Chapter Fifty-Four: Even a Mage Must Abide by the Fundamental Laws

After bidding farewell to Siegfried of the Rose Knights, Angoulême and Victor continued their walk home.

The young man asked, “How many did you sense?”

Angoulême replied, “…Two… five… six… six of them, four ahead and two behind.”

Victor touched the burning-hot “Anti-Prank Amulet” in his pocket, once again grateful for Bernard’s enthusiastic recommendation. Though it looked like a joke when he bought it, it had truly proved useful in preventing ambushes.

Not far ahead lay a narrow alleyway—clearly the ideal spot for an ambush. Calculating the time, Victor thought Siegfried should have already returned to the order to call for reinforcements.

The upside of having few enemies was not having to wonder who they were. It seemed Count Falwick’s men weren’t fools: after observing that he hadn’t fled Vizima but instead returned to the city, and considering the risk of counter-surveillance, they had decisively chosen to stage an ambush—planning to leave the city afterward, no matter the outcome.

Had the roles been reversed, Victor would likely have planned the same.

As the Phantom Company approached the ambush point, Falwick’s mercenaries lay in wait. Unfortunately for them, their prey stopped to talk right before entering the trap, then suddenly turned and bolted after several minutes.

“We’ve been spotted! Move now!” barked the leader. Four crossbows were raised, two pairs taking aim at the company’s backs and firing in unison.

But just as the triggers clicked, the girl knocked the boy to the ground, both narrowly dodging the deadly bolts, then leapt up and continued to flee.

Judging the distance, the mercenaries believed they could still catch up. Abandoning their crossbows, they drew swords and closed in, only to realize something was amiss—those meant to cut off the escape route hadn’t appeared.

When they finally halted, they saw a face that made their blood run cold: golden short hair, striking features—Siegfried of Danseaux, flanked by several supporting knights.

The six mercenaries already bore bounties on their heads and had only thrived in the Moen region under Falwick’s protection; they never dared show themselves elsewhere. For such criminals, being caught by the city guard or the order’s knights meant only one thing: the gallows. In an instant, the remaining four scattered desperately.

But everyone knew that at this range, fleeing was no more than a futile struggle. The knightly order of this fantastical world was nothing like that of the medieval era; their armaments were utterly different. Because Witcher-world knights needed to counter magic, they not only encouraged marksmanship but even permitted the use of crossbows. So, once the mercenaries were targeted by the order, their fate was sealed.

The knights fired crossbow bolts first, then drew swords and charged. Though clad in heavy armor and often thought slow, knights struck with a swiftness that would astonish the uninitiated.

Watching the knights cut down the mercenaries with ease, Victor made a silent assessment: one-on-one, he would win; one-on-two, he could hold out for a long time, but would eventually have to flee; one-on-three, it would be suicide. It seemed that, barring outliers, the world’s typical power level could be summed up as “one man against a hundred, possible—as a wizard; one man against ten thousand, only in dreams.”

Neither Victor nor Angoulême intervened; at times like this, it was best to play the role of good citizens. To have two waves of enemies wiped out in one day with outside help, without even spending potions or bombs—Victor found this outcome most satisfactory.

But this seemingly certain victory did not go unspoiled. Among the six mercenaries, one turned out to be a mage. He blasted back an approaching knight with a fireball, then vaulted onto the rooftop of a nearby building.

Bathed in bright moonlight, the masked mage’s features were obscured, but Victor caught a glimpse of his long, narrow eyes. The mage silently applauded Victor’s alertness, then drew a finger across his throat in mockery before opening a portal and vanishing into the night, just as the knights’ second volley of bolts was let loose.

Watching helplessly as the mage disappeared from the rooftop, Siegfried turned to Victor with a wry smile. “Eternal Fire! You really should have told me your pursuers included a mage.”

Victor could only return an even more bitter smile. “Trust me—I only just found out myself.”

Realizing it was unfair to blame the boy, Siegfried sighed. “If I’d known, I’d have brought an anti-magic metal mesh. No—against a mage who can teleport, I’d need to requisition an anti-magic metal bomb.”

At the mention of “anti-magic metal bomb,” Victor’s heart skipped a beat.

In the game, witchers could use many types of bombs, but the only bomb recipes Victor had found at Kaer Morhen were for the beehive grenade and the dancing star incendiary. Vesemir had confirmed that those were the only ones available.

Noticing the disparity between game and reality, Victor naturally focused on the anti-magic metal bomb—a crucial weapon against mages, and one of the most memorable from his past. Yet in his research, he’d found only references to anti-magic metal—demonium—in the literature.

This metal was mainly produced in the kingdoms of Kovir and Poviss; it was rare, imported, and extremely expensive.

Victor had found no mention of anti-magic metal bombs in any book, so he had not expected to hear of this “mage-breaking weapon” from the mouth of a Rose Knight, a man seemingly unrelated to bombs.

Instinctively, the boy pressed for details. “What exactly is this ‘anti-magic metal bomb’ you mentioned?”

Siegfried glanced at Victor and shook his head. “Sorry, that’s classified, Vic. I shouldn’t have let it slip—please, do me the favor of forgetting it.

All I can say is, just possessing such an item is considered a deeply unfriendly act toward mages—though to be honest, some mages make it very hard to feel friendly at all.”

He continued, “Let’s go. The appearance of a rogue mage changes everything!” Siegfried spread his hands toward the Phantom Company, “Now, I must formally invite you—Victor and Angoulême, both of Clan Corleone—to the headquarters of the Order of the Flaming Rose.

Given the grave events in Vizima tonight, the order needs to understand the full story.

No matter what, when six heavily armed mercenaries—one of them a mage—attack you with crossbows, insisting you know nothing would be an insult to both our intelligence.”

…

An hour later, in the reception room at the Flaming Rose headquarters, with six knights who had taken part in the night’s action as witnesses, Siegfried accepted the transcript of the statement from the scribe and handed it to Victor for review.

“…Therefore, Mr. Victor Corleone, I must ask you to confirm once again: you are accusing a respected nobleman, an honored knight, the former commander of the White Rose Knights—Count Falwick of Moen—of sending mercenaries to murder you and your companion, Miss Angoulême Corleone.”

After carefully reading the statement, Victor signed his name.

“Though I regret to say it, those are the facts. Yes, everything that happened in Aelland and afterward in Vizima—I swear my testimony is true. Long live King Foltest.”

As Victor finished his accusation, the witnessing knights simultaneously sighed, when a thunderous portal sounded—the soft golden glow appearing in the center of the room, drawing every eye.

A lady stepped through the portal. The first thing anyone would notice was her lustrous, flowing hair.

In the world of Witchers, common women usually wore kerchiefs, while noblewomen adorned elaborate hats.

Only two types of women let their hair cascade freely—prostitutes and sorceresses, both declaring to the world that they were free and in command of their own destinies.