King of the Wild Hunt, Die!

Clang!

Following the muscle memory honed through countless repetitions, the Witcher gripped the hilt, drew his sword, leaped from Black Dragon's pitch-black back, spun, and slashed!

The silvery-white blade light cut through the air, tracing a perfectly curved semicircle—then abruptly stopped without a sound.

A completely fleshless skeleton stood eerily atop Black Dragon's back, pinching the silver sword's blade between two pale finger bones.

Blue-gray bonefire flickered in its eye sockets. No expression could be read from the skeleton's face, yet Ailin felt a chill run through his entire body, as if he had fallen into an icy abyss.

Even if that had merely been an instinctive counterattack under stress, it should not have been blocked so easily.

Two fleshless finger bones had caught his sword?

He was no longer the Witcher Apprentice who had just crossed over. He was a Witcher Master whose five-dimensional attributes had all reached their limits.

Yet Eredin Breacc Glas made him feel like a seven- or eight-year-old child who had not even learned how to hold a sword.

Still, despite his shock, Ailin did not give up resisting. His left hand instantly released the hilt, curled his middle finger, and shoved forward fiercely.

Alde Sign.

Invisible telekinetic force surged from his palm and warped the air, but like waves crashing against solid rock, it failed to disrupt even the slightest movement of Eredin Breacc Glas.

Those smooth white skeletal feet, with their extremely narrow contact area, seemed glued to Black Dragon's back, utterly unmoving.

"Not a bad weapon, child of the Elder Blood!"

The bonefire within the skeleton's eye sockets flickered twice. With two fingers pinching the silvery blade, it slowly but firmly moved the sword tip away from where it had been aimed at the skeleton's heart.

The Witcher instinctively resisted.

But the