Beast Slayer Online: Initialization
Copyright© 2026 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 53: Secrets Beneath Temple Stone
Phillip had no desire to cross paths with Lannor while the situation remained unclear.
It was not a question of whether they could beat him.
That part hardly needed thinking through. In Velen, a dozen mounted veterans were not supposed to have enemies. Especially not veterans who had crawled out of real battlefields alive.
Back when the law squad hunted Bordon, even without Lannor’s intervention, they likely could have taken the witcher master’s head for the cost of one dead man.
Crossbows disrupted an enemy’s rhythm and movement, then melee fighters swarmed in and hacked him apart.
Or the melee line boxed the enemy in while the crossbows killed him from afar.
Cold steel against cold steel, numbers mattered. Always had.
What truly bothered Phillip was something else entirely.
If Lannor really had gone mad ... how many men would they lose before putting him down?
There was no sorcerer attached to the troop. Neither Phillip nor his men had much experience with witcher magic.
On a battlefield, ignorance was paid for in blood.
Phillip was not merely commanding these cavalrymen. These cavalrymen were the foundation of his standing beneath the baron. Every dead rider weakened his position.
And beyond that, most of the men genuinely liked Lannor after working beside him.
Phillip himself included.
No one wanted to cross blades with a decent man, a friend at best, at worst a familiar ally.
Everyone wanted good men for companions.
In a world this rotten, that sort of thing was one of the few comforts left.
Following the scent and footprints, Lannor crossed two ridges and a stream through the hilly terrain.
Then he found another camp.
Cold cat eyes watched from layered shadows deep among the trees. Pope had been left farther back, somewhere safe.
This was not another roadside checkpoint. Not another conversation.
The moment Lannor laid eyes on the camp, he made up his mind.
This time, blood would flow from the beginning.
The camp looked much like the outpost from before.
Canvas shelter. Storage chests. Cloth sacks. Firepit.
But there was one small difference.
A human arm was roasting over the fire.
Several men sat nearby chatting and laughing, waiting eagerly for the meat to finish cooking.
As for the hand attached to the arm, a man seated inside the tent was carefully trimming away flesh and bits of bone.
Another fine hand-necklace in the making.
The seven men in camp wore little more than fur vests on their upper bodies, hanging open at the chest.
Some wore only short trousers below the waist. Others dressed more like peasants, rough pants tied tight at the calves with cord.
In short, none of them wore armor.
As for weapons, most had a Velen longsword hanging from the hip. One or two simply carried wooden clubs wrapped in strips of cloth with nails hammered through the striking end, crude spiked cudgels.
“Sir, seven individuals in the camp. One remains outside visual range, though the footsteps are clear.”
Mentos spoke up. It knew Lannor was already observing on his own.
Still, regardless of the host’s conclusions, it was required to provide its own report as supplementary reference.
“Yes. I noticed.”
Lannor’s voice was as flat as his gaze.
Threat Assessment Module
Alert: Advisory
Subject: Unidentified Unit (Out of Visual Range)
Position Analysis: Completed
Classification Probability:
Ranged Combatant: 70%
Recommendation: Maintain Caution
“Doesn’t matter, Mentos.”
Lannor began moving.
No stealth. No charge.
He simply walked forward as though strolling through countryside woods, casually brushing aside branches and weeds.
“Doesn’t matter ... at all.”
As he spoke, he drew the steel sword from his back and rolled his neck slowly.
He had already seen how man-eaters fought.
Not pathetic, exactly.
Just ... reassuring.
They were not professional soldiers drilled and tested in the craft of killing.
Back then, when Villis launched his ambush, one mounted fighter and two bowmen should have posed tremendous danger even after the rider died to an unexpected Sign.
Yet Lannor realized almost immediately that the two archers had no coordination whatsoever.
No staggered volleys. No suppressing fire. No attempts to force movement or trap him before landing a kill.
At the end of the day, they were merely criminals skilled at hiding.
And now these criminals did not even wear armor.
The clean hiss of steel leaving its sheath rang openly through the woodland.
Branches rustled beside it.
The man-eaters became alert at once.
They were no soldiers, but they lived by killing. A certain amount of vigilance came naturally.
One man with a swollen drunkard’s nose drew the Velen longsword at his waist and crouched into an attacking stance as he approached the source of the noise.
“Heh. Looks like supper’s walked itself in.”
His tone was careless and loud, but the way he held the sword, and the sharpness in his eyes, showed he was taking no chances.
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