"First of all, I need to know exactly how many people you have available," the witcher said firmly, pinning the map to the table with his dagger. His voice was calm yet commanding. "List every one of them—their class, specialties, and combat style. Also, tell me what additional resources you can provide, anything that might enhance our fighting capability."
Aldric gestured toward Vittoria, signaling her to drag the "salted fish" assassin lying motionless on the floor into the corner so he wouldn't block everyone's way.
"You'd better heal that assassin right now," the witcher continued without looking up, his eyes still fixed on the map. "He can move through shadows. If we want to locate those poor girls inside the Black Ship, we'll need his abilities."
The witch clenched her teeth and reluctantly reached into her robes, taking out a crystal vial filled with a faintly glowing, lavender-colored liquid. As she moved, the liquid flowed like mercury inside the bottle.
With visible pain on her face, she handed the vial to Vittoria. "A High-Grade Healing Potion Potion, smuggled in from the New World," she said grudgingly. "They say it's a new formula developed by the Witch King himself, astonishingly potent! One bottle costs 1,500 gold coins—and that's if you can even find one on the market! This will be deducted from your mission reward."
The witcher ignored her complaints. He traced a winding route across the map with his finger. "Vittoria, give that stuff to our shadow assassin," he ordered. "Liam, keep an eye on him. If he tries to escape after recovering, just repeat what you did last time."
"Yes, sir!" Liam finally managed to calm down the girl in his arms. Hearing his superior's command, he sighed in relief. With a brief nod to the girl's reluctant gaze, he hurried over to join Vittoria, standing tall over the unconscious assassin.
'Sorry, brother,' he thought to himself, 'but I've got no choice. Don't worry—if you try to run this time, I'll be gentle about it.'
"I really don't want to drink that stuff!" the shadow assassin croaked weakly. "Who knows what those Witch Kings might've mixed into it, what if it's poisonous? Wait, you haven't even confirmed if that thing actually—"
His words were cut off by the sound of liquid being forcibly poured down his throat—glug, glug, glug…
Vittoria clearly wasn't the patient type; she had better things to think about, like what equipment she might still need for the upcoming mission.
"The Witch Coven currently has four members stationed here in Port Anthony, myself included," the witch said as she moved closer to the witcher. Because of the strange flames that occasionally flickered around his body, she kept a cautious arm's length distance. "Aside from one apprentice witch, the rest of us will fully support your operation. There's also a martial monk from the East, he maintains a good relationship with the Coven and will join us as well."
"What can you all actually do?" Aldric asked, circling an area on the map with a pen Vittoria handed him. The spot was in the slums—the same warehouse where the Nurgle cultists had once tried to open a Chaos Rift.
"I'm afraid we can't offer much direct assistance," the witch admitted. "The Black Ship itself was forged by a Witch King—it's essentially a mobile sacred temple. Within its influence, both witches and warlocks will find their powers heavily suppressed." She took the pen and drew a circle on the map's harbor district. "We can, however, provide teleportation support—silent and unseen."
"Within a fifty-meter radius around the Black Ship, our power will be reduced to that of ordinary people," she explained, drawing the first circle.
"Within two hundred meters, our magic will still be weakened, and teleportation spells can't be precisely targeted—they'll be unreliable at best." She drew a second circle to mark it.
"Tell me more about that monk later," Aldric said, marking key areas between the two circles. "Now, Sir Bart could you come over here for a moment?"
The atmosphere among the group grew focused and disciplined. Most of them had military backgrounds, and the air suddenly felt like that of a strategy room before a real campaign. The knight, Bart Rossetti, stepped forward, saluting respectfully. "What are your orders, Commander?"
Aldric looked up at him. Bart stood tall at the right side of the table, his helmet tucked under one arm, his stance steady and proud. Though not trained in a formal army, his bearing was that of a veteran soldier. To Aldric, he felt like a dependable sergeant major, someone you could trust to hold the line.
"Sir Bart," said the witcher evenly, "since our strength is limited, I'll need both you and your daughter to assist us. It could be dangerous but I'll do everything I can to ensure your safety."
The knight hesitated. He was no stranger to danger—battle was almost second nature to him. Yet the thought of his daughter, Carla, being involved made him waver.
Sensing her father's concern, Carla stepped forward, her voice steady but gentle. "Father, let's go together. I'll have to face these things sooner or later, won't I? And if I have both you and him by my side, isn't that the best situation possible?"
Her determined gaze made Liam instinctively avert his eyes. As an awakened witch, Carla Rossetti's fiery eyes weren't just a metaphor his rapidly heating armor could attest to that fact.
The faint surge of energy leaking from her emotions nearly melted the metal on Liam's breastplate. Thankfully, out of embarrassment, the girl quickly looked away before the poor man was cooked alive.
"I—I didn't mean to!" she stammered, covering her face with both hands in panic.
"You sure about that, sir?" Liam yelped, hopping on one foot as he tore off his overheated armor and tossed it aside. "Because this plan feels a bit risky—and our scout doesn't look too good either!"
Aldric turned around just in time to see the shadow assassin convulsing violently on the floor. His entire body was arched like a bowstring, trembling uncontrollably, foam frothing from his mouth.
Medically speaking, it looked like a textbook case of opisthotonus—which usually meant the person was beyond saving.
The witcher glanced at the witch with suspicion. Did she give him the wrong potion?
"Don't look at me like that," the witch protested when she noticed everyone staring at her—everyone except the terrified Carla, who still had her eyes shut. "I told you—the potion's effects are astonishing!"
As she finished speaking, the assassin's spasms began to subside. He collapsed limply onto the floor, soaked in sweat, breathing heavily but clearly alive.
"You're seriously planning to take me along… to pick a fight with those nuns?" the shadow assassin, Colin, asked weakly from the ground, his voice trembling.
(End of Chapter)