"Boom—"
Bolts of lightning slithered through the night sky like serpents, occasionally striking the falling Rotfiends that had slipped from the black holes above, igniting the unstable creatures midair.
"Boom! Boom! Boom!"
The detonating Rotfiends triggered chain explosions, setting off their kin around them—soon, the entire sky was ablaze with countless fiery orbs, bright as day.
Within that storm of thunder and flame, the blurred, ghastly silhouettes of mounted riders grew closer—clearer.
On their helmets swayed bison horns and tattered feathered crests; beneath their ashen masks lay skin pale as death. Their skeletal horses were draped in ragged burial cloths.
They galloped along the glowing ribbon cutting through the heavens, circling the black holes hanging beneath the shroud of night.
The relentless explosions all around seemed meaningless to them—only their tattered cloaks billowed wildly in the wind, fluttering like torn banners in a storm.
The shockwaves hurled chunks of burning flesh across the withered forest below, shattering the already fragile trees and shrubs whose life force had long been drained and corrupted by the ritual.
Almost no Rotfiend survived the fall—most were caught in the chain reaction of their own kind, their brief existence ending in bursts of fiery brilliance the moment they entered this world.
Those few that survived the descent exploded upon impact, torn apart by their own ruptured bodies.
The thunder of explosions came one after another.
The wraiths that had gathered, seeking the witcher's trail, were caught in the cataclysm—obliterated before they could react.
Dozens, even hundreds of specters, were consumed in the inferno of Rotfiend detonations, their ghostly forms dimming into curls of black smoke before fading completely from existence.
In the blink of an eye, the once-cursed forest was scoured clean of all undead life at its heart—only charred flesh, jagged craters, and burning trees remained.
"Boom!"
Another lightning serpent tore across the heavens, reflected in the witcher's catlike pupils, which trembled and narrowed to slits.
He saw it then—blood-red armor, a skeletal horse breathing wisps of eerie blue mist, and most chilling of all… those eyes.
Deep within the hollow sockets of bone, a single crimson ghost-flame burned quietly.
The other skeletal riders flanking him bore similar armor, their spectral eyes glowing in cold, ashen blue.
"Centurion Renakins… That's the same Wild Hunt rider who appeared inside the Spiral!"
Allen's heart nearly leapt out of his chest; a cold shiver crept from the base of his spine up to his scalp.
He remembered clearly—Renakins' sword strikes were so fast that even Allen's heightened reflexes could barely register the motion.
This was not an enemy he could hope to face now.
Forcing down his fear and curiosity, Allen averted his gaze, watching the blue-gray flames of the nearby riders only from the corner of his eye, constructing their movement patterns silently in his mind.
He knew it well—any direct gaze upon that crimson-flamed Centurion would be noticed instantly.
"Why is the Wild Hunt appearing now?" Allen thought rapidly, his mind racing. "Is it because of the conjunction of the sphere?"
The main quest—and the sorcerer from Ban Ard—no longer mattered. Under the shadows of hundreds of Wild Hunt riders galloping across the heavens, Allen had only one goal left—to survive.
"Rooar—"
A massive black hole opened in the heart of the withered forest—the final stage of the conjunction of the sphere—right above the Corpse King and Corpse Queen.
Swarming Rotfiends spewed from its depths, crashing down onto the scorched earth, falling directly into the still-burning craters.
"Boom—Boom—Boom—"
The explosions merged into a single thunderous roar, fueling the fires raging at the forest's core.
Then—
"Hiss—"
A dreadful, serpentine hiss echoed from within the black hole.
Thick, murky yellow smoke began to pour out, choking even the flames on the ground into silence. Within seconds, a heavy, sulfurous haze blanketed the area for hundreds of meters around the blackened clearing.
The humanoid undead caught in the spreading fumes screamed as their pale, exposed skin sizzled audibly—"ssssss"—before collapsing in heaps, flesh corroded beyond repair.
The corpses' pained shrieks echoed as they instinctively retreated from the toxic fog.
Only the wraiths, holding their eerie green lanterns, remained unaware—mindlessly attacking any nearby Rotfiends. But within that murky yellow haze, even the Rotfiends that were slain did not explode.
Instead, their bodies convulsed, spraying streams of thick yellow ichor from their limbs and bones, the fluid evaporating midair into more smoke, feeding the poisonous mist.
The haze deepened, growing heavier, denser.
Then, from the gaping black hole, a monstrosity was forced out—slowly, painfully, as if the world itself resisted its birth.
Its flesh was crimson like raw meat, yet its body seemed to have been half-melted in acid. Strips of liquefied skin and muscle hung loosely, revealing flashes of pale white bone beneath—just looking at it made one's scalp crawl.
From the gaps between its flesh and bones, jets of smoke hissed rhythmically—"pshht, pshht"—like the sound of something breathing through the cracks of death itself.
The corrosive miasma spreading across the withered forest came from these creatures.
They were called Carrion Lords.
No new monsters emerged after them. From that black abyss, seven massive figures had crawled forth—and every single one was a Carrion Lord.
[Name: Carrion Lord]
[Level: 87]
[Attributes: Strength 30 | Agility 31 | Constitution 99 | Perception 61 | Mysticism 134]
When the last grotesque Carrion Lord finally slithered out of the void, every black hole in the sky and on the ground vanished at once.
And at that very moment—
The thunder that had been roaring across the heavens also fell silent, disappearing as if it had never existed.
Then came the sound.
Clop… clop… clop…
The sharp rhythm of hooves descending from above.
A black knight, mounted upon a skeletal horse, landed at the heart of the withered forest—directly above the seven Carrion Lords—hovering there, motionless, overlooking everything below.
Allen's sharp eyes caught sight of the monsters sprawled below and the pale bone legs of the skeletal horse. Instinctively, he leaned back into the thicker branches of the pine tree, holding his breath, every muscle tense.
For a fleeting instant, the world went still.
Then the silence was broken as several skeletal riders trotted to the front lines, whispering softly to the one who led them—Centurion Renakins of the Wild Hunt.
At that moment—
Shrrkk!
One of the fallen Carrion Lords suddenly raised its disfigured head, its face hanging with melted flesh, and spewed a jet of murky yellow liquid toward the sky like an arrow.
The attack reached the Wild Hunt in the blink of an eye—but the whispering rider didn't move. None of the Hunt did. They remained still, as though the monster's assault were beneath notice.
A heartbeat later—
The arrowlike stream struck a suddenly appearing blue barrier, which shimmered faintly and held firm.
The rider who had whispered earlier lowered his head, the ghostly green flames in his skull's sockets flaring as he gazed coldly down upon the seven Carrion Lords dragging themselves upright.
He raised his right hand.
Clang!
Nearly a hundred Wild Hunt riders unsheathed their swords in unison.
Draw. Raise. Strike.
In a single, perfectly synchronized motion—dozens of crescent-shaped arcs of white light fell from the heavens, slicing through the seven monsters below before fading into the scorched ground.
The Carrion Lords seemed untouched.
But only for an instant—
With a shudder, each one split cleanly apart along the faint white lines, their putrid blood spraying out in torrents. The thick, gelatinous organs oozed from their bodies, filling the pits and hollows of the forest floor.
In the blink of an eye, all seven had been silently annihilated.
Allen's scalp went numb. His cat-like blue pupils shrank to slits in sheer shock.
Carrion Lords weren't especially troublesome for him—not anymore. He could slay one without even invoking [Monster Hunt], but the casual ease with which these riders erased seven of them—it was as if those hulking abominations were nothing more than lifeless slabs of meat.
"…Different," Allen muttered under his breath. "They're far stronger than the Wild Hunt that appeared at Floatsam or in Ellander. Not even the same league."
The Wild Hunt's magic that had ravaged half of Ellander had been powerful, yes—but even that spectacle couldn't compare to this.
A Carrion Lord was a formidable large-class monster. The power radiating from them far surpassed that of a Royal Griffin or a Leshen, second only to a full summoning ritual.
To hunt such a creature, one needed precision—exploiting its weak spots, cutting through its layers of flesh, muscle, and near-unbreakable bone. That was one kind of skill.
But these riders hadn't hunted. They'd executed.
They hadn't slain the Carrion Lords because they were capable of it—
They had slain them because, for them, that was all there was left to kill.
"I was reckless…" Allen thought, forcing his breath under control, though it came in rough, heavy bursts.
He remembered his plan—once he mastered Beast Roar: Forbidden Sky, he'd hoped to capture a weaker member of the Wild Hunt during his mission to rescue Hen Gedymdeith, to interrogate them about the White Frost.
Now, that idea seemed laughable.
Suicidal.
It wasn't just Centurion Renakins he couldn't face—
Even the lowest-ranked rider behind him was far beyond what he could handle.
"Of course," he thought grimly, "they're the elite of the Aen Elle, conquerors of countless worlds across the spheres. Power like this is exactly how they ruled them all…"
However, another question immediately arose—
In the original story and the game, the Wild Hunt's strength wasn't weak, but even Geralt—at most a master-level witcher—could still fight Eredin Bréacc Glas, the King of the Wild Hunt, to a standstill. It was no wonder that the world of the Witchers hadn't been conquered by the Alder Folk, the Aen Elle.
But in this world, where the combat power of the Aen Elle far surpassed that of the Witcher world—
Why hadn't they conquered it?
And furthermore—
The Hill Folk, the Aen Sidhe, and the Alder Folk, the Aen Elle, both originated from the same source—the Aen Undod.
So why were the Hill Folk so much weaker than the Alder Folk?
If the Free Elves possessed power like the Wild Hunt's, how could they have been driven by humans to the brink of extinction?
Tap… tap… tap…
The dull sound of hooves echoed again, cutting off Allen's sudden chain of thoughts.
He immediately shrank back, pressing himself against the rough trunk of an oak. The solid texture behind him offered no sense of safety.
The skeletal riders began galloping through the air once more, circling above the withered forest.
He didn't need to think to know what they were searching for.
Allen lowered his head, keeping his eyes on the movements of the Wild Hunt. After a moment's thought, he took out Nightshade and awkwardly fastened it to the surface of his Wild Hunt-style armor and skull mask.
At once, the illusion crafted by the mirage pearl dissipated, revealing nothing but the empty branches of the pine tree.
For now, he could only be thankful that this land still crawled with nearly ten thousand undead—roaring, wailing, and wandering. Their noise was enough to mask his faintest movement.
But that wouldn't last long.
Just as the sorcerers of Ban Ard used necromancy to fell trees and compress his hiding space, the Wild Hunt would do the same.
They would find him—sooner rather than later.
And worse—
Even if Ban Ard sorcerers trapped him, he could still find a way to escape through a portal. At worst, if discovered, and the portal was sealed, he still had confidence that he could force his way out.
But if he were discovered by the Wild Hunt—
By those masters who toyed with spirals and space—
That would be a true dead end.
With nearly a hundred riders of the Wild Hunt here, escape was impossible. Fighting them would be suicide.
Yet if he delayed too long, they would eventually find him anyway…
"What do I do?"
Allen's thoughts raced frantically.
One idea after another surfaced, only to be discarded immediately.
Even the undead roaming the ground seemed to sense the incoming threat of the Wild Hunt. Their roars died away, their restless wandering slowly coming to a halt.
Cold moonlight spilled down through the skeletal branches.
The desolate forest fell into utter silence—only the rhythmic clop of skeletal hooves echoed faintly from above.
From high above, an invisible weight of icy pressure pressed downward. With each passing hoofbeat, the oppressive force grew stronger, crawling beneath his skin, sinking into his organs. His heart thundered like a drum, pounding so hard it hurt to breathe.
Sweat beaded on his forehead.
Though Nightshade could erase the sound of breath, footsteps, even a heartbeat, Allen instinctively held his breath.
Time slipped by quietly. No plan came to mind.
Then—
The hoofbeats in the sky suddenly stopped.
Allen's heart lurched violently. A chilling premonition exploded through his body, cold rising from his feet to his skull, raising every hair on his skin.
"I've been found?!"
Frozen in place, he held his breath and tilted his head back slightly, trying to spot the Wild Hunt's figures—yet terrified that doing so would make him meet those crimson ghostflames burning in their skulls.
Even when the cold notification sound of a completed main quest echoed faintly in his ears, he paid it no mind.
Creak… creak…
His neck turned stiffly, like a rusty hinge.
When he finally caught sight of the Wild Hunt riders, every skeletal knight was lined up neatly across the sky.
Their cold, soulless flames burned silently within their sockets as they lowered their heads to gaze down upon him.
The next moment—
One of the riders in the front raised his hand—just like the whispering Wild Hunt rider who had earlier ordered the effortless execution of the Carrion Lords.
Nearly half of the Wild Hunt riders yanked their reins, their skeletal steeds rearing up high before diving straight toward the pine tree where Allen hid.
"I've been found!!!"
The witcher had barely drawn his sword when the Stage Two Hunt for the Alghoul completed—its rewards fusing with the conjunction of the sphere that tore through the skies of the Wild Hunt.
The next instant—
Wummmm!
An overwhelming wave of magic rippled outward, making the wolf medallion beneath his armor tremble violently.
The ground erupted in blinding white flames that surged into the heavens.
.....
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