The incandescent pillar of fire erupted from the dark, scorched earth beside him, roaring skyward. Within the flickering light, chaotic currents of air outlined mysterious runes dancing inside the flames.
The instant Allen focused on those runes, they flared briefly, then vanished—only to make the already massive blaze surge higher and burn even hotter.
Nearby dead trees ignited into spontaneous fire, the undead wailed and retreated, and the entire forest was cast into blinding light.
Though the pillar seemed close, it was at least a hundred meters away.
That distance wasn't far—but for the reach of magic, it wasn't short either.
Every part of the witcher's body facing the flame could feel the heat, the blistering air licking at his armor.
Allen squinted through the gaps between the trees and saw the source of the fire—a cave hidden deep in the forest.
It looked like one a brown bear would dig to hibernate in.
He had passed near this spot earlier, but never noticed any cave there. Clearly, the Ban Ard sorcerers had cloaked it with an illusion capable of deceiving both a witcher's senses and the wolf medallion's warning.
That wasn't surprising.
Considering that their usual foes were the Hill Folk—ancient, wealthy, and deeply skilled in magic—it was only natural that a witcher's crude talents and tools, designed to sense mindless monsters, would be of little help.
Still, this served as a warning.
The most frequent and difficult enemies Allen would face in the future wouldn't be those beasts incapable of hiding—but sorcerers, and beings like the Wild Hunt—intelligent, cunning, and every bit his equal in talent, wisdom, and artifacts.
His wolf medallion's detection and scouting capabilities had already fallen far behind his current strength.
Vmm~
The medallion trembled pitifully, sending a faint emotional ripple through the mental link.
"It's not your fault…" Allen murmured softly in his mind, offering a word of comfort to the increasingly sentient wolf medallion.
The fastest way to improve it, of course, would be to commission another, higher-quality magical focus from Vera.
But for now, Allen had no such plans.
His two tracking skills—Beast Roar: Wild Speech and Beast Roar: Whisper of Life—along with four other techniques, were already enough to handle most situations.
This failure was due to the countless undead corrupting every trace within the Withered Woods, and the Ban Ard sorcerers' ritual further nullifying both Beast Roars—a rare situation, not the norm. Otherwise, his methods were perfectly sufficient.
Still, improving the medallion was something that would have to be done soon.
As that thought flashed through his mind, the incandescent flame struck the Wild Hunt Centurion—Renakins—like a battering ram.
Boom!
A violent explosion burst forth, releasing searing fire that swallowed every skeletal rider galloping through the sky.
A translucent shockwave swept downward, bending the entire withered forest beneath its force.
Allen's ears throbbed with pain, but he gently loosened his grip on Elsa's hand.
Whether it was the gaze of the flame-eyed skull knights of the Wild Hunt or the Ban Ard sorcerers' eyes from within the cave that triggered this—none of it mattered anymore.
The sorcerers of Ban Ard had completely drawn the Hunt's attention. They now stood on the front line.
Allen glanced up at the burning fire still raging in the air, then reached to his waist and pulled out a spherical red crystal.
He crouched down, whispered a brief incantation, and let the crystal float softly to the ground.
The ragged, grotesque undead nearby seemed wholly distracted by the explosion above—or perhaps the Ban Ard sorcerers were too occupied to control them—so they all stood motionless.
After observing carefully, Allen approached one of the stronger zombies—a hulking creature whose fat had been boiled away, leaving behind nothing but exposed cords of muscle.
He whispered a short incantation, traced several sigils in the air, then pressed the red crystal against the creature's skull.
The orb, large as an eyeball, sank into the rotting flesh like a stone into a swamp.
The zombie shuddered slightly, and a crimson glint flickered in its hollow right eye.
Allen nodded in satisfaction, scanned the surroundings to confirm his direction, then—
Stepping silently across the shoulders and heads of the distracted undead—he began moving toward the outskirts of the Withered Woods.
-----------------------------------
The small cave had completely changed its appearance.
The wooden table that had been covered with wine and food just moments ago had vanished — consumed by the spell that had reshaped the room.
Only traces remained: dark red wine slowly being absorbed by the dirt floor, roasted meat splattered with muddy water, and shattered wooden fragments — faint signs of the feast that had once taken place here.
Apart from that, the most eye-catching thing was the runes on the cave walls, glowing faintly in hues of blue, red, brown, and green.
They shimmered beautifully, their light intertwining with the intricate lines that stretched across the entire cave.
At this moment, however, the red runes seemed dimmer than the others.
"Wild Hunt! Wild Hunt! Why are those monsters everywhere?!"
Ignaz gasped heavily, cursing aloud.
After finally suppressing a group of ambitious young fools who had actually dared to think of using necromancy to conquer the Northern Continent, now came a whole host of the Wild Hunt.
His years were nearly spent. Studying necromancy had been just a hobby — an attempt to explore the ultimate nature of death, to see whether it was possible to touch upon the essence of life itself and extend one's lifespan.
Of course, it was only ever an experiment.
After so many years, he had long since lost the arrogance and courage of youth.
Rather than an obsession with truly extending his life, his research had become a way to comfort himself in his twilight years — a pastime more than a pursuit.
He had planned to retire in Ban Ard, and it was only at Sunny's urging — and for the sake of a comfortable retirement — that he had accepted this mission, which should have been utterly simple.
Who could have imagined that the exceptional results of his necromantic studies would ignite wild ambition in the hearts of the young mages buried at the bottom ranks of Ban Ard?
After much effort to calm them, a once-in-centuries Conjunction of the Spheres had appeared.
And now, even the Wild Hunt had been drawn here.
Damn it all!
At the thought of the Wild Hunt, Ignaz couldn't help but take a deep breath, turning his furious gaze upon the most gifted student of the Ritual Department — the one whose burning ambition matched his talent.
"Malachi!" he roared. "Who gave you permission to stir up trouble and use necromancy to locate the source of the Conjunction?!"
"Grimm Ramirez was right! The Conjunction is nothing but bait for those dried-up skeleton riders! Now the elves have fled, and the hard-won spirits we summoned are gone as well."
"And now you're trying to stop us from leaving?"
"Are you trying to make us all die with you?!"
Malachi looked up at the strange sun that hung in the night sky.
He didn't respond — not to the claims that "the Wild Hunt had been destroyed by powerful magic," nor that "the academy had already devised countless spells, rituals, and enchanted tools to counter those terrifying monsters."
The darkest day in the history of Ban Ard — almost everyone from the Ritual Department was still inside the academy.
They had watched with their own eyes as one of the Northern Continent's most prosperous cities — guarded by the strongest of sorcerers and known as one of the safest places in the world — was reduced to ruin in an instant, crushed beneath the hooves of the Wild Hunt galloping through the skies.
The spell they had cast earlier was powerful, but still far from enough.
"It's not that I'm stopping you from leaving," Malachi said quietly, shaking his head. "It's that we simply can't leave…"
As he spoke, he raised his right hand and made a few gestures.
But before the orange-red vortex he conjured could fully take shape, it froze midair and burst apart into countless motes of magical light.
Everyone was stunned for a brief second—then their expressions shifted to panic as they hurriedly began casting their own spells.
Malachi was the most gifted sorcerer in the department when it came to spatial magic.
If he couldn't open a portal, then there was no one else present who could.
Still, anyone capable of attempting a portal spell wouldn't simply give up without trying.
Malachi didn't stop them — even though he knew it was useless and would only bring harm.
As expected, out of the dozen sorcerers present, only four — including Malachi — even knew the principles of portal magic, and only two could cast one with stability.
Yet every single attempt failed. Not one of the portal spells succeeded; three sorcerers couldn't even manage to form a proper orange-red vortex, and one of them let out a muffled groan, spitting blood from magical backlash.
"Don't blame me for provoking the Wild Hunt," Malachi said expressionlessly. "When the first Conjunction of the Spheres occurred, the violent spatial turbulence — like a collapse of mountains and a tidal wave of chaos — sealed off this entire region of space."
"The Wild Hunt never intended to let us leave."
"From that moment on, we were already trapped."
"Then why didn't you say so back then?" Ignaz asked in shock.
Malachi shook his head. "Even if I had told you, would it have made any difference?"
Ignaz fell silent.
"Enough with the blame," Malachi said, raising his staff toward the sky. Above them, the blazing fireball had faded, leaving only a mass of thick black smoke. "By now, our distress signal should have reached Sunny. What we need to do is survive — survive beneath the hooves of those monsters."
Everyone exchanged uneasy looks, but in the end, they could only take their positions, preparing to face what might be the hardest battle of their lives.
Only one sorcerer — Lyotard — looked uncertainly toward Malachi. He caught the faintest shake of Malachi's head.
Lyotard frowned.
He didn't believe that the Conjunction of the Spheres had been caused by the Wild Hunt. Of course, no one thought the elves had done it either.
If they truly had that power, they would've used it days ago — when necromancy first unleashed its might.
No, Lyotard believed there was a third party — someone who had trespassed into Ban Ard's hunting grounds, disturbed the ritual, and released the first Conjunction before the undead could capture him.
Then, when the vast army of spirits destroyed the invading monsters and were about to track him down, that same person triggered a second Conjunction to cover his trail.
Apart from the ramblings in the writings of the madman Grimm Ramirez, there was no real evidence linking the Wild Hunt to the Conjunction at all.
Lyotard believed it was the other way around — that it wasn't the Wild Hunt that summoned the Conjunction, but rather the turbulence of the Conjunction itself that had drawn the attention of those spectral riders wandering above Kaedwen.
Just like them, the specters were searching for the same person.
"Don't speak of this," Malachi's voice suddenly echoed in Lyotard's mind.
"But…"
"No buts. You really think you're the only one who's noticed?"
A startled silence fell in Lyotard's thoughts.
Malachi's voice sighed softly within his mind.
"Let's get through this first… then we'll talk about everything else."
Although ritual mages held a low status within Ban Ard, anyone who managed to graduate from the academy, become a full-fledged sorcerer, and remain among the few chosen from thousands of peers could never truly be a fool — not one of them failed to notice that a third force had intervened in all this.
But then…
What kind of existence could control the Conjunction of the Spheres itself?
Even the gods of men could not achieve such a feat!
For the first Conjunction, they could still deceive themselves — saying it was luck, coincidence, or an unrepeatable miracle.
But when the second Conjunction tore open the heavens beneath the descent of the Wild Hunt…
Who could possibly convince themselves that a being capable of manipulating such a phenomenon was a mortal they could comprehend — let alone confront?
That unseen presence, hiding yet to reveal itself, seemed more like one of those eldritch deities from forgotten realms, toying with their fates and emotions for amusement.
Compared to that…
A powerful yet tangible foe — one they could see and perhaps drive away — like the Wild Hunt, became a far more comforting explanation. A lie to shield them from the dreadful truth.
Lyotard froze, then nodded silently and returned to his place within the ritual circle.
By now…
The smoke in the sky had completely dissipated.
The skeletal knights rode their bone steeds across the heavens, with a starlit sky and a silver crescent moon behind them, their hooves treading silently upon the firmament.
Their skulls, bare of flesh, wore rusted helmets; crimson fire burned within their hollow sockets, and tattered cloaks flapped in the cold wind.
That spell — one powerful enough to shatter a mountain — had passed over them like a whispering breeze, bringing nothing, taking nothing.
Malachi's eyes flickered as he watched them.
They were as arrogant as ever — just as they had been on the day Old Ban Ard was destroyed.
Before Dean Hen Gedymdeith sacrificed himself to unleash the forbidden curse, every clash of magic between them had ended the same way: the Wild Hunt would stand unmoving, staring down with those ghastly, flame-lit eyes, watching the sorcerers struggle.
They forced the mages to see — to realize how weak and pitiful their proud spells truly were.
Like children swinging wooden swords at gods.
Until terror shattered their reason… or drove them to madness — fleeing in disgrace or striking out in blind fury.
Malachi glanced at the grim, trembling faces around him.
"We don't need to kill those monsters. We don't need to defeat them. We don't even need to banish those specters in the sky…"
"What we need—" his voice hardened, veins bulging on his forehead, "—is time!"
"Sunny must have received the distress signal by now! Grandmaster Ortolan, one of the five greatest sorcerers in the world, has always been fascinated by these creatures…"
"In less than fifteen minutes, they'll be here — and they'll drive those monsters away!"
The mention of Ortolan, one of the five high masters of the Chapter of the Gift and the Art, eased some of the tension in the group.
"This ritual was made specifically to counter the Wild Hunt!" Malachi roared. "Don't hold back your mana or your will — if we endure, we'll live!"
He lifted his head toward the heavens.
And there, the Wild Hunt — with their crimson ghostfire eyes — seemed to notice their preparations.
The lead rider raised his right hand gracefully… and with a soft motion, brought it down.
A heartbeat later—
Countless silver-white sword lights rained from the heavens, flooding the sky like a storm.
As Malachi strained his body to pour every drop of mana and will into the shimmering blue barrier of magic, something made him pause — an instinct, a whisper.
He turned his head slightly—
And saw it.
A single crimson eye, unblinking, watching from beyond the veil.
........
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