Roy sat down, huffing and puffing. His face was still filled with dark veins, and he winced from the pain. It felt like his bones were crushed, and his liver felt like it was in chunks. Reality was cruel. That punch from Fagus reduced his HP to twenty percent, critically hurting him. He would have never gotten back up without that Activate. “That guy was like a retired boxer, but more demon-like.”
The young witcher spat out more blood. His body felt like it would fall apart. Every cell and every bone was screaming, especially the right side of his torso near the liver. His broken rib was pointing downward, and waves of pain swept past him, spreading to his fingers and toes. It took him back to the days of his trial.
The pain made him curl up like a cooked lobster. He spasmed, and sweat drenched him. The agony was too much for him to bear, and the sunlight did not help. He was starting to lose consciousness, his eyes becoming unfocused. He wobbled, and an alluring voice in his mind said, “Sleep. Just sleep.”
“I’m tired… I want to sleep…” His ears started to buzz, and he was seeing doubles. The young witcher would fall into a deep sleep if he was not careful. He shook his head and muttered, “I-I can’t sleep yet. Th-They need my help!”
He bit his tongue. The pain and taste of blood made him open his eyes and refocus. All of a sudden, he saw a familiar face staring at him. “Wilt? I thought I told you to run! Why’d you come back?”
The brown horse licked the witcher’s cheek, then it bent down and knelt.
“You’re a brave, lovely horse.” Roy held its neck with difficulty and mounted the horse. Carl was on horseback as well, and Gryphon the cat was behind him. They were looking at the young witcher with concern.
“A-Are you alright, Roy?”
“Don’t worry. Still alive,” Roy answered weakly, lying on Wilt’s back. Gryphon came over and licked his right hand. It was burned. The cool sensation of its drool helped with the pain. He took a marigold potion and a spirit potion from his inventory and gulped them down. It helped a lot with his wounds.
It was the perfect moment to down a Swallow and speed up his recovery, but he had used Thunderbolt and Petri’s Philter before this. He could not take a third decoction with how he was at the moment, or the decoction would hurt him more than it could heal. “There, Wilt.” Roy patted Wilt’s neck and looked at the faraway battlefield. “Find some cover, and don’t get too close. I don’t want the crones to notice.
The witchers and the crones were engaged in a heated battle. The Brewess whipped out an enormous ladle made out of black metal after she escaped the dimeritium mist. She held it with both hands, swinging it like it was a two-handed hammer or battleaxe.
She held the handle and put her weight into her right feet, pirouetting like an athlete who was about to toss a disc. The sixty-feet long ladle flew through the air like a meteorite, drawing a beautiful arc. The air itself howled, while grass and dust flew into the air. The space around the ladle was filled with the power of death and destruction.
Roy was peeping from far, far away, and even still, he could feel the power behind this attack. Nobody could take it head on. It could smash even metal into pieces, let alone humans.
Auckes and Serrit were dealing with her. They were experienced hunters and the school’s elite. Over their years of working as witchers, they had killed wyverns, griffins, and countless giants before. Their teamwork was immaculate, and their experience helped them greatly in battle. They could go toe to toe with the Brewess.
Their incredible instincts helped them dodge the Brewess’ hurricane of death, and they danced on its edges. They were waiting for an opening most of the time. Impatience was their greatest enemy after all. Most attacks would always slow down, and they could land a hit of their own.
The Weavess was the only one who was unhurt. She had a dark smirk on her face, and it looked like she was making a furball. At the same time, tapestries kept flying out of her sleeves, as if they were infinite.
The tapestries could not deal as much damage as the Brewess’ ladles or the Whispess’ claws, but they were more durable than either of them. The Weavess had created tapestries for hundreds of years, and they seemed endless. She was planning to go into a war of attrition and exhaust the witcher.
Letho tried everything. He tried slicing the tapestries and burning them with Igni, but they just kept coming. In fact, they were closing in on him, as if they were a boa constrictor trying to trap its prey.
“Dammit!” Letho cut another tapestry in half again. He was starting to sweat. Things were not looking too good. If he lost all his strength, the Weavess could kill him easily.
However, a sudden scream of agony caught everyone’s attention.
Roy’s eyes widened in delight, and he smiled. Auckes and Serrit finally cut off the Brewess’ arm, and its hand was still holding that ladle. The brothers did not stop attacking, even then. They stabbed her belly and sliced upward, drawing two more gashes on the monster.
Her innards spilled, and she fell backward. She was almost dead, and part of it was thanks to Roy firing bolt after bolt at her.
The sight of her dying sister made the Whispess screech. Her eerie whispers turned into shouts, and they swept through the battlefield. The witchers felt as if their minds and ears were being sliced. They covered their ears, their faces contorted in agony.
The witchers wobbled, and the Weavess took this chance to sweep the Brewess away. She looked like she wanted to keep fighting, but in the end, she sighed.
They could deal with the witchers easily if they were in Velen. That was their turf. Alas, they were not in Velen. They were not gods on this battlefield.
“I will not forget this, witchers!” the Weavess hissed. She and her sister turned into crows and flew into the air, taking their dying sister along with them. “You will pay for what you have done the next time we meet!”
Her message faded in the air. What was left on the battlefield was a broken arm and some wounded witchers.
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