While Igris fought the Dread lord, Ciri, about fifty meters behind, crouched behind a rock, carefully aiming her Dark Elf crossbow and observing the Dark Elves in front of her. She kept her breathing slow and controlled to prevent any trembling in her grip as she aimed at a Witch Elf standing among them. The Witch Elf was cautiously peeking her head out from between two rocks, scanning the surroundings with sharp vigilance. Ciri waited without moving. The distance between them was a little over sixty meters. Although she trusted her marksmanship, it was the first time she had used this particular crossbow. Normally she was accustomed to small one-handed crossbows. She had used a standard crossbow fewer than ten times in her life, and each time her target had been within forty meters. For that reason, she did not want to take unnecessary risks.
When the Witch Elf leaned her head out a little further to look around, Ciri murmured calmly.
"Come on… a little more… Be a good prey and show yourself to me."
The moment the Witch Elf exposed herself further, Ciri aimed at her chest, adjusted the crossbow while feeling the wind, and gently squeezed the sensitive trigger. The Dark Elf bolt shot forward from the crossbow. Ciri immediately withdrew behind the rock and hid. A second later she heard a scream filled with pain. As she calmly cocked the Dark Elf bow and placed an arrow onto the string, she thought to herself.
That makes five… I'll probably expose myself on the next one…
After calmly readying the bow, Ciri took a vial from the small pouch on her belt, sniffed it, and analyzed it. The liquid inside was a paralysis poison she had taken earlier from the corpse of one of their enemies.
Strange mixture… Some of the components are familiar, but some are not… Later I'll analyze this poison and develop a proper antidote. Adding it to my arsenal would also be useful.
Ciri slowly leaned to the left and began scanning the direction opposite to the Witch Elf she had just shot. To sharpen her sight, she resorted to a power she had only recently acquired and still could not fully rein in. The veins at her temples swelled like dark rivers, spreading across her face. The irises of her ruby-red eyes narrowed into the vertical slits of a cat, while the whites of her eyes darkened into deep black and the ruby glow of her pupils began to shimmer faintly.
Her vision instantly sharpened to a telescopic clarity; every crack in the rocks and every trembling leaf became distinct. She identified several targets within seconds and then released the power. As the darkness retreated from her temples, she felt a bead of sweat forming on her forehead. She still struggled to control the ability because she was not yet accustomed to it, but the energy it consumed in this partial state was far less than her full transformation.
She aimed at a Dark Elf corsair and began waiting. Her breathing was icy calm, her fingers as motionless as a statue on the crossbow's trigger. At that exact moment, a metallic flash flickered at the far right edge of her vision. Her reflexes moved before her thoughts could form; Ciri threw herself backward instantly.
A second later, a heavy crossbow bolt tore through the air where she had just been standing, grazing the spot and slamming into the rock with a shower of sparks before embedding itself into the ground. The one who had fired it shouted in the Dark Elf tongue.
"I FOUND HER! OVER THERE!"
With a swift, agile motion, Ciri peeked her head out from behind the rock she had taken cover behind. She gripped the crossbow tightly, aimed, and pulled the trigger. The Dark Elf who had spotted her moved quickly into cover just as she fired. The bolt whistled through the air, passing just above his head and disappearing into empty space.
Now that her position had been revealed, the Dark Elves became far more cautious. To protect themselves both from Elladan and Elrohir's arrows raining down from above and from Ciri behind them, they buried themselves deeper into their cover. Ciri was far from them, and unlike the wounded twins above, she appeared quite fresh. The Dark Elves were too experienced to recklessly charge someone holding a crossbow; besides, they assumed the mysterious archer facing them was an Elf. The remaining Dark Elf archers fired a few suppressing shots toward Ciri's direction and then waited on guard.
Sheltered in her rocky refuge where arrows clattered and ricocheted against the stone, Ciri reloaded her crossbow while assessing the situation.
Hide and seek ends here… I wonder what that man is doing.
Although she was curious about Igris's situation as he struggled against the Dread Lord, the field before her was what truly demanded her attention. She tried to form a quick plan in her mind.
Because of me, they won't be able to climb up the hill so easily anymore. Their attention has shifted to me. But I still don't know what's happening on the other side of the hill. I can't stay pinned here. I need to attack somehow and force this into close combat… but how?
For a moment Ciri paused and looked at her hands, calloused from years of gripping swords. Ever since drinking that strange potion of Mephisto's, she could feel the change within her body.
I can now truly be considered a Witcher. If I unleash my power completely, my reflexes, speed, and agility will increase dramatically. In this state, I can deflect incoming arrows and close the distance… but my energy will also deplete just as quickly. Afterwards, there's a risk of my body becoming paralyzed and immobile.
Ciri let out a deep sigh and pushed those thoughts aside. She crouched and moved to the other end of the rock, then lay flat on the ground and began observing the area through a small gap beneath the stone. Holding her crossbow steady, she scanned the surroundings.
At that moment she spotted a Dark Elf wearing a mask with a shaved head—one of Slaughterer Sisters. The masked Elf watched both the point where Ciri was hiding and the summit where the twins stood with careful attention. When she believed she had found a safe opening, she suddenly burst forward and sprinted toward another rock about seven meters away.
At the very instant the Elf moved, Ciri felt the direction and speed of the wind and adjusted her aim. When she pulled the trigger, the bolt tore through the air toward its target. But instead of striking the masked Elf directly in the chest, it grazed her shoulder. The Elf flinched in pain and let out a sharp groan, clutching her wounded shoulder as she cast a look of hatred behind her.
Still, she did not stop running. Yet that sudden blow had thrown off her balance, causing her to stumble for nearly a full second.
That single second of hesitation became her end.
The masked Elf suddenly felt a sharp pain and warmth erupt in her throat. Startled, she brought her hands to her neck; the moment she realized what had smeared onto her fingers, her eyes widened in shock and she collapsed onto her knees. From the summit, Elrohir had struck her perfectly with a flawless arrow that pierced straight through her throat.
Seeing this, Ciri raised her eyebrows in admiration—but at the same time, she felt a deep dissatisfaction with herself. The arrow she had fired had missed its true mark, and as a hunter, that wounded her pride. A flame of stubborn determination flickered within her as she gripped the crossbow's handle tighter and thought with displeasure.
Looks like I really need to train my marksmanship…
At that exact moment, the hairs on the back of Ciri's neck stood on end. Acting on pure instinct, she suddenly rolled to the right and threw herself into the safe shadow of the rock. Not even a full second passed before a Dark Elf arrow tore through the air, grazing the exact spot where she had just been standing and burying itself into the earth. Ciri took a deep breath of relief; as she rose and began cocking her crossbow again, her mind worked rapidly.
If I could get into close combat with them, things would be much easier… But Igris is right. In my current physical condition, entering a direct battle would be a bad idea.
Ciri cast a brief glance at the sleeve of her white shirt, which had been torn by the passing arrow, and let out a calm sigh.
I'll have to sew that later… At least the arrow didn't touch my skin.
She didn't want to get even the slightest scratch from the Dark Elves' weapons. Witch hunters possessed extraordinary resistance to diseases and many known poisons, but she had no idea how potent the poisons of this world could be. Moreover, she hadn't yet had the chance to fully test how long her altered body could withstand it.
After placing a new bolt into the crossbow and setting the trigger, Ciri looked thoughtfully at the weapon in her hands.
This thing is far stronger than the crossbows in my world, and the craftsmanship is truly flawless. It's surprisingly easy to cock too; it requires very little arm strength. Maybe I should keep this weapon for myself.
With that thought, she held the crossbow ready against her chest and cautiously peeked her head out from the edge of the rock. But the moment she realized someone was aiming at her, she pulled back instantly. Two arrows grazed the rock and shot past the exact spot where she had just exposed herself before burying themselves into the ground with force. Ciri stared at the arrows for a moment, then ignored them and once again assumed her firing position.
At the same time, among the rocks at the summit of the hill, Elrohir was in a dire state. His complexion had grown pale, sweat poured down from his forehead into his eyes, and he was breathing deeply. Swollen black veins bulged beneath his skin, and his hands trembled slightly—but the stubborn glint in his eyes had not faded; he was resisting with all his will against the poison coursing through his veins. When he noticed the movement below, he turned to the brother behind him.
"Elladan, things have changed on this side. I think reinforcements have arrived."
Elladan, who was holding the other slope of the hill, replied with difficulty, struggling to gather his words.
"G-g-good… I-I don't think I can hold out much longer. I-I've lost too much blood and the p-poison has spread everywhere… Huff… I d-don't know how much longer I can last… But n-not long… huff."
Elladan's condition was far worse than his brother's. His entire body trembled violently, and the black veins across his skin spread like a web. His eyes were bloodshot, and the bandage wrapped around his chest—once pure white—was now completely crimson. The wound in his chest opened further with every movement, accelerating his blood loss. Although he had performed the first aid himself, his body was utterly exhausted. The poison had spread more slowly in Elrohir because he had been wounded in the leg, but Elladan's injury was dangerously close to a vital area.
Elrohir looked at his brother with worried eyes, though he did not let that concern show on his face. Turning, he limped toward Elladan.
"Let's switch places. Move over to this side, I'll take your position. My arms still work, and the poison hasn't spread fully through my upper body yet. Since help has arrived, my side should be easier to hold now."
Elladan nodded and tried to stand, but the moment his body moved, the wound stabbed into him like a blade. He clenched his teeth, grabbed his chest, and groaned in pain.
"Tch!"
With trembling legs he took a step forward, but his balance faltered and he staggered. His brother immediately grabbed his arm and prevented him from falling. After casting a grateful look, Elladan changed positions with Elrohir's help. The moment Elrohir took the new position, he looked down; seeing the approaching Dark Elves, he placed an arrow on his bow and fired, striking one of them with perfect accuracy. His hand moved as quickly as possible as he continued to shoot arrow after arrow—but his quiver was nearly empty.
At that same time, in the northwest of Rivendell, slightly above the Troll Forest, a massive clash was taking place. An Elven army clad in armor adorned with gold and silver ornaments, gleaming brilliantly, had engaged a unit of orcs dressed in pitch-black armor. The ground was already littered with the corpses of Elves and orcs, along with severed limbs scattered across the battlefield. The number of Elven casualties was far lower than that of the orcs. Not only did they possess numerical superiority, but their long lives had granted them immense experience and refined combat training. Yet this advantage applied only to ordinary orcs.
The noise of the battlefield had become an endless ringing born from metal clashing against metal. One Elven warrior wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his hand and gripped his sword tightly. The Great Orc standing before him was far more than a simple infantry soldier. The armor forged from crude steel that covered its body was filled with deep notches left by countless battles, and its enormous frame resembled a living boulder. Creatures like these had been raised within the brutal discipline of savage tribes, knowing life only through the handle of the axe they carried.
The Orc swung its heavy axe in a short arc through the air and stepped forward. The ground seemed to tremble slightly beneath its massive weight. The Elven warrior waited calmly—but with great caution. Acting hastily before a Great Orc was no different from committing suicide.
The Orc suddenly lunged forward. He swung his axe in a horizontal arc; though the movement appeared crude, it was in fact calculated enough to narrow the Elf's escape routes. The Elf leaned his body slightly backward, allowing the edge of the axe to graze the chest of his armor by mere centimeters. As the steel tore through the air, the Elf did not allow the weapon to complete the momentum of its return swing; instead, he thrust his sword toward the Orc's exposed flank.
But instead of the sound of flesh being cut and blood spraying, sparks burst forth as metal scraped against metal. The Orc spun around with a speed no one would expect from such a bulky body and used the thick steel guard on his arm like a shield. As the Elf's blade scraped along the armor, leaving a long mark across it, the Orc seized the opening created by that movement. Growling like a bear, he drove his free fist into the Elf's chest. The Elf staggered back two steps under the weight of the blow, the air forced from his lungs for a moment. The Great Orc chuckled mockingly and spoke with a deep, muffled voice.
"You must be faster, graceful bird."
Regaining his balance, the Elf did not respond; he merely narrowed his eyes at his opponent. Taking his stance again, he launched into a counterattack. With swift and precise strikes, he directed his sword toward the gaps in the Orc's armor, attacking rapidly—straight cuts, diagonal slashes, horizontal strikes—trying to overwhelm and kill the Orc. Yet each time the Orc skillfully parried the blows with the shaft of his axe or with his armored shoulders. The difference between these Orcs—trained for combat since infancy—and ordinary Orcs could be felt by the Elf down to his very bones.
On the Elf's sixth strike, the Orc brought his axe down from above with all his strength. The Elf held his sword horizontally, gripping the hilt with both hands. The sound of steel clashing was loud enough to deafen the ears. The Elf's knees trembled under the pressure; the raw strength of this creature was as unstoppable as a falling tree.
As the Orc pressed down with his axe, he simultaneously kicked hard at the Elf's shin. The Elf clenched his teeth with a pained grunt but did not release his sword. Sliding his body to the side, he freed himself from the pressure of the axe and, as he passed beside the Orc, cut through the straps of armor around the creature's thigh with the tip of his blade.
The Orc staggered slightly, and black blood began to seep from his leg—but the wound only made him angrier. Turning, he swung the pointed butt of the axe's shaft toward the Elf's helmet. The Elf ducked at the last moment; the shaft of the axe smashed through the shoulder plate of his armor, leaving behind a shallow scrape.
The Elf leapt back and took position, ready for battle. He breathed deeply but calmly, his chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. His opponent, despite the wounded leg, had not lowered his guard even by a single centimeter. This was a war of attrition, and the one who made the first mistake—or succumbed to exhaustion—would fall into eternal sleep.
The Orc grasped his axe again with both hands. This time he did not charge with a roar but advanced in deadly silence. Elf raised his sword to the level of his face. In the center of the battlefield, the roar of the armies had faded into silence for them. Only two warriors remained—and the cold song of steel.