Chapter 54: Blood Trails Through Snowfall

The only thing Lannor could admire about man-eaters was this: they were vicious enough.

Perhaps they knew, somewhere under all that filth and hunger, that their crimes would earn them no mercy in any civilized land. So when forced into a fair fight, man-eaters always came on with their killing intent whipped up almost to madness. Their faces were not much different from armed fanatics of the Eternal Fire.

They did not fear death, because death was hardly the worst end waiting for them. Crude weapons did not make them shrink back. If steel failed, they still had hands. Teeth.

Ever since they had begun eating men, they had stopped caring whether they killed like beasts or monsters.

We eat men, so we are monsters.

With that twisted courage alone, their gear might not even match Vserad’s lowest soldiers, yet if the two sides were thrown at each other, those bullying garrison scraps would likely have their bones gnawed clean.

“Die!”

With a roar, the man-eaters came on in a formation they had just barely managed to adjust. The one in front carried a wooden club wrapped in cord and studded with nails. His face was so savage it looked as though he meant to tear open Lannor’s armor even if it broke every finger, then bite the man inside to death.

Blood swelled in his veins. His eyes were filmed with red. He charged with his weapon raised, mouth stretched so wide it made the jaw ache to look at, pouring out a frenzied battle cry.

But if savagery alone were enough, what would anyone need technique for?

The young witcher’s cat eyes reflected the attacker without a ripple.

Even while moving, Lannor’s feet remained in a T-stance, ready to shift, brace, or strike at any moment. Basic swordwork. Nothing more.

The nail-studded club, still hung with threads of meat, came smashing down toward his head.