Chapter 549

When Judgment Finds Its Challenger

On ordinary days, Temple Isle Square was a sacred gathering place where worshippers and pilgrims came to share their faith. Today, it was drowning in noise. Citizens packed the vast square shoulder to shoulder, shouting over one another until there was scarcely room to move.

Every eye was fixed on the center of the square. Upon a Pyre erected by the Temple Guards, a strange creature built much like a Dwarf had been bound hand and foot until he could scarcely twitch. Silver manacles and shackles locked his wrists and ankles. His wrinkled face was bloodless, his head hanging so low that no one could make out his expression. Beneath him, dry firewood had been piled into a small hill, while men in black clothes and black hats, Lamia Whips hanging at their sides, poured oil over the timber.

An old man stood before the Pyre. His hair was gray at the temples, and he wore a white robe with red sleeves and red stripes at the collar, the pattern resembling a burning sun. His stern gaze swept over the crowd. Beyond the human wall formed by the Temple Guards stood more than two thousand people: farmers, merchants, minor nobles, members of the City Council. Every stratum of Novigrad society seemed to have found its way here.

And not only humans. There were elves, Dwarves, Half-Elves…

They had taken care to draw their own boundaries. Elves clustered with Half-Elves, among them many unfamiliar faces never before seen in Novigrad. Heavily armed Dwarves, thick with muscle and hair, stood around their own kin alongside Butcher Cleaver’s men. With them were several Halfling farmers of similar height, though their round, youthful faces made them look almost like children.

Every nonhuman group kept its distance from the humans, and the humans returned the courtesy.

There were divisions among the humans as well. Nobles looked down their noses at merchants and peddlers. Armed soldiers and Mercenaries gathered together. Farmers were the most numerous, yet they remained quiet, huddled along the less conspicuous edges of the square.

“Everyone! Today, before all of you, I have something to announce!”

Bishop Cyrus’s voice was old but powerful. It carried over the entire square, cutting through the din until the crowd fell silent.

“The great Eternal Fire’s Bailiff, the true Lord Chappelle, was murdered by this wicked Doppelganger two years ago! Ever since, this creature has worn Chappelle’s skin and stolen the authority of the Bailiff, committing every manner of evil within Novigrad!”

The square erupted again.

Merchants pointed at the Doppelganger and whispered among themselves. Farmers glared with naked hostility. They had heard all manner of ugly stories about Doppelgangers, Monsters that stole the lives of others, and several men were already looking around for something solid enough to hurl at the ugly thing on the Pyre.

Yet there were educated men among the crowd who had kept their heads. They studied the Monster instead. Over the past two years, Novigrad had, on the whole, become a better place. That hardly seemed the work of an Evil Creature.

Hidden among the crowd, the Half-Elf Schirrú patted the trembling shoulder of a thin middle-aged woman and gave her a look that told her to wait.

The two conspicuous Knights, Grimm and Cassiel, stared in surprise. Neither had ever seen a living Doppelganger before, much less one that had posed as a Church bailiff and remained undiscovered for two years.

Was this what people meant by hiding in plain sight?

They turned to a reasonably normal-looking, well-dressed nobleman nearby.

“Who is this Doppelganger the Eternal Fire caught? What crimes did he commit?”

“Oh, sir.” The nobleman stroked his beard and shook his head. “Now that you ask, I can’t think of any. Hunting down slave traders? Cracking down on criminals in the streets? Perhaps his greatest crime was being born a Doppelganger.”

“The Eternal Fire has hunted this sort of ‘Monster’ since ancient times.”

Grimm’s brow tightened.

“It was only thanks to the Eternal Fire’s warning that we exposed his true nature and stopped him from committing even more heinous crimes!” Bishop Cyrus continued.

On the Pyre, the Doppelganger Gigi stared numbly at the bishop’s back.

“I summoned all of you here as witnesses. Allowing this beast to live for another two years was my negligence, my failure.”

Regret tightened the Archbishop’s features, every line of his face arranged into self-reproach.

“Fortunately, the Eternal Fire has protected us. He has not yet managed to bring about a catastrophe.”

“Today, the undying flame shall once again guide all living beings, scatter the fog, and purify evil!”

At once, hundreds of Cultists below clasped their hands before their chests and bowed their heads in prayer.

The bishop raised the gleaming torch-shaped Holy Silverware hanging before his chest and began the judgment with righteous solemnity.

“Look upon this hideous Doppelganger, this blasphemous creation. Every wrinkle upon his face represents another innocent whose identity he has stolen.”

“Burn him!” the crowd roared.

Gigi’s yellowed eyes passed over the sea of faces. A breath slipped from him, and what little light remained in his gaze slowly dimmed.

This was the city to which he had given two years of his life. These were the people he had cared for without thought of reward.

“Lord Bishop Cyrus!”

A broad, ruddy-faced blacksmith in an apron called from beyond the wall of Temple Guards. He had been watching in silence until now, but unlike the excited farmers, there was something close to pity in his eyes when he looked at the Doppelganger.

“All we’ve heard so far are grand words and broad accusations. You still haven’t told us what crimes this Doppelganger actually committed, other than replacing the former Bailiff Chappelle. And who saw him kill the Bailiff with their own eyes?”

“Blacksmith Dalf, if I remember correctly, the Archbishop himself baptized you on the day you were born. Are you denying Lord Cyrus’s word?”

An Eternal Fire guard built like a hill rested one hand on the longsword at his waist and approached the blacksmith.

“I’m denying nothing. I just want the truth!” The big man spat on the ground and wiped his sweaty palms on his cotton apron before raising his voice. “I’m asking as a man of Novigrad. These past two years, our city has plainly become a better place. Before, if I carelessly left a Barrel or tools outside my smithy overnight, they’d be gone by morning. These last two years? Not once.”

“And business has been so good I hired two Apprentices, and the three of us still can’t keep up! Doesn’t that mean far more travelers are coming to Novigrad?”

“People vote with their feet. Would they be fighting to visit a city where the streets aren’t safe?”

Many heads lowered.

For the first time, people began seriously considering how much the city had changed in two years.

“Dalf’s right!” A skeletal farmer pushed his voice into the silence. “My poor Tina was only playing beside the fields when slave traders snatched her. They nearly sold her off to the Skellige Isles to become some stinking islander’s wife! If Bailiff Chappelle hadn’t hunted them without rest, my daughter would never have been rescued unharmed. She’s home feeding chickens now.”

“If Doppelgangers are evil, why did this one do good?!”

At those words, some of the tension left Gigi’s shoulders. A faint warmth returned to his battered face.

“That is precisely where his cunning lies!” Cyrus’s voice carried a force that made certainty sound almost reasonable. “If he had spent his days committing every foul deed imaginable, his identity would soon have been exposed, and I would have removed him from office.”

“But he is exceedingly skilled at disguise, not merely in appearance, but in conduct. He maintained the outward semblance of justice precisely to lull simple, decent people like you into lowering your guard!”

“And compared with the evil he committed in secret, these supposed good deeds cannot atone for even a tenth of it!”

Cyrus paused. His gaze swept over the crowd.

A full third of those gathered were nonhumans.

If he provoked a conflict between humans and nonhumans now, the square could become the spark for a terrible disaster. The nonhumans would have to be dealt with slowly.

For now, he would deal with the most immediate threat.

“His greatest crime was conspiring with a pack of Mutants to establish a secret laboratory in Alder Grove outside the city!”

Vilgefortz’s painstakingly detailed account flashed through Cyrus’s mind as he slowly circled the Pyre.

“On the surface, the place is an orphanage. In truth, it is a facility where Witchers conduct vile Mutation Experiments and manufacture Mutants in batches!”

“Several children have already suffered at their hands. They have been given the eyes of beasts and transformed into something no longer human.”

“Imagine what would happen if this Doppelganger remained Bailiff. His Witcher accomplices would use the orphanage as cover to expand at an unprecedented rate. Before long, all of Novigrad would drown in a sea of Mutants!”

Cries of alarm rippled through the crowd.

“Terrible…” Cassiel shook his head. “Emperor Emhyr drove the Nilfgaardian Witchers away. Are the Witchers of the North truly this wicked?”

“No, mate.” Grimm shook his head, remembering The White Wolf, the Witcher who had fought him honorably in Cintra. “I’d wager this Archbishop is simply trying to frighten them. He has a deep prejudice against Witchers.”

“My lord bishop!” A Bard raised his voice, his expression solemn enough for a man reciting sacred truth. “Witchers aren’t as wicked as you claim!”

“They’ve saved countless country folk from the fangs and claws of Monsters and killed more man-eating beasts than anyone could count!”

“They charge a damned fortune for it!” someone shouted back.

“They deserve to be paid that much for risking their lives!”

Voices outside the wall of guards rose in the Witchers’ defense. Judging by their clothes, they were clearly regular patrons of the cabaret.

“Witchers freed Princess Adda of Vizima from the Striga Curse!”

“They cleared the filth from Novigrad’s sewers!”

“They helped Cintra’s little princess escape the clutches of Brokilon’s terrifying Dryads!”

The citizens gradually fell silent.

The cabaret poets’ campaign had worked remarkably well. For two years, the people of Novigrad had heard so many praises of Witchers that their ears had nearly grown calluses. Somewhere along the way, without quite noticing it, many had begun to believe them.

The Archbishop thumped his chest. The right hand gripping his staff trembled despite his efforts to still it.

“Have you all been brainwashed by those silver-tongued poets at the Novigrad Cabaret?”

“Do you even know that the Cabaret’s largest shareholder is a Witcher?”

“They praise themselves and gild their own names for one purpose, to deceive you!”

“Use your heads. Is everything the Cabaret tells you true? If they claimed that an infertile Witcher was your father, would you believe that too?”

The crowd stirred, heads shaking vigorously.

“Go to any city outside Novigrad and see for yourselves!”

“Ask what sort of reputation Witchers have. The locals will tell you with their own mouths!”

“In almost every village, the old folk can recount baskets full of Mutant atrocities! And the Doppelganger who aided them is guiltier still!”

Cassiel muttered under his breath.

“Archbishop Cyrus has a damned powerful tongue.”

“My lord bishop…” A Knight called from the crowd. He stood tall, his hair bright gold, his smile warm as the rising sun, the sort of face that made people want to like him before he had spoken a word. “By your own reasoning, if Witchers can be proven not to be villains, then the Doppelganger who helped them must be a good man.”

“You, such a valiant Knight, have also been deceived by this evil cabal? What you suggest is impossible!” The Archbishop’s stern gaze swung toward Grimm. “Once we have purified this Abomination, we will immediately travel outside the city and arrest those utterly depraved Witchers!”

“This Doppelganger possesses strange and unfathomable abilities. The instant we remove the Holy Silverware binding him, he can change shape at will. He could become any one of you standing here, perfectly reproducing not merely your appearance, but even reading your thoughts and learning every memory of your past.”

“Then he could seize your home and property, violate your wife or husband, abuse your children. You too, Knight, would not be spared!”

“Burn him!”

Fear finally broke through someone’s hesitation, and the cry spread.

Grimm remained grave. His gaze shifted as he studied the Doppelganger, fingers tightening around the longsword at his waist.

“Doppelgangers are not creations of the Deity. There is no place for them in this world! He must die!” the Archbishop shouted, giving an Eternal Fire guard beside him a meaningful look.

It was the young guard who had always remained at Chappelle’s side.

He hesitated.

His feet refused to move.

“People of Novigrad!”

The Doppelganger bound to the Pyre suddenly spoke. His tiny yellow pupils swept across the black mass of people filling the square, his voice hoarse as that of a man wasting away on his deathbed.

“It is true that I, Gigi, disguised myself as Bailiff Chappelle for the past two years. But I did not kill him. When I found him, he was already dead. I only wished to use his identity to put my faith in the Eternal Fire into practice!”

“And throughout my two years as Bailiff, my conscience has remained clear. I have never done anything to betray the people of Novigrad. I never lined my own pockets or abused my authority! I endured every hardship to hunt slave traders and suppress crime because I wanted to make our home a better place. Every deed I’ve done is known to all of you!”

“I swear it before the great Eternal Fire!”

His expression was devout.

Only then did many in the crowd seem to realize that the Doppelganger could speak like a man, and speak rather well at that.

Some lowered their heads when those yellow eyes passed over them. Others met his gaze with open fury.

“Heretic! You still dare argue!” The Archbishop slashed his staff through the air, disgust naked in his eyes. “What right have you to worship the Eternal Fire? Your very oath profanes what is sacred!”

Understanding dawned across the crowd.

The Eternal Fire had hunted Doppelgangers since ancient times.

The two were mortal enemies.

“Lord Cyrus, the Eternal Fire is the symbol of salvation. It guides all living beings through the darkness… and all living beings are equal. Those are the original words of the Doctrine!” The Doppelganger’s tongue moved quickly now, one question following another. “Am I not a living being?”

Cyrus’s face darkened.

“Because of an ability I was born with, must I bear crimes I never committed, even though I have never abused that ability?”

The Doppelganger looked out at the thousands gathered before him.

“Because you are prejudiced against Doppelgangers, because you fear I might steal your identities, do I deserve to burn, even though I have never done anything wrong?”

For a brief moment, silence settled over the square.

The Dwarves and elves, themselves long accustomed to human suspicion and mistrust, found something uncomfortably familiar in his words.

“By the Archbishop’s reasoning, every person is capable of committing a crime from the moment they’re born!”

A Dwarf with a Warhammer strapped across his back stroked his beard and rumbled loudly enough for half the square to hear.

“So should we burn babies too?!”

“Burn the Doppelganger! Don’t let him keep spewing nonsense!” someone shouted, anger sharpened by embarrassment.

“Do it!” The Archbishop glared at the young guard.

Gigi suddenly smiled at the crowd.

Tears stood in his eyes, but there was no fear left in his face. Whatever happened now, he had made his peace with it.

“Kodali, do it.”

He spoke to the guard, then calmly swept his gaze across the vast crowd. His voice rang through all of Temple Isle Square.

“Burn me!”

“If my death will put everyone at ease, then I am willing to pay with my life to put the Doctrine of the Eternal Fire into practice and end the suspicion and fear in your hearts!”

His voice rose, clear and resolute.

“I am willing to guide all living beings with my life!”

“I have only one request! After I die, people of Novigrad, do not suspect others without cause, whether humans or nonhumans, dwarves, elves, goblins, halflings, and even witchers, or Witchers themselves!”

“I hope everyone can live together in peace within this prosperous home!”

“If that small wish of mine can come true…”

A smile spread across the shapeshifter’s ugly face, strangely moving beneath the hard daylight. For a moment, he almost seemed to shine.

“Then I will die without regret!”

“Ah…”

Conflict flickered across the young guard’s face. He sighed.

At a signal from the Archbishop, another guard threw the torch.

Whoosh!

Orange flame caught the oil-soaked wood in an instant. Fire raced around the Doppelganger’s feet and climbed hungrily upward, filling the square with fierce light that washed over his fearless face.

He continued smiling at the crowd.

Then the heat began twisting that smile.

…

For a strange moment, the entire square lost its voice.

Thousands watched with complicated expressions.

Only the sharp crackle of sparks could be heard.

Grimm bared his teeth in a grin at the black-haired Knight beside him. His hand tightened around his sword, certainty settling over his face.

“Mate, get ready. Time to put our Knightly Spirit into practice!”

A strange shriek through the air swallowed the last of his words.

Bang!

Something exploded inside the blazing pile of wood.

Logs burst outward in every direction like a storm of wooden bolts. Above Temple Square, countless orange points of light Blinked through the air, as though some grand firework display had suddenly begun.

Thud! Thud! Thud!

Logs crashed into the Temple Guards forming the human wall. Some were still burning, and the guards howled as sparks and flame scorched through cloth and leather. Others trailed white smoke as they fell into the crowd, provoking shrieks and curses.

One particularly unfortunate merchant took a log squarely to the head and dropped unconscious.

Archbishop Cyrus, standing nearest the Pyre, caught the full force of the blast. He let out a Wail and toppled sideways, his face flushing crimson as he struggled vainly to rise. Two loyal guards threw themselves over him, shielding him from the flying timber.

The sudden explosion sent the packed square into chaos. The crowd surged like a storm-tossed sea, one human wave crashing into another and sending people stumbling in every direction.

Yet once the flying firewood struck the ground and went dark, the confusion subsided almost as quickly as it had begun.

The flames were gone.

The Pyre stood alone in the middle of the square.

Gigi remained bound upon it, his face blackened with soot from the flames and heat. What little hair he had possessed had been burned clean off his scalp.

But that was all.

The fire had done him no lasting harm.

He was still healthy, still lucid. His pale yellow pupils stared forward.

Every voice in the square died.

Every gaze followed his.

At some point, a figure in a black cloak had appeared before the Doppelganger, standing between him and the crowd.

Two sword hilts rose above his shoulders.

A Viper Medallion swayed at his throat.

On his young face, one dark-gold eye and one silver-gray eye Blinked with cold light as they turned toward the Archbishop, who was slowly hauling himself upright with the support of the Eternal Fire guards.

“Cyrus Engelkind Hemmelfart… Archbishop of the Eternal Fire. You want to judge my friend? You want to judge every Witcher?”

“Then come on.”

“Tell me exactly what I’ve done wrong.”

“I’m listening.”

Chapter 550

The Trap Beyond the Square

Temple Isle Square was packed shoulder to shoulder.

Amid that sea of bodies, the Witcher in the black cloak stood proudly before the Doppelganger, shielding him with his own body. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, stared at him with open hostility, yet his shoulders remained loose, his expression calm, as though he were taking a stroll through his own garden.

“Roy?” The Doppelganger stared through misted eyes at the solitary back before him. Relief softened his face for an instant, only for worry to tighten it again. “You shouldn’t have come!”

“Forgotten already?” Roy answered without looking back. “We’re allies. A Witcher keeps his word. We don’t abandon our allies.”

Around the Pyre, nobles struck by flying firewood pointed at him and cursed. Farmers on the outer edges, untouched by the explosion, jeered as though enjoying a street performance. A handful of rebellious young men and women, however, watched the Witcher with undisguised admiration.

“Grimm, you know this fellow?” Cassiel helped a beautiful black-haired, large-eyed girl to her feet after the surging crowd had knocked her down. She immediately found herself staring at the Knight’s sharply cut face, lashes fluttering, all but forgetting the chaos around her.

“We met once in Cintra… Lavix of Fourhorn, companion to the white-haired Witcher…” Excitement kindled in the blond Knight’s eyes. “Find him and we find Geralt. Then Ciri can’t be far.”

“So we…” Cassiel released the girl’s arm and flexed his fist.

“Not yet. Watch and wait.”

On the other side of the crowd, a tall Half-Elf studied the Witcher on the platform with yellow-green eyes. A mocking smile tugged at his lips as he bent to whisper into a peasant woman’s ear.

“Mutant! I intended to deal with this evil creation first, then go to Alder Grove and arrest the rest of you… Yet you dare deliver yourself into my hands!”

Supported by the Temple Guards, Cyrus struggled upright. His body still trembled, but His voice grew shrill and imperious.

“You used evil Sorcery to disrupt a sacred purification Ritual, showing contempt for the laws of Novigrad and the authority of the Eternal Fire! Your crimes are unforgivable! Seize them both. Burn them together!”

“Burn the Mutant!” someone shouted from the crowd, though the owner of the voice immediately hunched his shoulders and shrank back behind those around him.

“My lord bishop! Didn’t you hear the Witcher’s request?” Butcher Cleaver, leader of the Dwarf contingent, bellowed in a voice like a cracked brass gong. His distinctive oiled mohawk gleamed beneath the sun. He crossed his thick arms and glared with bull-like eyes. “What exactly have they done wrong? Oughtn’t you explain that clearly?”

“Far as I’m concerned, even if he’s guilty of something, it’s nowhere near enough to warrant burning. A week in a cell would teach him his lesson! And you haven’t even produced solid evidence to convict this Doppelganger!”

“That’s right,” someone among the ragged Beggars called out. “The Eternal Fire can’t call black white and white black.”

“Archbishop Cyrus, with so many fellow Novigraders here as witnesses, if you mean to judge a man, you first have to convince everyone that your judgment is just!”

“There are plenty of Bards here today. I’m sure they’ll turn all this into songs and stories that’ll spread across The North. If you mean to twist right and wrong, you won’t silence every tongue!”

The ring of poets nodded.

“Careful you don’t stink for a thousand years!”

“Shut up! Silence!” The Archbishop, digging his own grave deeper with every word, straightened his slightly stooped back. Clouded old eyes locked with the young Witcher’s sharp gaze. “Very well! Then I’ll make certain you understand exactly why you’re going to die!”

“For the past two years, under the protection of this shapeshifting beast, you have used cruel experiments at your orphanage outside the city to turn helpless orphans into new Mutants…” The Archbishop’s voice cracked into a hoarse shout. “Do you admit it?!”

The Witcher carrying two swords took two steps toward him. Three Temple Guards immediately moved into his path, bodies taut, hands ready.

“Lord Cyrus, if taking children who have lost their parents and homes, children with nowhere to go, and helping them grow into people capable of supporting themselves is an act of evil…” Roy was neither tall nor broad, yet his voice carried cleanly to every corner of the square. “Then are all master blacksmiths, teachers, farmers, and hunters evil as well? Do they all deserve to be burned?!”

“Witcher, don’t confuse two entirely different matters!”

“How are they different? Isn’t Witcher a Class? We take payment and rid this world of Monsters and other foul things.” Roy gave the Archbishop a long, meaningful look.

A hiss escaped Cyrus’s throat. The age-spotted folds of his face shifted from livid to pale. His body shook so badly he nearly choked on his own breath.

A Temple Guard with a beard and the build of a bear barked, “Stop changing the subject, Witcher! So you admit your crime!”

“I don’t understand. What crime have we committed?” Roy’s expression remained open and untroubled. “We found children alone and starving to death in Novigrad. We took them in, cared for them, kept them alive, and taught them to become useful people. Since when is that a crime?”

“If that makes me a criminal, then what of everyone here who ignored those orphans, who let them freeze or starve in the streets, or be carried away by slave traders?” Roy’s sharp gaze swept across the dark mass of faces. “Shouldn’t their crime be greater than mine?”

Heads dipped wherever his eyes passed.

No answer came.

“And this talk of evil Mutation Experiments is even more absurd. Our orphanage has never forced a single child to choose the Witcher’s Path!”

“It is entirely voluntary!”

“How do you prove that?!” A thick-faced Mercenary in a leather jacket, hired by the Half-Elf Schirrú, shouted from the crowd. “None of us witnessed it. How are we supposed to know whether those children were abused?”

“Mutant, you must bring the children into the city and let them testify before us!”

“Every child in that orphanage is registered with the City Council and the Eternal Fire!”

“Fifty-three. Not one can be missing!”

Those who hated Mutants had found an opening. Their voices rose one after another, hoarse with excitement.

“The Witchers must bring every child to Temple Square themselves and prove their innocence!”

“Under the light of the Eternal Fire, no evil can hide!”

“Do you dare agree?”

“Doesn’t matter if you refuse. The Temple Guards will go there themselves and purify the evil!”

“Hear that, Witcher? That is the voice of the people!” The Archbishop had finally recovered his breath. One withered finger stabbed toward Roy. “Do you dare agree?”

“There’s no need to bring them back!”

A Beggar in tattered clothes raised his voice.

“We’ve been to Gael’s House, and so have a group of Eternal Fire guards. We’ve seen those children. The Witcher is telling the truth. No one was forced! Those children live better than most people in Novigrad!”

“Who are you?” A guard lunged over, seized the Beggar, and dragged him from the crowd. “What standing do you have to testify for the Witchers? Are you one of them? Hm? I’m asking you!”

The Beggar immediately shook his head.

They had already done more than enough. They certainly weren’t going to set themselves on fire for the Witchers.

The Archbishop turned again, bright eyes sweeping over the hundred or more Temple Guards forming the cordon.

“Will any of you testify for the Witchers?”

“Step forward!”

The guards exchanged looks.

Not one spoke.

“When I was Bailiff…” Gigi began from where he remained bound to the Pyre.

“Silence, heretic! You’re in league with the Witchers. Your testimony is worthless!”

“Now, Witcher, what do you say? Everyone is waiting for your answer. Don’t try any tricks!”

Roy’s expression chilled.

He said nothing.

The children were already hiding in the shelter beneath the feet of this very crowd. He was not foolish enough to deliver lambs into a tiger’s jaws.

…

“No, everyone! The Witchers haven’t only abducted children!”

A thin peasant woman dressed in coarse linen shouted from the crowd, hatred fixed on Roy.

“They committed an even greater crime!”

Something stirred behind the Archbishop’s eyes. At a glance from him, the wall of Temple Guards opened.

The plainly dressed woman emerged with her back slightly bent and approached Cyrus. Her fingers twisted nervously together.

“Child… don’t hurry. Take your time. Tell us everything.” The old man’s warm hand gently closed over hers, and he gave her a kindly smile. Inwardly, he could have offered a thousand prayers to the Eternal Fire for her arrival. She had come at precisely the right moment. She was his salvation. “What is your name?”

“Talika.”

“You have suffered an injustice, haven’t you? I suspect a Witcher hurt you in the past.”

“Tell us, before everyone. The Eternal Fire, I myself, and every person gathered here will stand behind you. Justice will be done.”

The calm faded from Roy’s eyes. His brows drew together.

Something was wrong.

…

“Yes!” The woman was thin as a stick, and her whole body shook beneath the weight of so many eyes. Tension pinched her hollow-cheeked face, but beneath it lay the feverish excitement of finally accusing an enemy. “Five years ago, I lived in Sweetwater outside Tretogor. A ghoul was troubling our village at the time. Then one day, a Witcher passed through. He killed the ghoul for us and took the reward… but he didn’t leave. That night, he…”

Her entire body convulsed. Her mouth hung half-open, and a ragged cry tore from her throat as though a blade had split her chest.

“He suddenly went mad. He started slaughtering everyone he saw!”

“They’re all dead! Sweetwater, more than fifty households, every one of them dead except me!”

“And that beast!” She glared at Roy until the whites showed around her eyes.

The Witcher remained expressionless.

I didn’t kill your family. Why in hell are you glaring at me?

“He simply walked away afterward! As though murdering dozens of people were something he did every day!”

“That beast had no humanity at all!”

…

“Monster!” The Archbishop narrowed his eyes and cast a meaningful glance toward the Witcher before the Pyre. He cleared his throat. “You have all seen it. Here stands a living witness! Talika’s testimony is enough to prove that Witchers have lost all humanity through Mutation Experiments!”

“No matter how clever his tongue, every word he speaks is meant to deceive you!”

…

“Lady Talika…” A blond Knight in dark-gold plate armor suddenly spoke from the crowd. His build was athletic, his bearing straight. “Can you swear that everything you’ve said is true?”

Roy followed the voice into the crowd.

His pupils tightened.

Him.

The Toussaint Champion Knight who had once crossed blades with Geralt in Cintra, bearer of a powerful Soul Vessel, the Sword of Justice. Hadn’t Duke Raymond, that great horned turtle of a cuckold, driven him away, after which he’d begun wandering the world in search of experience?

“I swear it!” The woman seemed almost insulted that so magnificent a Knight would question her. She thrust her right hand into the air and shrieked, “I swear before Melitele Goddess! Before the Eternal Fire, the Father of The Sky… before all the gods! If even half a sentence I’ve spoken is false, may the earth beneath my feet split open and swallow me into hell!”

The viciousness of the oath drew startled looks.

Most peasants in The North worshipped Melitele.

That alone made seven or eight out of every ten people present believe her.

“Child, don’t excite yourself.” The Archbishop smiled gently at her. “The Eternal Fire has granted me a Revelation. You are a faithful Cultist. Your oath can be trusted.”

“Now…” He turned toward the expressionless Roy. “What sophistry have you left?”

“Witchers have been evil from beginning to end. Their nature cannot be changed!”

Among the crowd, the men Schirrú had hired eagerly added fuel to the fire.

“Witchers and blasphemous Doppelgangers, a perfect pair!”

Under thousands of watching eyes, Roy suddenly laughed.

It was the laugh of a man who had just heard something impossibly absurd, yet the sound sent a chill crawling through the crowd.

“You’re about to be burned to ash and sent to hell, and you can still laugh?”

An angry voice rose from among the people.

Roy ignored it.

“People of Novigrad, I have a question for you…” His voice rose as he looked deep into the packed crowd. “The Nilfgaardian Black Ones invaded Cintra and destroyed the homes and families of countless people in The North. Do they deserve to die?!”

“What are you getting at?!”

“Of course they do!”

Butcher bellowed enthusiastically. He had no idea where his ally was going with this, but the Dwarves behind him raised their fists and joined in.

“Nilfgaardians are beasts! They should all go to hell!”

Others who simply wanted to see the spectacle grow larger began shouting their agreement.

“Good!” Roy suddenly turned toward the Archbishop, every word hard and final. “Then Lord Cyrus, you deserve to die too!”

“Bastard!”

Steel hissed from scabbards.

A group of Temple Guards drew their weapons. Dimeritium Shackles and Edges flashed cold beneath the afternoon sun as they surrounded the Witcher.

“You’ve got the courage of a madman!”

“You insolent Mutant! Kneel before the bishop and beg forgiveness!”

“Am I wrong?!” Roy stood on the raised platform and looked down at the Temple Guard. “By the logic you were using a moment ago, one Witcher went mad, slaughtered Sweetwater, and killed Lady Talika’s people. Therefore every Witcher deserves to die!”

“By the same reasoning, if Nilfgaardians have committed atrocities and deserve hell, then shouldn’t every human deserve hell as well?”

“Lord Cyrus, why object?” Roy looked at the dignified old man, mockery curling at the corner of his mouth. “Unless you’re saying you aren’t human?”

Thousands of people across Temple Isle Square stared dumbly.

A dreadful silence followed.

“That Witcher’s got balls. Does he want to live?” Cassiel murmured admiringly below the platform. “Down south, anyone who dared say something like that to Emperor Emhyr, Archbishop of the Cult of The Great Sun, would be lucky to get the boiling oil.”

No one insulted the Eternal Fire’s highest Archbishop in Novigrad, the very heart of the Eternal Fire.

No one.

Ever.

…

“In… out…”

Hot blood surged into the old man’s head. Cyrus clutched his chest and dragged in a painful breath. The square suddenly spun around him, and he toppled backward.

“Bishop Cyrus!”

“I’m fine! I’m fine!”

“You sharp-fanged Witcher, twisting right and wrong again…” The Archbishop’s trembling hands clung to the arms of the guards on either side. Veins stood out across his aged face. “How many Mutants are there in the entire world? Fewer than a hundred, perhaps? You come from different schools, but how much difference can there possibly be between one of you and another?”

“How can such tiny differences be compared with the difference between the humans of the South and the North?!”

Roy drew a slow breath.

“There are at least fifteen Witchers at the orphanage!” someone shouted from below. “Bring every one of them to Temple Square! Let Lady Talika identify the killer!”

Roy’s head snapped toward the crowd.

His gaze collided with that of a man dressed like a Mercenary.

Murderous intent erupted from Roy’s pupils, bright and violent as a meteor falling from the heavens.

The Mercenary shuddered as though an invisible knife had been driven into his brain. His pupils spread wide. His expression went slack, and his body swayed on his feet. A blink later he came back to himself, clapped a hand over his bleeding nose, and fled into the crowd.

“Hear that, Witcher?” The Archbishop caught the murderous look on Roy’s face and smiled with renewed satisfaction. The more the man lost control, the more frightened he had to be. “If you wish to prove your innocence, bring the fifty-odd children from the orphanage and every Mutant there!”

“Let the Eternal Fire and the thousand pairs of eyes gathered here bear witness. We shall see whether that place is truly an ordinary orphanage, or a Monster den hiding filth and corruption!”

“Why have you gone quiet, Witcher?”

“No more silver-tongued lies? Or are you afraid? Perhaps you’re wondering how best to flee before your crimes catch up with you?”

Roy remained silent.

Now he was certain.

Everything that had happened today was a trap laid for the Witchers.

First, use the Doppelganger to draw them out.

Then smear them, demand the children, and use that demand to locate Ciri.

Finally, produce this witness from gods knew where.

Each move tightened the noose, forcing them away from the fortress-like base they had painstakingly prepared.

The Archbishop pulled himself free of the guards supporting him. Leaning on his mahogany staff, he took a deliberate step toward Roy, his voice sharpening.

“Turn around and look. Everyone here has heard the songs praising you. Selfless Witchers. Helpful Witchers. Witchers who punish evil and defend the innocent.”

“So many people have placed their hopes in you. Can you bear to disappoint them?”

“Still suspicious? Then I, Cyrus Engelkind Hemmelfart, swear before the Eternal Fire I have worshipped all my life…” The Archbishop struck his staff against the ground with solemn conviction. “If you prove that you never forced any orphan, and that none among you is the murderer who destroyed Sweetwater, I will formally apologize to you!”

“Let me sweeten the offer.”

The old man glanced toward the Doppelganger on the Pyre. Reluctance flashed through his eyes.

“I’ll release this bastard as well. How does that sound?”

“Witcher master!” A beautiful girl in a green dress stared at him with stars Blinking in her eyes. She waved a small fist in encouragement. “Prove it to everyone! I believe you!”

Roy raised an eyebrow.

“Sir…” More than a dozen Bards in fashionable, brightly colored clothes, lutes cradled against their bodies, looked at him expectantly. “Please prove to everyone that the songs we’ve written weren’t fabricated!”

Among the Beggars stood the Beggar King, his hood concealing his bald head while one hand stroked the Golden Signet Ring on his finger. Among the Dwarves stood Butcher Cleaver, his mohawk swaying in the breeze.

The Merchant Association, the Blacksmith Association, craftsmen from every major guild, nobles, peddlers, laborers, all of them were looking at Roy.

“Don’t bother hoping. He’s obviously afraid. Guilty conscience!”

Encouragement and mockery rose in waves.

Roy folded his arms across his chest. The leather armor wrapped around them creaked under the pressure.

A coldness began radiating from him, enough to make those nearest him uneasy.

For a long while, he hesitated.

“Then let us prove it!”

A deep voice tore through the clamor.

A bald man, broad and powerful as a bear standing upright, pushed effortlessly through the wall of Temple Guards.

“Who are you?!”

“Stay back!”

A ring of gleaming steel swords pointed toward him. Guards reached for the Dimeritium Bombs at their waists.

A smile touched the man’s rigid, square face.

“You wanted to see every Witcher from Gael’s House.”

“So, to oblige you… here we are.”

Steel and leather whispered through the crowd.

A group of Witchers advanced, parting the people before them. They wore leather, scale, plate, every variety of School Gear. Two swords rose from each back, pendants hung at their throats, and every man walked straight-backed and steady.

The crowd seemed to peel away from them on contact, people stumbling instinctively to either side.

Pairs of vertical pupils swept across the square.

Aiden and Kaen of the cat school. Vesemir, Lambert, and Geralt of the Wolf School. Letho, Orin, and Kael of the Viper School. Koen of the School of The Griffin. Monty, Karl, Akam, Chanem, and Lloyd, who had only recently survived the Trial of The Grasses…

With Flavius, Eskel, Druid Evelyn, Sorcerer Coral, Kalkstein, and Griffin remaining behind to guard the base, every other Witcher had come.

The air changed around them.

Hard, murderous, honed like naked blades.

The people in the square held their breath without realizing it.

“Life is priceless. It deserves to be cherished. I sincerely advise everyone here not to do anything rash.”

Kael’s voice sounded as hard as chewing steel.

“Honored Archbishop of the Eternal Fire. Lady Talika.” Lambert walked with his brothers to the Pyre and bowed to the guards, the Archbishop, and the watching crowd. There was not the slightest trace of a smile on his face. His amber pupils narrowed into sharp diamonds, like those of a venomous snake poised to strike, and something final settled behind them. “The fifteen Witchers you wanted are all here.”

“Come and identify him.”

…

On the second floor of a Temple side hall east of the square, harsh sunlight poured through the window and picked out a thin-lipped man with a scar across his face. He rubbed his chin, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

Beside him stood an elegant Sorceress whose features seemed to shift like the northern lights. She watched the center of the square in silence.

At their feet lay a handsome, fair-skinned man in a purple silk robe, an elegant beard trimming his chin. He had been bound tightly, fitted with Dimeritium Shackles, and gagged with a strip of cloth. His body was curled like a cooked shrimp.

…

At the same time, outside Novigrad, a band of elves surged swiftly into Alder Grove.

They wore brightly colored fur armor and carried wooden bows, steel swords, and Dimeritium Bombs. Squirrel-tail ornaments hung from their belts.

They poured into the grove.

Chapter 551

When the Witchers Draw Steel

The sun overhead burned like fire, while the Witchers at the center of the square stood cold as drawn steel.

Some farmers flinched at their grim faces and lowered their heads, shouting half-formed curses simply to bleed off their fear. Minor nobles who had been loud moments earlier shrank into themselves and fell silent. The Temple Guards, the Archbishop, and the peasant woman Talika glared at the Witchers with open hostility. The Bards and several young men and women whose heads had been filled with dozens of songs about Witchers over the years were another matter entirely. Their eyes shone as though their idols had stepped out of a ballad and into the flesh.

The two Knights spotted Geralt among them, his dark catlike pupils stark against his albino-pale features. They exchanged a glance, and the tension went out of both men at once.

Geralt was here. Ciri could not be far.

Hidden among the crowd, a Mercenary curled his lips into a cold smile of satisfaction.

The Mutants had yielded to worldly pressure after all.

Among the Dwarves, elves, and Half-Elves, however, expressions grew complicated. Looking at the Witchers, some seemed to glimpse their own future.

They too were nonhumans.

Did being nonhuman mean they deserved ignorant prejudice? Did it mean they could be dragged before a crowd and judged simply because others feared them?

Noise swelled across the square.

“You shouldn’t have come. What about home?” Roy muttered to the companions beside him.

“Kid, we’re already here.” Kael turned his head toward him. “We’ll deal with whatever comes next.”

“If they want peace, we’ll give them peace,” Kaen said coldly.

“If they want war, we’ll send them to hell!” Letho’s answer came without hesitation. He had endured enough of this endless prejudice.

The tree wished for stillness, but the wind would not cease.

“All we wanted was to keep our heads down and build something in peace, yet they keep pushing.” Vesemir looked over the packed square, and for an instant the old Witcher’s eyes seemed fixed on something a century gone, the battle at Kaer Morhen. His jaw hardened. “This time, we don’t run.”

…

Surrounded by layer upon layer of Temple Guards, the Archbishop swept his gaze over the Witchers and felt a surge of delight. They had actually dared to walk openly onto his ground, into the very heart of the Eternal Fire’s power.

They had surrendered their greatest advantage.

Yet wariness moved beneath his satisfaction, followed by undisguised disgust. He had never known so many Mutants were hiding almost beside his own bed. Seeing them gathered together was far more shocking than hearing a number spoken aloud.

Age and experience had taught him exactly what creatures like these could do.

They were a heap of unstable powder kegs, enough to blow all Novigrad into the sky.

Every last one had to be eradicated.

“Fifteen Witchers, and a third of them are barely more than kids… Tsk, tsk. People of Novigrad, open your eyes and look! The evidence stands before you. They truly have been conducting evil Mutation Experiments outside the city!”

The Archbishop’s icy voice passed judgment before anyone else could speak.

The five adolescent boys standing shoulder to shoulder snorted at him almost in unison.

Their young faces were smooth and clean, not a whisker among them. Nervousness showed plainly in their amber pupils. None had ever stood before so many people.

Yet beneath the nerves came another sensation, strange and almost intoxicating.

It felt like stepping onto a stage.

Their bodies trembled with excitement.

“Bishop Cyrus, are we discussing Mutation now?!” Roy stepped forward and addressed him by name. “As everyone in Novigrad demanded, my brothers are here. So what are we waiting for?”

“Lady Talika! Open your eyes and look at us. Find the murderer you spoke of!”

“Easy, child. There are thousands of witnesses here.” The Archbishop gave the Witchers a cold smile. “I don’t believe these Mutants dare massacre Novigrad before everyone’s eyes.”

Under circumstances like these, if the Witchers drew blood, the reason would hardly matter. White would be painted black before sunset.

They would become enemies of all Novigrad.

Protected by the guards, the thin peasant woman shuddered when her name was called. She locked all ten fingers together over her belly, clenched her teeth, and took one step toward the Witchers.

Her small black eyes moved from face to face.

Thousands followed her gaze.

When she reached Kaen, whose ruined face was crossed by centipede-like scars and whose eyes flashed scarlet, gasps broke out across the square.

“Gods, is that still a man?”

“Was he burned?”

“Must’ve been an evil Mutation. That’s what made him so inhuman!”

Beneath his hooded cloak, Kaen ignored every hostile stare. Instead, he straightened his chest and lifted his chin.

He had brothers who would stand beside him, obedient students who looked to him, and a woman who understood him. The rest of the world’s prejudice could not touch a hair on his head.

He was not alone in that.

Every Witcher Talika examined raised his chin.

None of them knew this woman.

“Look carefully, Lady Talika.” Orin even gave her a friendly smile, though to the woman it looked more like the hungry stare of a beast contemplating meat. “You need to be absolutely certain whether we’re innocent or guilty. No uncertainty.”

“My brothers and I don’t intend to spend the rest of our lives carrying a crime someone invented for us.”

“And remember the oath you just swore. If a single word of yours is false, you’d best pray the gods don’t send down a Thunderbolt and turn you to ash.”

“Shut up!” a Temple Guard gave a great Roar. “You dare threaten a witness in front of everyone!”

“Guilty conscience!” someone mocked from the crowd.

Orin sneered.

“Well, child?” the Archbishop pressed. “Have you found him? All fifteen Witchers are here. Don’t overlook a single one.”

Unease had begun crawling into his gut. The disappointment on the woman’s face was growing more obvious by the moment, and cold sweat gathered across his brow.

“No…” Talika finally withdrew her gaze from Kaen and Aiden, both wearing School of The Cat Amulets. “Bren of the cat school isn’t here.”

“Think carefully!” The blood drained from the Archbishop’s wrinkled face. His withered fingers clenched until the knuckles whitened.

The Temple Guards looked no better.

“I swear before the Eternal Fire… even if that bastard were burned to ashes, I’d still remember him.” Talika pressed her lips together. “He’s not among them.”

“I can’t… I can’t lie before the gods.”

The Archbishop closed his eyes in disappointment.

“Ha!” A Bard close enough to hear every word plucked a string on his lute. His eyebrows leapt, and he launched into a jaunty little tune, turning once on his brightly trousered leg as though barely resisting the urge to dance. “What did I tell you? Our songs weren’t invented out of thin air! The Witchers are innocent and deserve every word of praise!”

Bang! Bang!

Cyrus hammered his staff against the ground and gave a breathless Roar.

“Far too early to say that! The Witchers have only proven that none of them destroyed Sweetwater. What did we swear before the Eternal Fire?”

“Where are the children from the orphanage?”

His eyes burned as he stared at the Witchers.

“Since all of you have come, why did you not bring the fifty-three children? Let them tell us themselves whether they were subjected to inhuman abuse and forced into evil Mutation Experiments!”

“Absurd!”

Karl stepped forward with his chest raised. His handsome young face drew several distracted looks from girls in the crowd.

“Archbishop Cyrus, I’ll tell you. There was no force and no abuse!”

He turned toward the entire square, speaking each word clearly.

“When we lost our parents, when we had nowhere to live, when people chased us through the streets like stray dogs, only the Witchers took us in. They taught us…”

“So we chose to become like them!”

Monty, Akam, Chanem, and Lloyd stepped forward as well and stood beside their brother. Young bestial eyes swept across the crowd as emotion roughened their voices.

“So we can help more homeless children find somewhere they belong.”

“Evil Mutation… persecution. It’s all slander!”

They turned toward the broad men standing beside them. Gratitude and the unguarded affection of children toward those they trusted filled their eyes.

“The Witchers are our teachers and our family. Other than the parents who gave birth to us, no one has ever treated us this well!”

Their unwavering eyes, youthful faces, and ringing voices struck the crowd harder than any argument.

What kind of lives must children barely into their teens have endured to speak with such certainty, to call Witchers family?

The Archbishop’s expression only hardened.

Sacrifices were necessary for the cause of the Eternal Fire.

These Mutants had to die.

“Look at their eyes! Those children have already been brainwashed by evil experiments! When they testify for the Witchers, they’re testifying for themselves. Their words can’t be trusted!” someone shouted from below. “We must see every child. Fifty-three, not one missing!”

Twang.

A faint bowstring vibration slipped through the surrounding noise.

The young black-haired Witcher’s body Blinked and vanished strangely into the air.

Bang!

A Wail came from the crowd.

A dark figure flew over the human wall and crashed into the open ground at the center of the square. One fist had buried itself in his belly, leaving him curled like a cooked shrimp.

Dusty brown leather armor. Thick beard. Heavy build.

A Mercenary.

“Witcher! How dare you attack an innocent citizen before the Eternal Fire? Stop at once!”

A Temple Guard shouted and swung his sword at Roy as he pushed through the cordon.

Steel hissed.

The crowd’s vision blurred.

No one saw the movement clearly.

The guard’s longsword clattered to the ground. Some enormous force sent him stumbling backward into his fellows, his face beneath the leather cap shifting from green to white.

He opened his mouth to curse, then met a pair of eyes cold enough to stop the words in his throat.

The Witcher stood before him with an almost tangible chill rolling from his body.

Fourteen other Witchers turned murderous eyes toward the guards.

Killing intent struck like a blood-red wave, suffocating, heavy enough to make men feel it might break over their heads and drag them under.

For several heartbeats, not one guard stepped forward.

Even the Archbishop of the Eternal Fire swallowed whatever he had been about to say. His eyes shifted, and he quietly retreated half a step.

“Got you, didn’t I, you dog!” Roy strode to the Mercenary. “You’ve been down there stirring shit this whole time. Enjoying yourself?!”

He slapped the man hard enough to swell his cheek nearly shut, then seized him by the back of the neck with one hand and lifted him like a dead dog.

Roy shook him before the crowd.

The man’s limbs hung loose, as though every bone had come apart.

“Citizens, listen to me! This farce has gone on long enough. I swear before the gods, everything that happened today was engineered by this man and the power behind him. They’ve treated all of you like fools, deceiving you, manipulating you, whipping up your emotions!”

“All to achieve some hidden purpose!”

Thoughtful looks appeared among the calmer members of the crowd.

There had indeed been too many coincidences today.

“Talk!” Roy’s fingers moved swiftly, tracing a Sign.

The Mercenary convulsed.

His mouth opened.

“It was Lord Keris… he told me… told me to slander the Witchers.”

“Witcher, stop using evil magic to torture a confession out of him! Bring the children here!” someone shouted from the crowd, though the cry sounded far weaker now.

“When this bastard finishes talking,” Roy said, “everyone will see those children.”

“The Mutants are killing people!”

A scream tore through the square.

Everything changed at once.

Shrill cries erupted from several directions, cutting Roy’s interrogation short. The Witchers’ expressions shifted. Bodies lowered slightly, hands settling on the sword hilts above their shoulders.

Whoosh.

Whoosh.

Crossbow bolts tore through the air.

One unfortunate Temple Guard beside the Archbishop and the Mercenary in Roy’s grip had their heads burst apart almost simultaneously. Both collapsed face-first.

The powerfully built Half-Elf Schirrú lowered his Hand Crossbow with a cold smile. He and his accomplices slipped back into the crowd.

He had accomplished his purpose.

Now it depended on what happened elsewhere.

Among the elves, another group of archers began forcing their way rapidly toward the Witchers. Bundles of squirrel tails were tied around their waists, and something of the Wilds clung to them, raw and untamed.

“The Witchers attacked the Archbishop!”

“The Witchers have gone mad!”

“Gods!”

“The Eternal Fire has fallen!”

Under the flood of screams and confused shouting, Temple Square collapsed into utter chaos.

People on the outer edges surged toward the southern bridge, the corners of the square, and the great hall of the Eternal Fire Temple. Bodies shoved against bodies. People stumbled, fell, and were trampled beneath those behind them.

The screaming did not stop.

The Trained Temple Guards immediately formed ranks around the Archbishop and began escorting him toward the Temple’s main hall.

Knight Grimm brought his greatsword across his chest like an enormous shield and moved slowly, protecting the civilians retreating around him.

Cassiel swept the infatuated girl behind him into his arms and shielded her against his chest.

Butcher Cleaver’s Dwarf force locked hands and closed ranks. They stood like an oak grove in floodwater, boots planted firmly against the earth, refusing to move.

“Close ranks!” Letho shouted.

His wrist turned.

A steel sword carved a white arc through the air and knocked an incoming bolt aside. Nine companions closed into a circle around him, golden light from their Quen Shields flowing over their bodies as they completely enclosed the Doppelganger and the five young Apprentices.

They stood like an unbreakable lighthouse in a raging sea.

The panicked human tide crashed against them and broke apart.

“Untie me!” Gigi shouted. “I can help!”

Blade-Glint flashed in Karl’s hand, slicing through the ropes.

He removed the Anti-Magic Shackles.

Multicolored light Blinked over the Doppelganger. His body stretched and thickened until, in an instant, a bald, massive Letho stood where Gigi had been.

A second Letho.

…

Countless people were knocked to the ground and trampled beneath those fleeing behind them. Temple Square became a field of screams.

Yet amid that unnatural chaos, one group alone moved against the tide.

Straight toward the center.

Twang. Twang.

A strong elf in a headscarf and green cloak stood amid the crowd and drew his bowstring back to his ear. He found his target almost instantly.

His Arrow screamed through the air.

The black-haired Witcher standing firm amid the human flood flicked his wrist. The Arrow split cleanly in two before reaching him. At almost the same instant, dark-gold and silver-gray pupils locked onto the archer across the square.

Whoosh.

The white-jade longsword in his hand transformed instantly into a Hand Crossbow.

Roy pulled the trigger.

The elf had no time to react. His body snapped backward and fell limp beneath the crowd, disappearing under countless trampling feet.

Defeated Keris, XP +20, Witcher Lv13 (2520/14500)

Roy pulled the trigger again.

A white-haired elf charging toward the Witchers with a steel sword gave a heart-rending Wail. The impact lifted him from his feet as though a battering ram had struck his chest, hurling him backward into the crowd.

By then, most innocent civilians had escaped the center of the square. The hundred-odd Eternal Fire guards and the cluster of Witchers were left exposed, impossible to miss.

Not far away, a group of elves carrying steel swords and bows surged against the fleeing crowd.

They gave a battle Roar.

Blades rose.

They closed around the Witchers from the front.

The Temple Guards, recovering from the confusion, attacked from behind.

Together, the two forces numbered more than three hundred.

“Kill the Mutants! They attacked innocent citizens and our Temple Guard brothers!”

The devout guards charged with bloodshot eyes, heedless of their lives.

Fifteen Witchers were caught between two forces.

Everywhere they looked were maddened red eyes and flashing steel.

“Idiots, are you blind?!” Lambert spun and smashed the flat of his sword across the cheek of a guard in black leather armor, knocking him unconscious where he stood. His Edge swept into a half-circle and caught a mace descending toward his face. Through the crossed weapons, amber pupils glared into those of the young Temple Guard opposite him. “The elves started this!”

“Kill the Witchers! Leave none alive!”

An aged but unquestionable command rang from among the Temple Guards.

Archbishop Cyrus stood leaning on his staff, staring at the Witchers without a trace of feeling, as though they were insects beneath his feet.

Whatever happened, they could not be allowed to leave.

He would never apologize to Mutants.

They would answer for today’s disorder. Their deaths would become fuel, and the flames would spread across the earth.

Such was the will of the Eternal Fire.

At that moment, in the center of Temple Square, the fifteen Witchers reached the same conclusion without a word.

Blood reflected in their pupils, staining them red as the abyss.

“Leave none alive!”

Roy returned the Archbishop’s words exactly and charged into the crowd with his sword raised.

“Kill!”

Fifteen Witchers roared as one.

The five Apprentices roared with them.

They were comrades, teachers and students, brothers who would live or die together. Their blades came free, and without hesitation they charged.

The Witchers met their enemies in a battle of grotesquely unequal numbers.

Anger and killing intent tore away rules, law, and the last restraints of patience.

They became killing machines.

Only the swords in their hands mattered.

Only the enemies before them.

…

Geralt moved through an elegant dance, his steel sword following a rhythm only he could hear. Temple Guards fell one after another around him.

Orin drove his blade forward and skewered two men at once. He ripped the sword free, sprang upward, and brought the longsword down in a white arc. A thin red seam appeared along the center of a sharp-chinned, high-cheekboned elf.

The body split in two.

Karl, Monty, and the five Apprentices moved like a wolf pack hunting lions and tigers. Their bodies had not yet fully grown, and that smallness became an advantage. They slipped through gaps between enemies with almost acrobatic agility, circled beneath raised arms, and drove their Edges into vital points with uncanny precision.

They had never killed people before.

So they stopped thinking of them as people.

They were merely Drowners that felt no pain.

Throat. Eye socket. Heart.

Every strike killed.

The five boys’ minds emptied. Countless hours of training and practical combat took over, leaving only instinct. Freed from thought, they worked together with seamless precision.

On their first true battlefield, they unleashed a violence beyond anything they had imagined, carving circles of death through the press.

Scoia’tael blood splashed across the polished marble of the square.

Brutally red.

Kaen’s cat school steel sword opened an elf’s mail as easily as cutting woolen cloth. The elf never saw his attacker’s face, not even in the instant before consciousness vanished.

Letho leapt into the crowd and suddenly dropped to one knee, pressing his left hand against the ground.

The surging magic of Mutation Aard expanded outward.

Four or five Temple Guards were hurled from their feet at once.

Then Letho rose among them and swung his Viper School Dual Swords like a farmer cutting grass from a field.

Lives fell just as easily.

Koen’s hands traced Signs one after another, fingers moving like flowers opening in summer. Blinding orange fire poured continuously from his palms.

It was as though he held a long whip made of flame.

The three-meter cone before him became forbidden ground. Anyone who stepped into it burst into fire and fled shrieking, clutching at their head and clothes.

The Doppelganger, still wearing the shape of the second huge man, fought among the Witchers with considerably more restraint. His steel sword moved carefully, sparing lives whenever possible.

He wounded.

He did not kill.

…

Battle cries, steel tearing through flesh, and the wet spray of blood swallowed the center of the square.

Within the copper stink of blood, the Witchers became a crimson spear.

In moments, they tore a breach through the human wall surrounding them.

Roy stood at the very front.

The spearpoint.

A tide of enemies crashed toward him.

There was no room for elaborate Swordsmanship. No room for graceful forms or clever flourishes. At this distance, only instinct and reaction mattered.

Within seconds, Quen shattered.

Blood sprayed.

But his brothers pressed close on either side, guarding his flanks and leaving his back secure.

They gave him room to kill.

Whoosh!

Gwyhyr ripped through the air.

Where its Edge passed, a crescent of scarlet sword light burst outward.

It tore through layer after layer of resistance and transformed the ground several meters ahead into a slaughterhouse of blood and flesh.

Nothing stopped them.

Chapter 552

An Offer with No Mercy

Crack!

Glass shattered again and again.

The Scoia’tael and Temple Guards hurled more than ten Dimeritium Bombs. Glittering dust spread in the blink of an eye, swallowing the entire battlefield.

The golden Quen Shields flowing over the Witchers’ bodies died instantly.

At that same moment, several unnaturally pale elves appeared at different corners of the square. Straps were wound several times around their necks, broad cloaks and pointed hats fluttered in the wind, and each carried a birch Staff carved with patterns of green leaves.

Their hands moved through intricate gestures as obscure Incantations spilled from their lips. They joined in Spellcasting.

A blazing crimson fireball, bright as a small sun, scorched the air until it hissed. It crossed half the square and plunged into the crowd.

Boom!

Fire surged skyward. Thick smoke rolled into the air, stone fragments sprayed in every direction, and a hideous crater opened in the marble pavement.

Letho, Orin, and Geralt were too slow to dodge. The blast lifted them bodily and hurled them into the ranks of soldiers, knocking men down in heaps before the Witchers themselves rolled across the ground.

The explosion failed to tear through their Dragon Scale-reinforced armor, but the impact hammered their organs. Letho and Koen clutched their chests and spat blood, then tore Swallow Potions from their belt pouches and swallowed them in great gulps.

“Karl, Monty! Everyone all right?”“Kael roared and slashed a Temple Guard across the temple as the man tried to break through their line.”

“We’re fine!”

Karl kicked a hook-nosed elf in the stomach and ripped his steel sword from the man’s neck in the same motion.

Blood erupted like a fountain and drenched his handsome young face.

Nothing remained of his usual quiet, clean-cut appearance. Veins stood twisted beneath his skin.

He looked like a demon.

The four companions beside him were no different.

They had been fortunate enough to avoid the direct shockwave. Now they formed a human wall around the fallen Koen, steel swords whipping frantically as they held back the enemies surging toward them like floodwater.

Vesemir, Kaen, and the less badly wounded Witchers guarded their injured brothers while they drank Potions.

Their magic had been temporarily Sealed by the anti-magic metal. Without Signs or shields, the Witchers had nothing left but primitive instinct.

Strike. Parry. Step back. Parry.

Then the damned five elf Sorcerers began Spellcasting again.

A vast barrage of raging fire, lightning, and violent wind swept across the air toward them.

The Witchers’ advance stopped dead.

…

The guard escorting the Archbishop toward the Temple’s main hall felt his lips trembling.

He had never seen warriors like these.

In less than two minutes, more than fifty of his brothers had returned to the Eternal Fire.

These were Devils.

Cyrus leaned on his mahogany staff, staring without blinking at the Mutants surrounded by troops dozens of meters away. Confidence crept back into his smile.

“No matter how formidable they are, their numbers are limited! Master Vigo’s reinforcements have arrived, and our Temple Guard brothers will soon be here as well. They cannot turn this around!”

His words might have been a signal.

A dark mass of fully armed soldiers poured across the southern bridge of Temple Isle.

Novigrad had nearly a thousand Temple Guards in total. Apart from those who had to remain at the city gates, harbor, and other vital positions, several hundred were now converging on the square. They drove away the remaining spectators, struggled to impose order on the chaos, then raised their swords and pressed toward the Witchers at the center.

…

At the northern end of the square, beside a small burning Altar, an Executioner’s Sword broad as a shield swept through the air.

An elf who had plunged into the crowd like a rabid wolf, killing indiscriminately, was severed cleanly at the waist.

“Ah! Murder! Help me, somebody help me!” screamed a spice merchant fat as a pig.

“Shut up! Can’t you see the Knight is protecting us?!” A thin young man beside him stared in open admiration.

Grimm wiped blood from his face and drew back the Sword of Justice. He stood before a group of unarmed civilians, intercepting the blades that occasionally came their way, while Cassiel watched left and right, guarding his flank.

They had noticed the strangers long ago.

Elves in worn fur armor were moving along the outer edges of the square, throwing incendiaries into fleeing crowds and surrounding buildings.

They swung blades at anyone within reach, killing indiscriminately and spreading chaos.

Every one of them wore a vicious expression, their bodies taut with a hatred that seemed to regard all humanity as a mortal enemy.

Where had these terrorists come from?

They attacked humans, then smeared the blood across the Witchers’ hands.

What were they trying to accomplish?

Nearby, there came a heavy thud.

Butcher Cleaver’s muscles bulged. His dark hands swept his Warhammer upward from below, and his short, stocky body actually left the ground. The hammerhead smashed into an elf’s jaw and drove straight into his skull.

It was as though the elf had taken an uppercut weighing a ton. The bones of his face collapsed and twisted like kneaded dough before he toppled backward.

Cleaver’s oiled mohawk swayed in the breeze. His round eyes caught sight of the blood-soaked squirrel tails hanging from the elf’s waist.

His face hardened.

“Scoia’tael? Weren’t these fucking beasts hiding in the Valley of Flowers and Mahakam? What are they doing thousands of miles away in Novigrad, attacking humans and Witchers?”

Cleaver looked around grimly.

The solemn Temple Square of ordinary days had become unrecognizable.

Flames licked at the surrounding buildings. Pillars of smoke climbed into the sky, blotting out the sun and obscuring most men’s sight. At the center of the square, the Scoia’tael and Temple Guards poured forward without end, like packs of hyenas attacking a lion, tearing away flesh regardless of how many of their own died in the attempt.

Sooner or later, they would devour it completely.

…

Whoosh!

Roy raised Gwyhyr vertically before him and struck against an incoming fireball. The Star Rune on the longsword flared, splitting the fireball cleanly in two.

What remained of the blast washed over his armor and died there, scorching only a few strands of hair.

“Stay here! I’ll deal with those Sorcerers!”

Roy clenched his teeth and swept his gaze around him. The Witchers fighting shoulder to shoulder had been pinned in place by soldiers and elves who seemed indifferent to death. Blades came at them from every direction, while fireballs and lightning battered them from above.

Their magic was blocked.

Without Quen and Heliot to protect them, the Witchers were living targets.

Their bodies were covered in wounds, their breathing heavy. Still they swung, parried, struck, and hacked at anything that came within reach.

One enemy fell.

Two more stepped over his corpse to fill the gap.

“I’m coming with you, Kid!”

“Stay!”

Roy spat the cork from his mouth and swallowed.

A web of blackened veins bulged from his chin and spread upward.

Gwyhyr switched into a Hand Crossbow.

Twang!

The string hummed.

An Arrow streaked through the air as a line of white light and struck an elf Sorcerer whose palm was beginning to glow with fire.

Crack!

The protective magic Quen Shield burst like a bubble.

Shock twisted the pale face beneath the gray hood. The Sorcerer had never seen a Hand Crossbow with such power. An ordinary Arrow would have needed three or four hits to penetrate his defenses.

He sprang sideways as though the ground had turned to oil beneath his feet.

Whoosh!

The second Arrow struck where he had stood an instant earlier and shattered a corner from the marble wall.

The black-haired Witcher came on like the wind.

Behind him appeared the enormous, black shadow of a Dragon. It bit, clawed, and beat its wings, smashing every soldier in his path aside as Roy closed on the Sorcerer at terrifying speed.

His left hand kept pulling the trigger.

His right hurled a Dimeritium Bomb toward the Sorcerer.

Crack!

Glass shattered.

The elf Sorcerer slipped behind a golden pillar beneath the eaves of an Eternal Fire side hall, avoiding the spreading dust.

At the same time, he swept out his left hand.

A twisted serpent of purple lightning erupted from his palm. The air gave a hideous sizzling shriek, and the current burned a twenty-meter black scar into the ground between Sorcerer and Witcher.

Lightning swallowed Roy’s vision.

The instant the magic reached him, he threw every scrap of strength into a diagonal leap.

The arc grazed his left shoulder.

A great plume of sickly white steam burst from beneath the leather armor. The skin of his arm blackened at once.

Roy’s sprint faltered. Sword and crossbow in hand, he staggered like a drunk, his face twisting from the pain.

But he reached the Sorcerer.

The elf’s narrow eyes hardened with the cold resolve to perish together with his enemy. He raised his left palm before his chest, fingers flashing through a sequence of intricate, unnatural gestures while Incantation poured from his lips.

Then he thrust his hand at Roy.

Boom!

An invisible Magic Torrent struck Roy squarely.

The force hurled him backward.

Twang!

Even in midair, he pulled the trigger.

The Sorcerer thought himself safe behind the pillar.

He was wrong.

This Arrow carried monstrous force.

It punched through the pillar.

Through the Magic Shield.

Through flesh.

Through skull.

Thud.

A bloody hole appeared in the center of the pale forehead beneath the hood. The elf’s face remained cold and composed as his body toppled backward and did not rise again.

…

Roy hit the ground, rolled with the impact, then sprang upright in a single motion.

At the same instant, the weight vanished from his body.

His Sealed magic flowed normally again.

You want to destroy us.

Roy ground his teeth.

Then I’ll destroy you.

Come.

Leviathan!

Boom!

A magnitude-ten earthquake seemed to strike Temple Square.

A colossal shadow descended through the smoke. Mountains of muscle rose beneath a rough, wild canvas coat.

“Roar! Roar! Roar!”

The Frost Giant slapped the oak club in its right hand against its left palm and gave a thunderous Roar. Its scarlet pupils burned with savage excitement.

Ha! Time to slaughter again!

Then let instinct loose.

Kill until the world turns upside down.

The roar froze more than a thousand people where they stood.

The Frost Giant leapt.

It landed among the Temple Guards pouring into the square from the south and swept its oak club sideways.

A whole mass of soldiers, caught unprepared, flew into the air like rice before a scythe.

They struck the ground with broken legs and arms, chests crushed inward, breaths barely stirring.

Wails rose without end.

…

“Gods!” The people along the outskirts of the Temple began fleeing again.

“Is the end of the world coming?” one man sobbed in terror.

“What in hell is that?” Inside the Temple’s main hall, a young guard stared dumbly beneath the firelight.

“Punishment sent by a Deity?” His companion could scarcely believe his eyes. The sword in his hand trembled. “But why would Divine Judgment fall upon faithful Cultists instead of the wicked Witchers?”

Archbishop Cyrus’s face turned hideous.

He hurriedly glanced back into the Temple.

“No! This is Witcher sorcery!”

“Kill it! Kill that thing! We have the numbers!”

At the Archbishop’s command, two or three hundred crossbows fired at the Frost Giant at once.

A single volley turned its body into a pincushion.

Yet the Arrows penetrated only the shallowest layer of the Giant’s skin before being thrown aside.

Dozens of Eternal Fire Knights in full plate charged across the long bridge on horseback. Raised lances and swinging Edges reflected golden light as they launched a death charge against the Monster.

Wave after wave met the same end.

They were crushed into pulp like ants beneath an elephant’s foot.

The Frost Giant had hide like armor and strength beyond measure. Before such a terrifying Monster, human bodies might as well have been made of paper.

Yet even it could not advance.

The soldiers of the Eternal Fire came on without end, faith burning hotter than fear. Swords, bolts, and iron chains closed around the Giant until it was pinned in place.

…

The Giant’s rampage drew away the pressure, and the Witchers trapped between the Scoia’tael and Temple Guards finally found room to breathe.

“Roy. Has to be his doing!” Geralt’s spirits rose. He turned lightly through the press, His blade opened a Scoia’tael’s throat. Blood sprayed across his flowing white hair.

“If he can tame a Griffin, bringing a Frost Giant under control isn’t much stranger!” Letho swung both swords and cut down two soldiers. “Come on, lads! Push harder and send them to hell!”

“Kill!” Karl and the other four shouted.

Fire returned to the Witchers’ eyes.

Their morale surged.

Bodies already close to exhaustion seemed flooded with fresh strength. Movements that had begun to slow became faster and sharper as they fell upon the surrounding ranks like a wolf pack.

Steel swords hacked, stabbed, and parried. Bombs cleared clusters of enemies.

With the Frost Giant drawing most of the army’s attention, the ranks could no longer replenish themselves fast enough. A great breach opened.

Black-clad, black-hatted guards and Scoia’tael in coarse linen, mahogany bows and rusted iron swords at their waists, broke apart like a Longship caught beneath a storm wave.

They sank by the dozens into pools of blood.

Blood sprayed onto heated stone with a hiss and turned to steam.

Roaring at the tops of their lungs, the Witchers carved a crimson road toward the Temple’s main hall.

…

Twang.

A faint whisper through the air.

A brief streak of white.

Northeast of the Temple, an elf Sorceress shrouded in a green robe was gathering an enormous fireball between her hands when golden light flashed over her body.

Crack.

Her Magic Shield shattered.

The bloody shadow of death rushed toward her.

She gave a piercing Wail.

Her body dissolved like ripples across water and reappeared ten meters away.

She thought she had escaped.

A breath left her chest. Her fingers tightened around her Staff again.

Whoosh!

The air before her shattered.

A longsword appeared beside her face.

A figure bent like a drawn bow emerged through the spatial fissure, Crimson Tentacles writhing behind him.

Killing intent poured from his Heterochromia, cold as ice buried for ten thousand years. It seemed to freeze her Soul and the life within her flesh.

Not even one finger obeyed her.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Die.”

Whoosh!

The white-jade Edge swept past.

Her head spun into the air.

…

Two of the five elf Sorcerers were dead.

The remaining three, scattered around the square, finally understood what was happening. If they continued fighting separately, this elusive Assassin would Defeat them one after another.

They immediately converged on the Temple side hall to the east.

Green cloaks streamed behind them in afterimages. Reinforced by magic, they moved with impossible speed.

Not fast enough to outrun an Arrow.

Beneath the eaves of the Temple side hall, a handsome elf Sorcerer glanced over his shoulder while running.

His eyes widened.

Twang.

The bowstring vibrated like a whisper from The Reaper.

A colleague’s shield shattered.

From the void behind him sprang an enormous Crimson Octopus. Countless hideous tentacles coiled around the Sorcerer.

In an instant, he was wrapped into a blood-red cocoon and lifted upside down into the air by the power of the void.

Whoosh!

The Witcher appeared behind the crimson cocoon.

Both hands gripped a deathly pale bone longsword.

He thrust.

The blade pierced the cocoon like lightning.

The crimson layers faded away one by one, gradually revealing the elf Sorcerer within.

The longsword had punched through his lower back.

Blood froth bubbled from his mouth. His eyes bulged, and a feeble Wail escaped his throat.

The Witcher held him aloft on the sword like an Offering presented to some evil Deity.

“Hmph.”

Roy ripped the blade free.

He flicked away the blood.

His Heterochromia locked onto the female elf in the distance.

The killing intent in those eyes made her flesh crawl.

Whoosh. Whoosh.

Several figures abruptly appeared behind her.

Dense magic radiated from five bodies, thick enough to seem on the verge of igniting the surrounding air.

All were Sorcerers.

Roy’s gaze passed across them.

Then stopped.

Two elf Sorcerers were complete strangers to him.

The two human Sorcerers were different.

He had never met them, but he had heard their names often enough.

One was dressed like a Mercenary, wearing hunting clothes made for easy movement. His black eyes looked wet, his lips were thin, and a scar marked his cheek.

A sharp dagger rested against the throat of a man bound hand and foot, already cutting a bloody line through the skin.

Rience.

And his hostage was Collector Gael Sahmza.