barely keeping its head above water, with no time to deal with your troublesome problem.”
“Everything has its proper price.” Velerad spoke with certainty. “We can set aside the contract for now. Why not hear my offer first? I believe you will feel the trip was worthwhile.”
“An offer? Can your payment carry us across mountains and seas, straight to our destination in the far west, in an instant?”
The moment Roy finished speaking, Velerad’s eyes lit up.
“I’ve learned that the two of you were frequenting Kjunong Stables in preparation for reaching a country west of Vizima in short order,” he said, watching the witchers’ faces. “Cidaris, Brokilon, Verden, or Cintra? If those are your destinations, I can satisfy that wish.”
Roy and Letho exchanged a glance, suspicion plain. “What do you mean?”
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