Sparring at the Training Ground

Geralt stepped into the enclosure. The guard did not wait; his blade slashed down at an angle, so fast that the recruits around the perimeter could barely make out its trajectory.

Geralt twisted aside, the blade missing as it scraped past his shoulder armor. At nearly the same moment, his own sword swept upward from below. The force was not heavy, but the angle was tricky.

The guard had to pull back his sword to block, breaking his offensive rhythm. He knocked Geralt's blade aside head-on and took half a step back.

Geralt did not press the attack. Instead, he withdrew half a step, opening the distance and allowing the guard to regain his footing.

Several Blue Stripes outside the enclosure spoke in low voices. If they had taken that strike, they might have lost even faster than the guard. The recruits, meanwhile, had fixed their eyes on the two blurred figures and completely forgotten their commands.

The guard adjusted his rhythm. He no longer tried to match Geralt's speed, lowering his blade and center of gravity as he switched to the hard-hitting battlefield style of direct clashes.

His swing seemed capable of tearing through the air. Geralt blocked several times in succession, his footwork turning to evade the frontal assault. Then he countered with a thrust from a blind angle, stopping the blade before the guard's throat.

The guard glanced at his own sword. It was still half a blade's length from Geralt's shoulder. He sheathed it and stepped out of the enclosure. Geralt looked at him, then at Ron standing outside the fence. "Not bad."

Hearing the assessment, the guard gave a slight nod and left the enclosure. Ves raised an eyebrow.

The lightly wounded Blue Stripes grew solemn, while several regular soldiers whispered among themselves. To have his swordsmanship acknowledged by a master witcher was enough to say certain things.

At some point, Keira had walked over to the fence, holding an exquisite teacup. She had changed out of her usual sheer gown and into a dark-blue velvet robe with a high collar.

The collar was edged with fine silver thread. Her gaze followed the departing guard before turning to Ron. "Is he the strongest one here?"

Ron did not look at her. He simply answered, "No. There are more than twenty others at the same level."

Geralt's movements paused for an instant. He recalled the few scrawled lines in Hendrik's notes, the ranks and discipline of the purple-robed soldiers he had seen after entering Crow's Nest, and then the elite soldier he had personally experienced—someone who switched tactics the moment his speed had been suppressed.

Keira's teacup stopped in midair, and her smile vanished completely. She looked over the guard again, then shifted her gaze back to Ron.

There were no more than five swordmasters in the entire North whom Geralt would acknowledge. Yet there were twenty here...

She said nothing more, staring at Ron as though examining a strange island absent from all maps.

Geralt planted his sword on the ground and turned to look at Ron standing outside the fence. Inside and outside the enclosure, everything fell silent for an instant.

Several lightly wounded Blue Stripes exchanged looks. They had seen Ron chop through wooden stakes at the testing grounds.

They had also seen him smash a Nilfgaardian officer's head into his chest with a single axe blow. But a witcher was neither a Nilfgaardian officer nor a wooden stake.

Ron lifted the two-handed sword from his back and held it one-handed, raising its tip off the ground. Geralt stared at that sword in silence for a moment, then sighed helplessly.

"You call that a training weapon?"

Ron said nothing. He set down the greatsword and walked toward the weapon rack beside the training ground. Geralt picked out a two-handed sword.

He weighed it in his hand, then switched to a heavier one. On his way back, he spun the sword once in his hand and assumed a formal opening stance, its tip angled toward the ground.

Ron was already standing in the center. He took no stance, merely holding the blunted sword at his side as if it were a one-handed weapon. The two locked eyes, and even the breathing outside the fence quieted.

Geralt moved first. This was no probe. The witcher did not use the half-beat of restraint he had employed against the guard earlier.

His catlike pupils contracted sharply. The sword tip shifted from its downward angle into a straight thrust. Before the wind from the blade could reach anyone's ears, its point had already arrived before Ron.

Ron turned aside from the blade with barely any movement of his feet. His iron-gray brigandine shifted softly with the motion as his sword came down in a vertical slash.

The explosive collision of the two swords made the watching recruits collectively lean back. Someone involuntarily took half a step back.

Geralt's palm was tingling. He did not meet Ron's blow head-on again, turning aside to deflect its force. His sword slid along Ron's blade, its tip twisting around.

It changed course and stabbed toward Ron's waist from the side. Ron drew back to block, and the impact was heavier than before. Geralt no longer could, nor dared, hold anything back.

Ves gripped the fence, her hand tightening instinctively. The witcher's advantage in speed was almost useless against Ron. He was the most monstrously strong creature she had ever seen, and his speed was nothing like what someone of his build should have possessed.

Keira seemed to have forgotten the tea in her hand, her eyes fixed tightly on the two figures in the field.

Geralt was changing his strategy. He no longer clashed head-on, instead circling around to the side, trying to lure Ron into an unfavorable reverse-grip position. Ron did not follow his rhythm, merely tightening his ground little by little.

Wide, heavy chops and sweeping strikes steadily compressed Geralt's room to maneuver, forcing him toward the edge of the enclosure. Once he reached the ideal attacking distance, Ron delivered his final strike.

Geralt tensed both arms and blocked. Under the combined forces, the blade finally gave out and snapped in the middle. Fragments scattered as half the sword flew away and struck the ground.

Geralt lowered his gaze to the hilt with only half a blade remaining, then looked up and measured Ron standing opposite him anew with his eyes.

"This sword isn't very durable," he said calmly. "Mm. It's old. It should have been scrapped long ago." Ron set down his sword and nodded.

Geralt nodded, bent down to pick up the broken half of the blade, and placed it on the weapon rack. Then he walked to the fence, picked up a cup of water resting there, and tipped his head back for a drink.

Holding an empty cup, Keira walked up to Ron. The lazy smile she usually used as a shield was gone. She looked as though she were observing something she had never seen before.

"Calradia." She placed her teacup on the fence, and her voice no longer carried its usual sharpness. "I had every sister still able to receive my messages check naval charts and teleportation coordinates. This continent does not exist.

"It is absent from sea charts and from teleportation coordinates alike. This is not merely undiscovered in the ordinary sense. It simply does not exist."

She looked up at him. "You are not a lord from any known continent. So what exactly is the Calrad Mercenary Company recruiting refugees in Velen, training recruits, and building workshops for?

"To restore a nation somewhere that does not exist on any map?"

Ron did not answer immediately. He returned the sword to the rack and remained silent for several breaths.

"To live. The rest can wait."

Keira softly murmured, "Mm," and fell quiet for a moment before resuming her lazy, cutting tone.

"All right. Whoever you are, the next time my laboratory needs new equipment, don't think you can brush me off again by using a sergeant major's salary as an excuse."

She turned and headed toward the laboratory. As she passed the fence, she paused and shot Geralt a glance.

"Your swordsmanship hasn't declined at all. But next time, you should use a sword that doesn't break so easily." Then she walked away with her teacup, the back of her dark-blue robe swaying a few times in the morning light.

Ron returned the training sword to the rack and headed for the courtyard. Geralt lingered where he was for a while before walking off toward the guest rooms. The spectators gradually dispersed, but their movements were far stiffer than usual.

By evening, a caramel-colored scent drifted from Keira's laboratory. A bottle of deep-blue potion sat in the center of the workbench, brewed the previous night.