Beast Slayer Online: Initialization
Copyright© 2026 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 8
“Choose, master.”
A halberd’s charge and thrust cannot be weathered by armor, not even the finest witcher school gear.
You cannot even brush the blade aside with a vambrace to deflect its path.
It is already too close.
A thrust aimed at the torso, even if it glances off, what difference does it make?
The halberd’s blade is broad and keen. If it opens flesh across the trunk, it will cut through at least two organs.
Heart, liver, spleen, lungs, kidneys, none will remain untouched.
You must stop the thrust with your sword.
But if you do, the Alchemy Sack is lost.
The elixirs and bombs within are your only hope of surviving what comes next.
Two archers, one troublesome soldier with a polearm, and one of your students, a witcher.
Short of crushing them with the overwhelming physique granted by elixirs, or spending costly bombs, there is no chance.
Lannor left a trail along the way that the Enforcement Squad could follow, and drew them in.
Three volleys had already been loosed since the fighting began, no more than twenty seconds in all.
Yet Lannor had already sealed Bordon’s fate, adjusting to every shift in the field.
Look closely. In those young cat eyes, calculations and branching possibilities flicker, cascading like a waterfall through his pupils.
Lannor halts the computation midstream, redirecting the full capacity of his mind to the present moment.
And his Biological Intelligence Core has fulfilled its purpose.
No matter the choice, Bordon has no path left.
He will die here today.
Bordon sees it at once.
That towering frame of his stiffens.
Most witchers of the School of the Bear lose the capacity for emotion after mutation. They spend the rest of their days merely sustaining life.
In past contracts, Bordon has faced death more than once.
Each time, he found a way to live with a clear head, then dragged a monster’s severed head to claim his pay.
But in this snare woven from human cunning and killing intent, with death waiting on either side, that same cold temperament leaves him lost.
Worse still, light flares in Lannor’s hand, magic.
Axii Sign.
A technique Bordon used only before Lannor, never properly taught.
He never imagined the boy had reached the point of using it in real combat.
The strong witcher’s mind lurches into a sudden fog, and worse, his confusion deepens.
Faced with the certainty of death, even the urge to drag an enemy down with him fades.
He cannot summon hatred.
Even the instinct to survive is suppressed for a heartbeat, and in that heartbeat—
“Thk.”
The halberd, its path subtly altered by Lannor, drives into Bordon’s abdomen.
Scarlet bursts outward.
Lannor slips beneath the steel sword of the School of the Bear, darts to his mentor’s side, and with a flash of his dagger severs the strap of the Alchemy Sack.
He snatches it into his grasp.
Bordon’s last chance to turn the tide is gone.
The instant the blade enters his body, even a witcher’s physique cannot stave it off. Weakness floods Bordon in a single surge.
The halberdier drives him back several steps until he strikes a tree. His legs give, and he slumps to the ground.
The halberdier, nerves still taut, does not realize it is over, still grinding his teeth as he pushes the shaft forward.
Only when Lannor steps up beside him, hand pressing down on the man’s grip, does he stop.
“Easy, friend. It’s done.”
The soldier jolts as if waking from a dream, then shouts, gulping air.
That moment feels longer than the whole battle.
The two archers descend from the high ground. The crossbowman keeps his string drawn, bolt leveled at Lannor.
The longbowman runs to the fallen sword-and-shield infantryman, now silent even in his agony.
Under the questioning looks of the halberdier and crossbowman, he checks the man’s eyes and pulse, then shakes his head.
Lannor is not surprised. With that much blood lost, even a sorcerer would struggle to pull him back.
“Filthy mutant freak.”
The halberdier spits and mutters.
Men of Velen are no strangers to death. Professional soldiers even less so. Beyond venting their fear of magic and mutants, there is little to say.
The halberdier steps forward, boots grinding, reaching to wrench the weapon from Bordon’s belly.
The bear of a man is not yet dead, though. Witcher vitality clings stubbornly. He sits there, silent.
A pair of cat eyes fixed on his student.
But once the halberd is pulled free, the bleeding will end him within a minute.
Lannor meets that gaze without flinching, raising a hand to stop the soldier.
The three remaining men stiffen at once, like bristling hounds.
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