While the Temerians had been marching, the ESS Meridian had not been idle. Through the merchant guilds of the Great Sun, Heinrich's intelligence officers had already stripped the mystery from this land. They had downloaded the history of the Conjunction of the Spheres, mapped the political boundaries of the Northern Realms, and studied the biological anomalies known as Witchers.
When the scout looked at Lambert, he didn't see a monster; he saw a high-definition match for a "Mutated Monster Hunter of the Wolf School."
The scout reached up, his fingers finding the manual release on his neck seal. With a clinical hiss of escaping air, the white helmet retracted. Lambert and Roche both tensed, but instead of a twisted mutation, they saw a man in his late twenties with calm, observant eyes.
"We are as human as you, Commander Roche," the scout said, his voice no longer distorted by the suit's Megaphone. "The 'metal' you see is a Power Armor suit—an exoskeleton designed to enhance strength. And this," he patted the Tyrannoraptor slung across his chest, "is a firearm. It is a ranged weapon that replaces both the sword and the bow. It uses kinetic propulsion, not muscle or magic."
Roche let out a long, slow breath. The tension in his shoulders shifted from supernatural dread to political calculation. "Humans," he muttered. "Not demons. Not mages. Just... men with very dangerous toys."
"Who are you exactly?" Roche demanded, his eyes flitting to the ESS Meridian insignia. "You don't carry the banners of any kingdom. Not even the Nilfgaardians possess such craft."
"We are a research organization," the guard replied, gesturing to a nearby crate of Antibiotics being traded. "Our founder, Dr. Wagner, studies Order. You call the world's power 'Chaos'—a wild, unpredictable force. We utilize the laws of the universe. These armors, these weapons, even the medicine that cures your plagues—they aren't spells. They are the result of mundane order, replicated through science to rival the mystic."
Lambert stepped closer, sniffing the air. "Order? You're telling me you made these 'firearms' without a single drop of Power? My Witcher Medallion is dead silent around you. It's like you don't exist in the natural world."
"That is the point, Master Witcher," the guard said with a faint, proud smile. "We don't need Chaos to perform miracles. We use logic. We've studied your 'Conjunction' and your mutations. We know what you are—and we know we can do better."
The Temerian soldiers whispered in the background. To them, the idea that "mundane order" could replicate the terrifying "mystic chaos" of a sorceress was a revolution they weren't prepared for.
"A world where the common man can hold the power of a mage through a machine," Roche whispered, looking toward the distant metallic silhouette of the Spire. "If what you say is true, King Foltest needs to meet your 'Doctor' immediately."
******
Vernon Roche looked at the massive titanium gates of the Spire, his hand tightening on the hilt of his mace. "If we enter," he asked, his voice low, "are we guests, or are we being investigated ourselves?"
The guard didn't answer immediately. He touched a finger to his ear, his gaze going distant. Inside the ESS Meridian command center, Heinrich Wagner watched the high-definition feed of the Temerian commander and the Witcher.
"Minerva," Heinrich said, leaning back in his chair. "Grant them entry. Open the primary transit hub and the Level 1 research wings. Keep the cloning vats and the Nanocrystal synthesis labs under Level 5 encryption. They aren't ready for the 'Dead Effect' protocols yet."
"Permission granted, Doctor," the AI replied.
Back at the gates, the guard stepped aside. "Dr. Wagner will see you. You are permitted to view the non-classified research sectors. Do not stray from the path."
As Roche, Lambert, and the soldiers stepped inside, the breath left their lungs. This wasn't a castle; it was a vision of a future that shouldn't exist. The air was crisp and cool—Air Conditioning hummed invisibly, a stark contrast to the stagnant swamp heat outside. They watched in silent shock as people stepped onto Escalators, gliding upward without moving a muscle, or vanished into Elevators that moved with a soft hydraulic hiss.
"No torches," one soldier whispered, staring at the recessed LED panels. "No candles. Just... light."
They were led into the primary research wing. There were no pentagrams, no bubbling cauldrons, and no mages in velvet robes. Instead, they saw hundreds of scholars in white coats—Scientists and Engineers—bent over glowing glass tables and complex arrays of steel.
Lambert stopped before a massive, rotating device filled with glass tubes. "Alchemy," the Witcher muttered, his hand moving toward his Medallion. But he froze. The silver wolf against his chest was dead still. "Wait... there's no Chaos here. None. This machine... it's spinning, it's glowing, but it's hollow of power."
A nearby scientist, a man whose skin was flawlessly tan thanks to the restoration serum, looked up. "It's not an artifact, Master Witcher. It's a centrifuge. It's purely mechanical. It uses centrifugal force to separate blood components."
"And these?" Roche asked, pointing to rows of blue and green fluids in pressurized canisters. "Potions?"
"Chemical compounds," the scientist corrected. "Synthesized through molecular engineering. No herbs, no monster livers, no incantations. Just pure chemistry."
Roche felt a cold sweat on his neck. In his world, power was rare, guarded by the few who were born with the 'Source.' Here, power was a machine. It was a formula. It was something that could be taught.
They reached the end of the hall, where a set of sliding glass doors hissed open. Standing there was a man who looked less like a ruler and more like a god of the new age. He was young, strikingly handsome, and wore a high-collared black uniform that spoke of absolute authority.
"Welcome to the Meridian," Heinrich Wagner said, stepping forward with a calm, practiced smile. "I am Dr. Wagner. I believe you have questions about how the world actually works."
Roche stood face-to-face with him, feeling small in his mud-stained gambeson. "I am Vernon Roche. And I think 'questions' is a significant understatement, Doctor."