Instead of immediately issuing the order to fire, the two men simultaneously struck the ground with their halberds, producing a dull thud.
Then, under the astonished and perplexed gazes of Foltest and his guards...
Dalton and Philipp, along with the fifty-three knights in silver armour standing behind them, simultaneously dropped to one knee. They faced the golden "sun" in the sky, and on their faces was neither fear of evil nor mere resolve — only devotion and piety.
Dalton's deep, solemn, and pure voice rang out, echoing even in his own words.
"Use faith as armour! Use loyalty as a shield!"
He suddenly lifted his gaze, staring at the golden figure of Karl in the air, and then at the rapidly approaching darkness.
"Armed with a pure purpose, we are knights under the God-Emperor! And demon hunters!"
"Chaos cannot defeat us! Because we are... the battle hammers!"
Dalton and Philipp, almost simultaneously, suddenly rose from the ground. At the moment they stood, a sound erupted — "BOOM!!!"
Suddenly, without warning, a powerful flame burst forth from their bodies. The flame did not burn their armour, but enveloped their silver plates. The tips of the halberds in their hands crackled and flashed with blinding lightning. Moreover, even tinier bolts of lightning danced and flickered around their armour. The lightning struck the ground beneath their feet, forming small scorched craters.
The remaining knights, who had been kneeling on one knee, also rose simultaneously. Though such dazzling flames did not rise from their bodies, the runes on their armour — which had been artfully concealed — suddenly blazed brightly. The swords and shields in their hands were also enveloped in a faint pale-yellow aura.
The mutated fish-men were like creatures crawling out of nightmares; their twisted forms alone were a form of mental contamination. When the first wave, numbering more than twenty, surged onto the lakeshore, stepping onto the slippery mud and gravel, they bared their teeth and claws and charged. The stench — a mixture of rotting flesh, fish, and some indescribable repulsiveness — had already assaulted every sense.
The dozens of guards Foltest had brought were elites among elites. They had survived border conflicts, suppressed banditry, and even engaged in minor skirmishes with the Nilfgaardian army. They prided themselves on their familiarity with bloodshed and had some knowledge of monsters such as drowners, water hags, and bog witches... They thought they were merely facing some mutated aquatic monster.
However, these creatures were far more grotesque than drowners, covered in unwanted tumours, tentacles, and compound eyes. When a deformed fish-man, with limbs twisted at unnatural angles, suddenly lunged right in front of you...
The psychological defences these Knights of the White Lily had built immediately began to crumble. Their chests suddenly heaved heavily beneath their plate armour, their breathing becoming laboured and ragged. They gritted their teeth, trying to overcome the instinctive fear rising from the depths of their hearts.
Worse still, as the mutated creatures drew closer, an invisible, stabbing headache began to spread through their minds. Accompanied by bouts of dizziness and nausea, as well as unidentified whispers, these thoughts were forcibly driven into their consciousness.
"Damn it, what are these things...?"
A young knight was pale; his fingers gripping the hilt of his sword had turned white from excessive force and were trembling slightly. He involuntarily turned his head and muttered curses to his companion standing beside him.
"Just looking at them makes me nauseous... my head hurts terribly..." another said weakly, struggling to suppress his urge to vomit.
The commotion spread among Foltest's personal guards, who were no cowards. However, this double assault — directly targeting the mind and senses — was beyond their previous combat experience. Many subconsciously turned their gaze to the silent knights in silver armour led by Dalton, not far away. Then they witnessed a scene that plunged them into even greater confusion and shame.
The knights in silver armour stood motionless on the front line of defence, like statues cast from steel. Their formation did not waver in the slightest despite the approach of the fish-men. There was not a whisper among them, and even their breathing seemed synchronised.
Did they not feel the headache and nausea?
If one were to approach Dalton and his group at this moment, they would find that they were not entirely unaffected. However, across the surface of their silver-white plate armour floated a faint, nearly imperceptible golden light. This blocked the vast majority of the malicious psychic fluctuations emanating from the mutated fish-men. This was the power of faith bestowed by Karl in action; it not only enhanced the protection of the plate armour but also granted the wearer a certain degree of resistance to mental attacks.
Meanwhile, Geralt, standing slightly behind Dalton's group, a glint of understanding flickered in his cat-like eyes. At that moment, his mind was clear, and he felt no burning or discomfort. Karl had personally applied the "mind-lock" technique, insulating the harmful fluctuations that attempted to penetrate his consciousness.
"Seems the mental protection is effective..." Geralt quickly summarised in his mind. "In that case, I might not need to drink the potions I prepared during the day, saving their full toxicity for a more suitable target."
Without the slightest hesitation, he quickly drew three small bottles from his belt: High-level Thunder, Patrician's Potion, and High-level Blizzard. He bit the cork with his teeth, pulled it out with a pop, spat it aside, and then tilted his head back to swallow the sharply scented draught. Then he repeated the process and drank the other potions.
The potions began to take effect almost immediately. Beneath Geralt's pale cheeks and neck, countless fine, web-like black veins became visible. His face grew even paler, like a corpse, and thin beads of cold sweat trickled from his forehead. Due to the intense pain caused by the toxins, he involuntarily let out a stifled groan, squeezed between his teeth.
But at the same time, his unusual, cat-like eyes grew even brighter than before. He felt power surging within him, his senses sharpened to their limit, the details of his surroundings becoming incredibly clear — it even seemed he could track the movement of every dust particle in the air.
He also wanted to use several other targeted potions... but even a witcher's body had its limits. The cumulative toxicity of three alchemical potions had brought him almost to the point of being unable to endure any more. Increasing the dosage would not only fail to enhance combat ability but could also lead to poisoning and death.
"Enough," Geralt thought, drawing his silver sword from his back. The blade was already coated with a layer of thick, dark-red oil that exuded a strange smell — the scent of residue oil. This special sword oil had a remarkable effect on necrophages, and it could also affect these mutated fish-men, corrupted by the power of the evil god.