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TWL Chapter 469: Chaos Incarnate
🕑 Added 2025-06-26 21:35:39 +0000 UTCTissaia de Vries stood atop the shattered rooftop, her hair disheveled, her face smeared with dust. Raising both hands, flames ignited in he
Tissaia de Vries stood atop the shattered rooftop, her hair disheveled, her face smeared with dust.
Raising both hands, flames ignited in her palms. She shouted a sharp incantation, and the fire dancing between her ten fingers surged outward, coalescing into blazing fireballs that roared as they scattered in every direction.
Each fireball radiated with the heat of molten lava. As they spun through the air, they swelled, soon transforming into towering walls of fire—each as tall as two people.
It was as if a tear had opened in the sky above. An unrelenting gale swept down, wrapping around the flames. But the heat buried inside these fireballs was staggering. They tore straight through the barrier of snowstorm, venting their scorching wrath.
“Get out! Invaders! The battle that threatened to tear apart the Brotherhood’s unity is over. This island still belongs to the Brotherhood!”
The world’s foremost female sorceress unleashed her terrifying might. A host of loyal followers shielded her from the enemy’s close-quarters assault, allowing her to release her magic freely from the rear.
Yet even fighting on home ground, the Brotherhood’s sorcerers suffered heavy casualties once the invaders closed the distance.
Gales fierce enough to shatter stone tiles burst forth in front of them. Knights clad in skeletal heavy armor charged like demons from the abyss. And at their center stood Francesca—like a lily blooming in hell.
That lily exuded a deadly fragrance.
The elven sorceress, her dark-golden hair whipping in the wind, lifted her arms and conjured a magical barrier single-handedly to shield the Wild Hunt’s front.
Then, from within the ranks of the skeletal knights, several figures emerged—heavily armored spellcasters brandishing metallic staves.
[Boom!]
The staves, heavy as stone pillars, slammed into the ground, gouging deep craters. Countless icy blue portals sprang open in front of them, and from within poured a swarm of constructed beings like a plague of locusts.
Each creature was the size of a hound, moving on all fours. Their limbs ended in claws as sharp as daggers, and their backs were coated in glowing, azure ice-rock.
Hounds of the Hunt—elemental constructs formed from magical ice crystals. Pure weapons of war.
Among the knights of the Wild Hunt, one figure stood taller than the rest—Eredin Bréacc Glas, known as the King of the Wild Hunt. He silently withdrew his left hand.
“Let the hounds drain their magic. The noble Aen Elle must not shed blood in a place like this… Francesca.”
Eredin turned to the elven sorceress. “Where is the Elder Blood?”
“He was just here. He’s still on this island, I’m sure of it!” Francesca spat through clenched teeth. “These human sorcerers are all his allies. Kill them all! Then the Elder Blood will have no strength left to resist!”
Eredin cast a cold glance at Francesca but said nothing.
He knew well that his kin from the other world seemed intent on wielding the Wild Hunt like a blade. That suited him just fine—he held little affection for the humans anyway, this species stained with his people’s blood.
They were nothing more than children who had stolen magic from the Aen Seidhe...
“Red Riders! Strike fast—bring the Elder Blood back to Tir ná Lia!” Eredin shouted. “Charge!”
The blizzard howled louder. Shadows and frost blended into one, only to suddenly take shape before the Brotherhood’s sorcerers could react.
Mindless Hounds of the Hunt surged at the front, absorbing the brunt of the sorcerers’ spells. Lightning and flame tore their elemental bodies apart—but before the defenders could rejoice, blades pierced through the remains, slashing down the very sorcerers who had just cast their magic.
Even a half-trained assassin could kill a sorcerer at close range—let alone the Wild Hunt, seasoned by centuries of pillaging other worlds.
“Tissaia! Our sisters are dying! We can’t hold them off!” Keira Metz cried out. “Tissaia, do something!”
The next instant, thunder cracked beneath her feet. A bolt of force flung Keira out through what had once been a window.
Perhaps that was a stroke of luck—Keira had been thrown clear of the battlefield. But many others still fought and fell.
“Vilgefortz, what the hell are we even fighting for?” Fercart screamed, breaking down as he turned toward him.
The Nilfgaardian mages had been cornered, struggling to defend themselves against the Hunt’s freezing assault and the Brotherhood’s fury-driven attacks.
Logically, there had been no reason for Vilgefortz to expose himself. Even though Philippa had just leveled harsh accusations, the highest-ranking Tissaia had remained determined to 'preserve the Brotherhood’s unity' and refused to believe he had betrayed them.
Then the Wild Hunt arrived. Wouldn’t it have made more sense to wait—let the Brotherhood and the Hunt bleed each other dry, and then bring in Nilfgaardian reinforcements to seize control?
But no. He had chosen that moment to leap into the fray.
And now look—of the three warring factions, Nilfgaard’s forces were clearly the weakest. Despite having three top-ten sorcerers from the Northern ranks on their side, the rest of the reinforcements brought through teleportation simply couldn’t compare.
The Brotherhood had numbers, strength, and not just high-level sorcerers, but also royal advisor-caliber spellcasters.
And the Wild Hunt? They needed no introduction—sorcerers, knights, alchemical constructs—their formations were sharp, their tactics precise, their force overwhelming.
Compared to the others, Nilfgaard's forces were a mess.
Aside from the three defectors from the North, the rest of the sorcerers they’d sent were barely useful—their commanding spellcasters had nearly all been slaughtered by Lann in the last war!
They might’ve stood a chance against the Brotherhood alone. But on a battlefield with the Wild Hunt involved? They were nothing more than cannon fodder.
“Artaud Terranova!”
Fercart let out a high-pitched scream. Not far off, a short, stocky member of the Brotherhood was retreating toward the battlefield’s edge—then suddenly yanked a Nilfgaardian sorcerer in front of him.
[Boom!]
A magic explosion burst forth. The Nilfgaardian's body was blown to pieces—while Artaud vanished from sight.
And just like that, there were only two high-level sorcerers left on Nilfgaard’s side.
“Vilgefortz! What the hell are we fighting for?!”
Fercart had completely snapped, demanding again through clenched teeth.
Vilgefortz himself was wondering the same.
He could feel it—he was losing control.
He was supposed to be the patient one. The planner. The man who could lay a scheme over decades, who stayed calm and focused on his long-term goal.
So why had he made such a reckless move at such a crucial moment?
When had he begun to unravel?
Then, like a flash of lightning in his mind, something clicked.
As Fercart's voice rang out, Vilgefortz suddenly felt something seize his throat.
Words burst from his mouth without his consent: “For the Elder Blood!”
“…What?”
Fercart’s protective shield flickered violently.
Before he could react to Vilgefortz’s words, a bolt of lightning—condensing from above the dome—split the night sky and tore through the snowstorm, nearly blasting him apart.
And not just him. Every Nilfgaardian sorcerer and every Wild Hunt knight was hit.
The thunderstorm overwhelmed even the blizzard, becoming the battlefield’s sole weather for a heartbeat.
All those attuned to magic turned toward the Brotherhood’s side.
There, amidst the storm, stood a black-haired sorceress. She was trembling, yet her voice rang out strong and unwavering, her incantation striking every heart.
“Damn it! That’s Alzur’s Thunderstorm! Tissaia’s lost her mind!”
For the first time, panic flashed across Francesca’s face.
Beside her, Eredin remained unfazed. “It’s just a human spell, cast by a human sorceress. What could it possibly do?”
He was about to find out.
…
Back in the halls of Aretuza, the witchers gathered.
“How did it go, everyone?”
Lann didn’t wait for answers. The joy on each face was plain to see.
One by one, packs and satchels were handed over and stored neatly into his inventory.
And slowly, the smile on Lann’s face began to match the others'.
Before Lann could finish sorting through the supplies—
[Whoosh—]
A sudden gust split the night sky as massive wings sliced through the air. A humanoid bat figure swept overhead.
Geralt released his grip and dropped from a height of nearly 10 meters. He landed with a solid thud, knees bending to absorb the impact, and let out a deep breath.
Dust and bits of rubble exploded upward in a circular wave around him, high into the air. The others instantly waved their hands in protest, trying to drive the dust away with looks of clear annoyance.
Geralt gave a slight nod to Regis, who was already shifting back into human form, then turned toward Lann and reported, “All the delegates have been returned to their respective escort units. Regis and I made a quick stop at the Academy too—they’ve completed evacuation of the students. The remaining forces are on their way here to assist.”
“Once we eliminate the primary threat,” Geralt added in a low voice, “they’ll be able to take over the entire island.”
“When do we begin?”
Lann opened his mouth to speak—but before a word could leave his lips, an earsplitting crack of thunder shattered the air above, loud enough to deafen them all.
Everyone instinctively looked skyward.
The night sky was gone—swallowed by blinding violet lightning so bright it had turned pale and white, searing even the darkness from the heavens.
[BOOM—]
The roof of Aretuza shattered.
[BOOM—]
Then the rooftop terrace.
[BOOM—]
Next, the Astronomical Tower collapsed.
Each thunderclap reduced another structure to rubble, tearing massive chunks out of the castle before their eyes.
This was no storm of nature—it was a catastrophe wrought by human hands.
“Now that is a true top-tier sorcerer.”
Lann cracked his neck and muttered, “I’d say now’s the time. Are you ready?”
The witchers said nothing. Without a word, they reached into their alchemical packs, pulling out Hanged Man's Venom, effective against humans, and Elementa oil, specialized for elemental constructs. In smooth, practiced motions, they began coating their blades.
Then came the potions.
Lann chuckled softly. With a flick of his hand, he started pulling flasks from his inventory.
The others quickly completed their own preparations—but Lann didn’t stop. His movements were relentless, like a man who had wandered the desert for three days and finally found water. He drank potion after potion with reckless abandon.
He even downed potions with little relevance to the current battle: Cat, for night vision; Black Blood, for fighting vampires; Killer Whale, for underwater breathing—all of them gulped down one after another.
“Lann…”
Geralt reached out a hand, as if to stop him.
But Lann made a quick don’t interfere gesture, his throat working furiously as he kept swallowing.
A torrent of disparate forces surged into his body—blending, merging, calibrating. At the same time, every drop of toxins nearly overtaking his bloodstream was transformed—thanks to the unique properties of the Euphoria skill—into fuel. That energy was then compressed into the muscles between flesh and bone, amplifying his strength and enhancing his magical output.
For a brief moment, a delicate equilibrium formed between physical power and magic. But it didn’t last long. As soon as his body strengthened again, the Conductors of Magic ability squeezed out even more magic—triggering yet another unknown cycle of reinforcement.
The chaotic aura around Lann became visible to the naked eye. He hadn't even activated a skill, yet brilliant emerald light pulsed in and out of his eyes like a living thing.
For the first time, the witchers truly felt what people called 'presence'.
He wasn’t that much taller than any of them, and yet—his shadow felt wide enough to cover the entire Aretuza Palace.
Suddenly, they all reached up and ripped the medallions from their chests. The chains, enchanted to sense magical pressure, coiled and jerked so violently they nearly strangled them.
“Hic.”
Lann patted his chest with a satisfied sigh.
“That should do it.”
He flexed his fingers, feeling the surging power coursing through him.
“Now then—let’s throw this battlefield into total chaos.”
He slapped his hand against the ground one final time—and vanished in a flash of teleportation.
Three massive bursts of light bloomed behind where he had stood.
And then—three colossal beasts, each dragged from across nearly half a continent, were summoned forth. Yet the chaotic magic surging around Lann hadn’t dimmed at all. It was like pouring water onto scalding oil—only feeding the fire.
