Psionic Ascension Starting with The Witcher

Outside, the apprentice mage sensed the terrifying fluctuations of magical power. He had never seen such immense magical power before; even a thousand or ten thousand of them combined could not generate such a vast amount of magical power.

He could feel the water element in the air leaving him, which was extremely painful for a mage, like suffocation.

But he couldn't care less about that now; fear almost instantly overwhelmed him.

"Run!"

The mage apprentice let out a heart-wrenching howl as he watched the soldiers still futilely swinging their swords, trying to break through the Quen shield.

Despite telling himself to run, his legs buckled and he collapsed to the ground.

He knew he couldn't escape. The terrifying magical fluctuations had subsided, and the magic had completely gathered in the witcher's body before gradually converging in his hands.

In the very end, the mage apprentice only saw Effensor's open eyes, a pair of eyeballs covered in ice blue.

Oh, and there were also Aifenso's slightly moving lips.

"...What kind of powerful spell must that be?"

As this thought suddenly flashed through the mind, a white light flashed before the apprentice's eyes, and everything came to an abrupt halt.

The same was true for the many soldiers surrounding Effensor; in the final moments of their lives, only a dazzling white light appeared.

This powerful frost-like radiance turned everything around into ice sculptures, whether it was birds in the sky, shrimp and crabs in the stream, or grass on the ground.

Within a semi-circular area with a radius of ten meters centered on Effensor, all living things were transformed into ice sculptures.

The icy blue in Effensor's eyes gradually faded, and a mini ice storm appeared in his palm. This little thing was beyond his control, rapidly expanding and growing larger, engulfing everything around it.

It greedily devoured everything, and wherever it covered, fierce blizzards swept up, turning the height of summer into the depths of winter in an instant.

Effensor was panting heavily, his body almost completely exhausted. This terrifying magic had released all the magic power within the runestone. Unless someone filled it with the magic power that symbolized "imprisonment," the runestone would be no different from an ordinary stone from now on.

In addition, he was experiencing sharp pain in his left hand, more severe than the tear caused by overuse. Effensor was unable to move his left hand fingers. The specific injuries were not visible through the gloves, but there was no doubt that his left hand was probably half-useless.

For a short time, let alone performing hand seals, he even had difficulty holding a sword with both hands.

"As expected..." Effensor took a deep breath, drew his sword, planted it in the ground, and used his strength to support himself as he stood up.

"Trying to capitalize on a sudden flash of inspiration—that's not a good decision. But thankfully, it turned out well."

Effensor kicked an ice sculpture in front of him with all his might, and the soldier's upper body shattered into pieces. From the gap in the waist, his internal organs and flesh were visible, all of which had turned an eerie ice blue, and his blood had frozen into solidified clots.

The only thing that hasn't changed about him is his bones, which are still as white as snow.

Affinso trembled as he unscrewed a bottle of Swallow Potion—the last one—and poured it down his throat.

The potion was no longer effective for his severe injuries, but it was better than nothing.

Effensor looked around. The blizzard was spreading rapidly and had already enveloped the valley. This place, which was "rich" and "peaceful" in the Elvish language, had become a cold snowfield unsuitable for human habitation.

Anyone who sees it will no longer use the word "rich" to describe it.

Fortunately, the blizzard only affected this valley.

Through the wind and snow, Effensoro could still vaguely see the outside world—it was still the height of summer there, with birds singing and flowers blooming, and the sun blazing.

As for the others in the valley, they were completely stunned when they discovered that their environment was gradually changing from the height of summer to the depths of winter.

The fierce Nausicaä cavalry were fearless, the elite of the elite. But when a completely unknown and powerful force descended, the primal fear deep within their bones was awakened.

Just as humans are always afraid of the dark, the unknown is always the most terrifying.

Especially... when the blizzard had finished spreading, they discovered that a Witcher was standing in the center of it.

In fact, as an army from the era of cold weapons, it is quite remarkable that these Nilfgaardians, despite suffering more than 30% casualties, have not retreated and have maintained their fighting spirit.

But at this moment, their morale was still plummeting. The fanaticism and bloodlust gradually dissipated, and when their minds cleared, looking at their comrades who had suffered nearly half their casualties, these Nilfgaardian cavalrymen couldn't help but feel a deep-seated fear.

No refunds allowed!

A loud shout jolted the soldiers, who had begun to involuntarily retreat, back to their feet. They turned to see Baldas raising his longsword and shouting, "Those who cower in battle and desert in the face of the enemy shall be put to death!"

"Anyone who disobeys orders from superiors or defies orders in the face of battle shall be sentenced to death!"

"Are you going to betray the Empire?! Are you going to surrender to the northern barbarians?!"

Baldas's voice echoed across the battlefield, silencing the army that had begun to stir, but it was clear that they were no longer willing to launch an attack.

A few soldiers, numbering seven or eight, surrounded Effensor, but they kept a great distance and were unwilling to get close to him; the gaps between them were wide enough for a carriage to pass through.

As the commander, Baldas understood the current situation, and he also realized what the consequences would be if he forcibly ordered his soldiers to continue fighting to the bitter end—a mutiny.

So he made a wise decision.

"Pursue them! Pursue those fleeing Yankees!"

Baldas brandished his sword and commanded his army to leave, charging towards the large group of refugees in the distance.

This move was indeed insidious, yet extremely appropriate.

On the one hand, finding a weak opponent to bully could quickly restore morale; on the other hand, Baldas knew that these enemies who were fighting them so hard would not run away.

If they dared to charge against their own forces despite being outnumbered in order to protect those refugees... then at this moment, would they really run away?

Upon hearing the order, the Nilfgaardian cavalrymen breathed a sigh of relief, then regained their confidence. They were very familiar with the ragged refugees. With a mere raise of their swords, the refugees would cower on the ground like ostriches, easily killed.

"Damn it..."

Effensor was still panting and could do nothing about the situation.

Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain in his lungs, and he instinctively opened his mouth and spat out a mouthful of blood.

"Cough cough cough..."

Effensor felt dizzy and immediately knelt on the ground, inserting his sword into the soil for support.

"It's frostbite..." He guessed the cause based on his experience and intuition.

It was that Alder sign that had been spiked. Even as the sign caster, he couldn't escape being injured by it.

When Effensor pulled open his collar, he saw that his skin had become red and swollen, with some bluish-purple patches. This kind of frostbite caused by magic is different from frostbite caused by temperature; it is not limited to the surface tissue, but extends deep into the internal organs.

Based on the discomfort in his respiratory tract and the sharp pain in his chest, Effensor guessed that there was probably something wrong with his lungs.

The Swallow Potion had limited effects and failed to completely suppress the injuries.

Now he can only hope that the Swallow Potion can keep him alive...

Around him, the Nilfgaardians mounted their horses and rode away one after another.

As the last person passed by Effortso not far away, Effortso endured the excruciating pain and forced out a Reverse Aard Sign.

"Get over here!"

"Thump!"

The rider on horseback was suddenly pulled off his horse by a tremendous force from behind, and fell headfirst to the ground.

The horse, having lost its master, ran a few steps forward, then turned back and returned to its master's side.

However, a sound of bones breaking could be heard before that. The man's neck had twisted at an odd angle when he fell from his horse, and he was now motionless.

Yeah.

Effensor glanced at it, which saved him the trouble of doing it himself.

He frowned, and despite the pain, limped toward the horse.

He was shot in the buttocks, shoulder, and abdomen; his internal organs suffered frostbite; and his left hand was severely lacerated.

Effensor knew he could no longer fight.

If we keep fighting... I might die.

So he's leaving.

He's already done right by his employer to this extent; after all, the other party only paid money, not his life.

If possible, Effensor certainly didn't want to die—especially since the situation was beyond saving. Could he, alone and heavily wounded, possibly continue to display his divine power and slaughter all the Nilfgaardians?

No, that definitely won't work.

He had done everything he could, and it seemed there was no reason for him to stay and fight to the death for his employer...

But as he grasped the horse's reins, Effensor inexplicably glanced back.

In the center of the battlefield stood a man covered in blood. His armor was so stained with blood that its original color was no longer visible, and he was surrounded by corpses; at least twenty Nilfgaards had lost their lives there.

The heavy snow fell on him, covering him with a white coat.

He held the enormous two-handed sword, motionless, kneeling on the ground. Only the Sintra lion head on his chest, stained with blood, stood out even more, as if it had been completely awakened.

It's Brondan.

To be honest, Effensor was already doubting his bloodline—was Brondann really still human?

Effensor had seen those extremely rare individuals blessed by the power of chaos, but even if they far surpassed ordinary people, they could not compare to Effensor, who was reproductively isolated from humans.

But Bronn is an exception; perhaps even Lu Bu and Xiang Yu in his previous life couldn't have performed this well on the battlefield.

He was so strong he seemed inhuman, but he was born in the wrong place and in the wrong era. He died here before he could achieve anything extraordinary.

Looking at Brundane's statue-like figure, Effensor hesitated for a moment, but ultimately decided not to leave immediately.

He led his horse, limping towards the other man, while the blizzard intensified. By the time he reached Bronn, the snow had already buried half of the body.

"Brondaern..."

Effensor was panting; the cold and his injuries were taking their toll.

He tried to remove Brøndane's helmet, but it wouldn't budge. So he brushed the snow off Brøndane.

Brendonn doesn't know magic.

His ability to fight and kill so many Nilfgaardians during the siege was due to his superb martial skills, abundant experience, and an incredibly strong physique, like that of Hercules.

Even so, he was not the real Hercules. Surrounded by dozens of people, he was inevitably injured and inevitably paid the price with his life.

He had twelve arrows in his body.

Although the crossbow wasn't very powerful, his armor couldn't protect all parts of his body. Three arrows were lodged in his waistband: one pierced his ankle, one entered his lung through his armpit, and one pierced his ankle.

In addition, his abdomen was also severely injured, with a hole torn in his abdominal armor, seemingly caused by a sharp weapon such as a spear. Effensor could even see Brondan's intestines sticking out.

This is the most fatal injury.

"..."

Effensor looked at his face; he seemed to still be alive?

A little air was still escaping from his nose, turning into wisps of white mist in the cold air.

"...Where are the Nilfgaardians?"

When Brondan opened his eyes, Affinso realized that one of his eyes was completely blind, with only half a broken eyeball in its socket.

"Am I still alive...? Where's my cigar?"

He continued asking, turning to look at Effensor, but suddenly showed a surprised expression.

"Witcher... Effensor, you're still alive? I thought that mage had killed you with that spell."

"No, that magic..." Effinso instinctively tried to explain, but then suddenly realized that Brundane's time was running out.

There was no need to waste time saying such trivial things, and Effensor didn't want the shocked praise of a dying man.

"It's alright." He shook his head and pointed to the chaotic battle in the distance.

"They went after the group of refugees."

"Damn it... no, Princess." Brondaen seemed to have a sudden burst of energy after remembering the princess, and stood up abruptly, using his greatsword as a crutch to support himself and barely avoid falling.

"Protect the princess, don't let the Nilfgaards capture her."

"Where's Drakarov?" Brondan asked weakly, then suddenly remembered something and asked, "Where's Drakarov?"

"They were chasing the Nilfgaardians, and they're probably there now."

"Heh, watch out for them, they're not with us."

Brondan was panting heavily, his voice trembling more and more.

"The Temurians found me, offered their support, and hoped that I would bring back the princess so that they could rightfully occupy Sintra and make it their own territory."

"And, and Derakarov, he's here to spy on me. Don't let them get the princess; they'll just imprison her and, in her name, annex Sintra."

"But perhaps Princess Cerira isn't there."

Effensor reminded him.

"That would be even better..."

Brondan's head was bowing.

"I beg you, I plead with you..."

His voice grew softer and softer, becoming barely audible amidst the howling blizzard. Effensor had to crouch down and put his ear close.

"I beg you, don't let anyone get the princess."

"Let her go into hiding and leave this place."

"Sintra is destroyed... utterly destroyed. It doesn't matter anymore, let her go."

Brondan sat down heavily on the ground and then lay back down. He lay on the snow as if it were his own bed, and a look of comfort appeared on his scarred face.

Effensor didn't answer him; he actually wanted to leave as soon as possible, as that would be the safest option.

Brøndane seemed to have anticipated Affinso's silence.

"Do you remember the details of the commission?"

After a moment of silence, Effensor nodded.

"Yes."

"I'll help you find the princess."

"That's right."

"Then... please help us."

"If Gitov is still alive, please find the princess for him."

"..."

Effensor remained expressionless, but inwardly he sighed deeply.

Regardless of his past or present life, integrity was something he could never abandon; it was a creed he upheld throughout his life.

He knew that the money Brøndane gave him wouldn't be enough to make him fight to the death, and no amount of money could make Affinso give his life for it.

However, this time is different.

Whether it was the Nilfgaardians' atrocities in Sintra, this commission, or Brøndane's dying wish, it was all a matter of fate.

Effensor's conscience told him that he should stop the distant slaughter; this heinous atrocity deserved to be punished.

Effensor's conviction told him that he should fulfill this commission in order to live up to the trust he had always kept in his heart.

Effensor's feelings told him that a person's dying wish should be fulfilled out of pity.

But... is it really worth risking your life for this?

On the scales of my heart, which of the two weighs more or less...?

"call……"

Effensor exhaled a deep breath, as if expelling all the irritating thoughts at once.

He looked into the distance, beyond the blizzard, in front of the pass between the two mountains, where the slaughter had already begun.

He made a decision.

Let this prince of a fallen kingdom go and save another princess of a fallen kingdom.

When Effensor turned to look at Brøndane, wanting to say something, he found that Brøndane's face had turned completely pale.

As white as the clouds, as bright as the snow, and as clear as the ice, it was as if this person had become one with this icy and snowy landscape.

A smile played on Brondan's lips; he seemed oblivious to his wounds, never uttering a single groan throughout.

Effensor had seen that smile before; it was on the face of an old farmer who had toiled his whole life in Cordwin when he tasted Nasser's honey for the first time.

This is a smile that cannot be faked; it's a smile brimming with sweetness and contentment, a smile that leaves no regrets in life. Perhaps many people will never experience that kind of joy in their entire lives.

But why did he do this on his deathbed...?

Effensor noticed his posture. His right hand gripped the sword tightly, never letting go until his death; his left hand held a handful of dirt, pressed against his chest where his heart was.

Effensor seemed to have some realization.

It's hard to leave one's homeland.

Brondan died in his beloved homeland, lying on its soil, with the land he had cherished his entire life as his bed and the sky he had gazed upon his whole life as his blanket.

For him, his long-cherished wish has been fulfilled.

Even though he still harbored resentment and had lingering concerns, he had entrusted these matters of the living world to another person who was still alive.

And now... for Brondaern, even without a grave or a funeral procession, dying on the battlefield and sacrificing for his country is the best funeral for a warrior.

The awe in the eyes of the enemy is greater than the wailing of loved ones, and the fallen corpses of the enemy are better than useless sacrifices.

Let him, Brondaen, stay with his homeland, Sintra.

"well……"

Effensor sighed again, rummaging through the increasingly thick snowdrift beside him to bury Brondan's body so that it wouldn't be left to rot in the wilderness.

Then, he mounted his horse and charged headlong into the distant melee.

If he were to lose his life because of this, it would mean that fate's favor towards him had come to an end, and his story should end today.

If that's really the case, then Affinso has no regrets.

Living a second life is enough; the brilliance and memories of these thirty years have already made Effensor completely content.

At this moment, Effensor still had only one thing on his mind—if I died, how heartbroken Sif and Vesemir would be?

He thought this to himself, but he didn't stop for a moment.

Effensor gripped the reins tightly with his left hand; blood had already seeped through his glove, freezing into a layer of ice. But he didn't care, letting more blood seep out and stain the reins red.

His right hand, free of sword, was raised high, aimed at an unsuspecting Nilfgaardian soldier. As the soldier rode past him, he precisely grabbed the soldier's collar, pulled him off his horse, and slammed him to the ground. The helmet had long since flown off somewhere else in the process.

As he stood up, dazed, the sound of approaching hooves rang out, and a sharp blade sliced ​​across his neck, sending his head flying high into the air.

It's Gitov.

He was also covered in blood, with a wound on his side and a crossbow bolt stuck in his thigh.

"Where's Brondan? Where is he?!"

Gitov shouted at Effensor.

"He...is dead!"

Without turning his head, Effensor said, leaning back to dodge a sword slashing at him, then thrusting the sword into the other man's armpit, causing his sword-wielding arm to go limp.

Then, Effensor feinted with his sword, and as his opponent dodged, his real killing blow came, piercing his opponent's throat.

"Damn it!"

Gitov cursed, his eyes reddening, but he was quickly engulfed by a raging fire of anger and hatred, suppressing his useless sorrow.

He will take revenge through battle, replace mourning with slaughter, and sacrifice with the heads of his enemies!

Gitov roared and brandished his longsword, engaging in fierce combat with another enemy.

"The Witcher!"

He could talk while fighting.

"Find the princess for me! I saw her! But then the Nilfgaardians returned!"

Where did you see her?

Effensor was in the midst of a chaotic battle, seemingly surrounded by enemies on all sides, with his opponents changing constantly, each one seemingly different.

"That doesn't matter anymore! When the Nilfgaardians came, these refugees held off the first wave of attacks, but they had absolutely no decent weapons! Then when the Nilfgaardians charged again, they scattered!"

"They're running everywhere! But those damned Nilfgaardians have blocked the exits, so nobody can get out!"

Gitov shouted wildly; he had truly failed at the last hurdle.

"Where's that druid? Where is he? Let's ask him to use his magic to help us!"

Effinso shouted through gritted teeth. One of the Nilfgaards in front of him was initially hesitant, but after exchanging blows with Effinso a couple of times, he realized that Effinso was not using any hand signs. So he turned fierce and took the initiative to attack, and began to fight Effinso.

Although this guy was young and had no beard, and his fighting skills were quite poor, he was incredibly strong. Effensor had the upper hand, but couldn't kill him immediately.

"He's dead! He cast a spell that killed five or six Nilfgaardians, then the Nilfgaardians noticed him, and then he was shot dead with a crossbow!"

"Go find the princess! Don't worry about us!"

"knew!"

Effensor forcefully deflected the sword opposite him, then swung his sword in a wide arc. Although the soldier dodged in time, the sword in his hand was knocked to the ground.

Effensor finally found an opportunity to escape.

He rushed out of the melee and quickly assessed the situation.

The Nilfgaardians now have the upper hand, and they still number forty or fifty. Although many refugees are armed with wooden spears and putting up a fierce resistance, they are being overwhelmed and slaughtered.

Their fighting spirit was extremely strong, and they were determined to fight to the death to protect their families. The ground was already littered with their corpses, but many Nilfgaardians still broke through their defenses and indiscriminately slaughtered women and children running around in the open snow.

Seven of Derakaroff and his men remained, fighting the Nilfgaardians in a place where women and children had gathered. They had come from afar for money, and they fought bravely for money, even if it meant dying in battle.

The compensation must be quite generous...

Meanwhile, Gitov was still fighting a bloody battle against the Nilfgaardians.

Effensor could see that his primary concern now was protecting the refugees and killing the Nilfgaards before him; the rage fueled by hatred surpassed everything else. If Brondaen's obsession was finding the princess, then Gitov's obsession was revenge.

The other Sintraman who had traveled with him was nowhere to be found, probably long dead. Now, Gitov was the only Sintraman still alive in the group.

Then, Effensor noticed that the pass was well-guarded.

Three Nilfgaardian soldiers, an officer carrying a flag, and a man wearing a mask—these five men blocked the pass with torches, ready to trap and beat the dog.

As Effensor looked at them, the others also noticed him.

Flowing white hair, a cold and stern face, snake-like eyes, distinctive attire, and two signature swords—a quintessential Witcher, monster slayer.

"Damn Witcher... (Nifalgarde)"

Baldas cursed, then waved provocatively at Effensor.

He had noticed it long ago—just now, when this witcher charged over, their own formation actually parted to make way for him, and no one dared to stop him.

Baldas immediately realized that the witcher's impact on his side's morale was disastrous.

But Baldas believed in himself. Others might fear him, but he himself was not.

He was certain the Witcher was at his limit; his wounds, his uneven breathing, his exhaustion, and the blood at the corner of his mouth were all proof of it.

Baldas felt it was time to get rid of this annoying trouble.

On the other hand, Effensor also realized that he needed to take out the group of people blocking the door.

If they go to find Ciri first, even if they find her, she will be carrying a child, which will inevitably hinder her in battle. It will be difficult for her to break through the blockade of these five people with a child.

As for turning back and escaping by the way they came, that was even more impossible.

If one were to cross a snowfield already obscured by a blizzard, getting lost would be extremely likely. And once lost, given Effensor's summer attire, freezing to death would be inevitable.

Moreover, he was indeed at his last gasp. As the effects of the Swallow Potion wore off, his injuries were worsening, and his time was running out. Crossing the snowfield would take too long, and the chances of success were not as good as fighting to the death against the enemy before him…

Effensor touched his pouch and found that he only had one bottle of Thunder Potion left in his potion bag.

Without hesitation, he unscrewed the cap and drank it all in one gulp.

The power of the thunder spread rapidly, and some black blood vessels reappeared on his face. Although it had no healing effect, the thunder's all-round enhancement of the human body restored a lot of Aifenso's strength. His reaction speed and strength, which had been greatly reduced due to his injuries, almost returned to their peak.

One more dancing star remains in him.

The remaining bombs were all in the saddlebags, and now they were all abandoned on the snowfield.

Those precious magic books, all the belongings Effensor had bought with his own money, and all the other things, big and small, were now gone forever.

However, Effensor had no time to pay attention to that now; his immediate priority was to fight his way out and save his own life, as well as the lives of others.