Vilgefortz!
If Vilgefortz hadn't followed Sunny and Ortolan, then he must still be in Ban Ard.
And there was no way he'd pass up such a perfect opportunity to search for Hen Gedymdeith's location.
In the original tale, even when there was no opportunity, he'd create one himself — manipulating both the Nilfgaard Empire and the Northern Kingdoms, stirring storms across the Continent to seize immense power.
How could he possibly sit still now, when Ban Ard was practically a hollow shell?
Allen suddenly had a strong premonition.
Vilgefortz would definitely find the cage imprisoning Hen Gedymdeith tonight.
"But… is that really enough?"
The witcher's cat-like blue eyes gleamed brightly in the darkness, flickering with an excitement he could no longer contain.
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The night was deep. The moon stood high in the sky.
Dust drifted and danced in the cold air.
Across the Lixela River, the lights of Ban Ard flickered faintly in the darkness.
Standing on the windswept plains, Allen gazed toward the city — once nearly wiped off the map — now brimming once more with unspoken vitality.
In just a few short months, even from a distance, the ruins of old were nearly unrecognizable.
Allen panted lightly, turning back toward the jagged treeline stabbing upward like serrated blades. Faint echoes of explosions and thunder still rumbled from far behind.
"I don't know when the war between the Wild Hunt and the sorcerers will end… I have to hurry."
Yes.
He was running toward Ban Ard, the sorcerers' old nest.
Sunny, Ortolan, most of the Ban Ard and Rissberg Group's Civil Cooperative Organization sorcerers — and even the most unpredictable factor of all, the Wild Hunt — were locked in confrontation, battle, and slaughter outside.
There was no reason not to take the risk.
After all, the greatest danger in rescuing Hen Gedymdeith wasn't the prison itself, nor the countless guards and traps layered within.
It was the possibility that something might go wrong — that a single misstep would alert Sunny and Ortolan — and bring about a hopeless siege.
Vilgefortz's task wasn't merely to discover where Sunny had hidden Hen Gedymdeith.
That was important, yes — but even more crucial was mapping out the daily rhythms and movements of Sunny, Ortolan, and the other high-ranking and legendary mages, to avoid any direct confrontation with them.
No matter how well Allen and Philippa Eilhart might cooperate, nothing compared to simply having Sunny and Ortolan absent.
And right now — was the perfect time.
To save time, Allen hadn't even considered returning to Kaer Morhen to call upon Philippa Eilhart.
The ambitious sorceress was far too entangled in her political games — trying to "rescue" a fallen prince for her own gain — and was no longer suited to be his partner.
Besides, rescuing Hen Gedymdeith never truly required Philippa's help.
Her only roles would've been to use her intricate illusions and shapeshifting spells for disguise, and as a sorceress — as Tissaia de Vries's pupil — to liaise with informants.
But for disguise…
Allen, with the Mirage Pearl, was no weaker than Philippa Eilhart herself.
And when it came to informant networks — in some respects, his ties were even stronger than Tissaia's, let alone Philippa's.
Now — this was the best, the only time to rescue Hen Gedymdeith.
The only risk… was that the battle between the Wild Hunt and the sorcerers might end too soon.
But judging from the exchanges he'd witnessed before leaving — the rhythm of assault and counterattack — even as a test of strength, the Wild Hunt and Ortolan's forces were nearly matched. It wouldn't end quickly.
If Ortolan and Sunny triumphed, then there would still be cleanup — chasing down fleeing Aen Seidhe, dealing with lingering specters and undead — all of which would take time.
If the Wild Hunt won… that went without saying.
He would have plenty of time.
Of course, there was always the chance of an unexpected turn.
And that was why he needed to move — faster.
Allen took two deep breaths, eyes fixed on Ban Ard across the river —and for a fleeting moment, he found himself missing the "good girl" on maternity leave.
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"Clatter, clatter—"
A bright lantern hanging from the wagon's pole drove back the darkness ahead. The studded wheels ground against the rocky road, jolting as they rolled forward.
The wagon was packed full — food crates stacked tightly beside heavy, carved timber. These two things should never share the same carriage space, yet tonight they filled it completely.
Especially at night.
And this kind of wagon wasn't rare on this nameless road leading to Ban Ard.
"Strange, isn't it?"
A horse trader standing by the roadside noticed the young mercenary's curious gaze as he examined the horses nearby. He spoke first.
Normally, he wasn't one for conversation — but perhaps the long, lonely night had made him crave someone to talk to.
Or maybe, it was just that the young mercenary's blue eyes were so clear — like the crystal lakes of his homeland — that he couldn't help himself.
The mercenary paused, glanced over the parchment contract handed to him, then nodded.
"Unless there's a war going on, I've never seen anyone hauling wood and food into a city in the middle of the night."
"And I've never seen anyone selling horses by the road this late, either."
"Hahaha!" The horse trader laughed heartily. "Because this is Ban Ard, the new Ban Ard! That 'Eye of the Demon' incident turned the old city into a pile of ruins."
"The peasants in the surrounding villages ran away in fear — no one's farming anymore."
"Now…" He pointed toward the faint magical glow of Ban Ard in the distance. "The most valuable things there aren't herbs, jewels, ornaments, or perfumes — it's potatoes, cabbage, and ordinary timber."
"You wouldn't believe how much horse strength it takes to haul that all night—"
"Oh, I believe it." The young mercenary smiled, signing his name on the parchment and handing it back. "Looking at your clothes and your figure tells me all I need to know."
The mercenary's name was Allen.
He had thought he'd have to rely solely on his legs to reach Ban Ard. But after coming out of the Passolon Forest onto the main road, he found it far livelier than when he had passed here during the day. And for the first time, he saw a horse trader selling by the roadside.
Luckily, he had some coin on him. He spent forty-three Orens on a nag.
To be honest, that price was steep — at least double what it should be.
But to him, time was worth more than gold.
With so many merchants hauling goods so far from Ban Ard, running on foot all the way there — even with his stamina — might only draw suspicion from the city guards.
It wasn't worth the risk.
The horse trader instinctively glanced down at the silk tunic he'd bought recently and his belly that hid his boots from view. He froze for a moment, exchanged looks with the nearby guard, then burst into laughter.
"Porter! I like this witty young man!"
The guard named Porter shrugged, handed Allen the reins of a black horse, and teased, "Who doesn't like a generous customer?"
"Time's worth more to me," Allen replied with a shrug. He stepped into the stirrup and swung himself onto the horse's back.
"Neigh—"
The black horse stamped anxiously at first, but soon calmed under Allen's steady hand.
Just as he was about to nudge it forward, the trader's voice called out from behind.
"Young man, old Hans won't take your money for nothing — here's a piece of advice worth a life."
"Ban Ard is no good place. When you've finished your business, leave as fast as you can. Otherwise…"
His tone dropped to a deep, grim whisper.
"Be careful, or that city will strip your skin, tear your bones apart, and swallow you whole."
Allen's movement paused for a moment. He gave a small nod, then rode off without looking back.
As his figure disappeared into the darkness ahead, the horse trader sighed softly.
"Another poor soul blinded by bounty money. Hah… does he think coin from a sorcerer comes easy?"
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"Clop—clop—clop—"
The sharp rhythm of galloping hooves echoed across the wide, open road.
There were more and more wagons along the way now—almost all of them hauling food and building materials.
Allen watched the strange sight before him, something rarely seen in any medieval land: heavy traffic flowing even deep into the night. His expression grew thoughtful.
From afar, Ban Ard looked prosperous once again—almost as if it had not only recovered from the calamity brought by the Wild Hunt, but had even flourished beyond its former glory with the backing of the Rissberg Group's Civil Cooperative Organization.
The rush for building materials was understandable. The city had been nearly destroyed, and now, as a kingdom meant to belong solely to mages, it needed to be rebuilt swiftly.
But what drew Allen's concern was not the lumber or stone—
it was the food.
Every grain sack, every wagon filled with produce was being hauled in from distant regions, day and night without pause.
That could only mean one thing: the villages surrounding Ban Ard, those that once supplied it, had never recovered from the disaster left behind by the Wild Hunt.
And those villages were the true foundation of any great city.
A city without them… was a castle built on air.
Ban Ard was in danger.
Of course, even if the city were to be destroyed a second time, it had little to do with him.
Allen was merely thinking—how he might use this information to his advantage.
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"Tap… tap… tap…"
The sound of hooves gradually slowed as Allen arrived beneath the gates of New Ban Ard.
From a distance, the city had looked prosperous—but up close, its true state was laid bare.
Deep and shallow craters, blasted open by powerful magic, scarred the ground outside the walls. Only the main road leading to the gate had been roughly patched with dirt, planks, and pebbles, leaving the surface uneven and jarring to walk upon.
Rows upon rows of wooden scaffolding wrapped around the city walls from north to south, making it seem as though Ban Ard itself were trapped inside a giant cage.
Countless craftsmen and laborers stacked bricks along the scaffold, while men in green robes—male mages—stood nearby, shouting and cursing as they supervised.
Charred marks stained the stones. The air reeked faintly of rot, mingled with the odor of a crowded human settlement.
Only the hovering light spells shining above the gates lent a hint of what once made this a city of sorcerers.
As Allen drew nearer, his earlier guess was confirmed—
there was no curfew at the gate.
The queue waiting to enter the city was orderly, far more so than the noisy chaos he'd seen half a year ago when he first came to Ban Ard.
Merchants, mercenaries, and commoners lined up neatly in three columns.
Most conspicuous of all were the "commoners."
In truth, they were refugees—ragged, hollow-eyed people clutching their children, dragging whatever belongings they had left.
Normally, in most cities, refugees would never be allowed inside.
Even without explicit rejection, the entry fee alone would be enough to drive them away.
But Ban Ard was… different.
Not only were the refugees allowed to enter, there were many of them, and none seemed to be leaving.
Perhaps it was because of the night, or perhaps for some other reason—Allen couldn't tell.
"Your purpose here?"
A lazy male voice broke through his thoughts.
Behind a wooden table sat a middle-aged man in a green mage's robe. He leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded, voice dull with routine.
Allen hadn't even spoken yet, but after a brief glance, the man waved a hand dismissively.
"Independent mercenary. Head straight down this road after entering—you'll see an officer with a beard waiting at the end…"
He spoke quickly, as if reciting a line he'd repeated a thousand times before, his tone drifting into muttering self-talk by the end. Then, with another idle gesture, he let Allen pass.
Before Allen fully realized it, he was standing on the soil of New Ban Ard.
"I knew the entry checks would be loose… but this is too easy," he muttered, clicking his tongue softly.
He took a moment to observe.
Aside from the usual animal and human filth staining the streets, the entrance to the new city was completely changed from what he remembered.
Under dim firelight, scaffolds extended from the gate all the way down the street's length.
And on either side of the road—refugees.
Some slumped against walls wrapped in filthy burlap.
Some lay directly in puddles of murky water.
Some didn't move at all.
"Cough—cough—"
Allen wrinkled his nose and coughed several times, forcing down the wave of nausea rising in his throat.
He led his horse forward along the slightly cleaner center path.
Countless eyes followed him from both sides—pitiful, resentful, indifferent, hollow. Soon, a few beggar children approached.
He ignored them and kept walking.
He had nothing to spare; the cheapest thing he carried was an Orén.
And handing out even one Orén could doom those children—
or spark a riot that might drown half the street in blood. So he said nothing, didn't stop, and almost fled forward in silence.
The inner city was somewhat better.
Shops lined the streets here, though most were shuttered at this late hour.
He passed a few open inns but didn't stop at any of them.
It wasn't because of what happened last time, during the Wolf and Cat School apprentice duel, when innkeepers had turned him away for being a witcher.
Allen didn't hold grudges—and in any case, those innkeepers were probably long gone.
He simply didn't need to rest.
Vilgefortz had given him an address before leaving Kaer Morhen—a place where Allen could reach him, if needed.
Without that, even the best opportunity would be meaningless.
"Though…" Allen frowned slightly. "If Vilgefortz has already gone to track down Hen Gedymdeith's whereabouts… what then?"
Thinking that, he followed the address in his mind until he arrived before a gallery named Shailla's Courtyard.
He knocked lightly on the purplewood door carved with roses, tulips, and daffodils—and froze.
"Lydia van Bredevoort…"
The sorceress in a pearl-white gown bowed slightly, her voice soft and calm.
"Master Allen, Vilgefortz asked me to wait for you here. It's been… quite some time."
.........
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