Beast Slayer Online: Initialization
Copyright© 2026 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 53
Phillip had no desire to come face to face with Lannor while the situation was still unclear.
It was not a question of whether they could beat him.
That hardly needed thinking about. A dozen or so cavalrymen on Velen’s soil, under normal circumstances, simply had no enemies to fear.
All the more so when those riders were seasoned veterans who had come off real battlefields.
Back when the enforcement squad had gone to intercept Bordon, if Lannor had not interfered, losing one man would likely have been enough to buy them the head of that Witcher master.
Crossbows and bows broke an enemy’s rhythm of attack and movement, then the melee men rushed in together and hacked him to pieces.
Or the melee men hemmed in his movement and pinned down his defense while the archers killed him from range.
Cold steel against cold steel, numbers mattered for a reason.
What truly made Phillip unwilling to face Lannor was this ... if Lannor had truly gone mad, what price would they have to pay to win?
There was no sorcerer with the column, and neither Phillip nor his men had seen much Witcher magic.
On a battlefield, what you did not know had to be paid for in lives.
Phillip was not only in command of these dozen or so riders. These dozen or so riders were also the foundation of his standing under the lord.
Losing even one would be a blow to his position that he would find hard to bear.
More than that, from their earlier cooperation, most of these soldiers had formed a decent opinion of Lannor.
Phillip included, none of them wished to cross blades with a man who was, if not exactly a friend, then at least a friendly acquaintance.
Everyone wanted good men for friends.
At least in a bastard world like this one, that was one of the few things that still gave a man a measure of ease.
Following the scent and the footprints, Lannor crossed two slopes in the hill country and forded a stream.
Then he found another small camp.
Those cold cat eyes were hidden behind layers of woodland shadow. He had left Pope in a safe spot to the rear.
This time he was not asking directions, nor dealing with extortionists in the livery of soldiers.
The moment Lannor laid eyes on this camp, he made up his mind.
This time, blood would be spilled from the very start.
The camp was built much like the outpost from before.
A large tarpaulin shelter, storage chests, sacks of various sizes, a firepit...
But there was one small difference.
What turned on the spit over the fire was a human arm.
Several men sat talking and laughing, waiting for the food over the flames to finish cooking.
As for the hand still attached to the arm, one of the men sitting inside the shelter was trimming away scraps of flesh and bone with careful attention.
By the look of it, it would make a fine hand-necklace yet.
There were seven men in the camp. Most of them wore nothing on their upper bodies but open-fronted fur vests.
Some on the lower half wore nothing but shorts. Others wore trousers like peasants, the legs bound tight with cords near the calves.
In short, they had no armor.
As for weapons, most had a Velen longsword at the waist. Others had nothing more than a wooden club wrapped with strips of cloth, with a few nails hammered haphazardly into the striking end to make a crude mace.
“Sir, there are seven men in the camp. One remains out of sight due to line-of-sight obstruction, but his footsteps are distinct.”
Mentos spoke up with the warning. It knew Lannor was observing for himself.
But whatever conclusion the primary mind reached, it still had to provide its own observation report as a supplement.
“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
“It doesn’t matter, Mentos.”
Lannor began to move.
No stealth. No charge. On the contrary, he moved as if out for a stroll, lightly brushing aside branches and weeds before him as he walked forward.
“It makes ... no difference at all.”
As he spoke, the young man drew the steel sword from his back and rolled his neck once.
He had already seen what man-eaters could do in a fight.
It would be unfair to call them feeble. Better to say ... they were reassuring.
They were not professional soldiers, men trained and tested in the craft of killing.
When Villis had launched his sudden ambush, he had one mounted fighter and two crossbowmen. Even if the rider had been taken by surprise because he had never seen Signs before.
The two crossbowmen left behind should still have posed a tremendous threat to Lannor.
But Lannor had seen at once that the two bowmen had no coordination at all.
No sequencing of shots, no sense of pinning him down, forcing his movement, then killing him when the opening came.
In the end, they were only criminals good at hiding.
And now, this pack of criminals did not even have armor.
The clear ring of steel leaving its scabbard sounded openly through the woodland.
The noise of branches being pushed aside mingled with it.
The man-eaters became alert almost at once.
They were not professional soldiers, but they still lived by killing men for food. They had the vigilance such a life required.
One of them, a man with a drinker’s nose, drew the Velen longsword from his waist, stooped into an attacking stance, and started toward the source of the sound.
“Ho, today the provisions came to us!”
His mouth ran loose, but the way he held his sword and the seriousness in his eyes showed he was not relaxed.
Though, as Lannor himself had said.
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