The confrontation had reached a breaking point.
Before the mouth of the cave, the air itself seemed stretched thin, as if it might snap under the weight of greed and tension. On one side stood Geralt and his companions. On the other, a swelling tide of dwarves, mercenaries, and opportunistic adventurers whose eyes gleamed with hunger—not for food, but for gold.
At the center of their dispute lay a single prize: the wounded Green Dragon hidden inside the cave.
Doregare hurried toward Geralt and the others, arriving just in time to hear the Witcher's voice cut through the noise like steel slicing flesh.
"Stop right there," Geralt said, his voice low but firm. "I won't allow any of you to approach that cave."
His hand rested calmly on the hilt of the silver sword strapped across his back. His cat-like pupils narrowed, scanning the restless crowd with cold precision. The faint wind stirred his white hair, but his stance remained unshaken.
Then he lifted a finger and pointed toward the sky.
Far above them, the clash between titanic beings still echoed—booming impacts that rattled the mountains and sent flocks of birds fleeing in terror.
"Besides," Geralt continued, raising his voice so it carried over the shouting, "I doubt any of you wish to provoke the wrath of the being currently battling the Golden Dragon. So step back. While you still can."
His gaze hardened.
He understood the truth clearly. There were too many of them. Hundreds, perhaps more. Men drunk on greed were far more dangerous than monsters. Even with Natasha at his side—a sorceress of formidable power—they were hopelessly outnumbered.
Two fists could not fight a mob.
All he could do was invoke fear. Karl's overwhelming strength. The Golden Dragon's majesty. The battle raging in the heavens.
He needed time. Just time—until the duel above reached its inevitable conclusion.
Doregare's eyes flashed with surprise.
He had not expected this stoic Witcher—who seemed guided by coin and contract—to possess such firm ideals regarding the protection of sentient creatures.
A smile tugged at his lips.
"Well said, Witcher!" Doregare called loudly. "We should not slaughter sentient beings out of greed!"
He stepped forward carefully, lifting one hand slightly toward Natasha to signal peaceful intent. Then he positioned himself beside Geralt, Natasha, and the two Zerrikanian maidens. The five of them formed a small but unyielding barrier before the cave.
Against them stood a small army.
At the center of the opposing force sat King Niedamir, his brow tightly furrowed. His fingers clenched the reins of his horse as he struggled internally.
He had come seeking glory.
A dragon hunt would cement his reputation, strengthen his claim, and fill his treasury.
But the situation had changed.
The Golden Dragon in the sky was no mere beast. And the man fighting it—whatever he was—possessed power beyond comprehension. Neither was something this expedition could hope to challenge.
If they interfered…
If either of those beings turned their fury downward…
It would not be a battle.
It would be slaughter.
The thought of waiting for both sides to weaken each other and then claiming the spoils now seemed laughably naive. Everyone had heard the exchange between the Golden Dragon and its opponent earlier. It had not sounded like mortal enemies.
It had sounded like warriors—honorable ones—engaged in a duel of pride.
If the hunters intruded upon that unspoken code, the consequences would be catastrophic.
Niedamir inhaled slowly.
He had already decided. He would call off the approach. He would rein in the dwarves and mercenaries before disaster struck.
But it was too late.
His elite royal guards remained disciplined, awaiting orders. Yet the hired fighters—dwarves with axes, mercenaries with swords, wandering adventurers with bloodshot eyes—were beyond restraint.
The scent of gold had reached their nostrils.
"Move aside, freak!" one mercenary snarled at Geralt. "Unless you want to die with that lizard!"
"Kill the Green Dragon and we're gone!" another shouted. "By the time that sky-fighting bastard comes down, we'll be halfway across the border!"
"Maybe he's already wounded! Maybe he's dying up there!"
Rough laughter erupted.
Several dwarves raised their axes, blades glinting under the sun.
"What's a poisoned Green Dragon going to do? Bite us politely?"
"Out of the way!"
The shouting grew louder. Insults flew like arrows. The crowd surged forward another step.
"Silence!" Niedamir shouted.
No one listened.
"Fall back!"
His words vanished into the storm of voices.
For a brief moment, something cracked inside him.
He was a king.
And yet here, before hired blades and greedy opportunists, his authority meant nothing.
Doubt crept in. Had assembling this expedition been a mistake from the start?
Geralt exhaled slowly.
Words had failed.
Without hesitation, he drew his steel sword.
The metallic shring rang out clearly.
The blade caught the sunlight, cold and merciless. His golden eyes locked onto the advancing crowd, devoid of emotion.
Natasha stepped forward as well.
Electric arcs flickered between her fingers, illuminating her sharp features with blue-white light. Power gathered around her like a storm waiting to break.
She glanced sideways at Geralt, irritation flashing in her violet eyes.
"Geralt," she said tightly, "sometimes I truly hate this stubbornness of yours. This foolish sense of justice."
Yet she did not step back.
She never did.
Before she could say more, Geralt stiffened.
His Witcher senses screamed.
A high, piercing whistle tore through the air—like a blade slicing the wind itself. The pressure shifted violently. The very atmosphere trembled.
He looked up.
And his blood ran cold.
The Golden Dragon was falling.
Not gliding.
Not descending.
Falling.
Its massive body plummeted from the heavens like a burning meteor, spinning backward, scales catching the sunlight as it hurtled toward the mountainside—toward them.
Death descended from the sky.
Geralt's pupils shrank to pinpoints.
"Natasha!" he roared, genuine terror cracking his voice. "Shield! Now!"
She did not hesitate.
Both hands thrust forward as she unleashed the full torrent of chaotic magic within her. A translucent barrier flared into existence around them, shimmering like glass forged from lightning.
It was thin—but it was something.
Doregare reacted instantly.
"We combine our casting!" he shouted.
His hands moved in swift, precise gestures as complex incantations spilled from his lips. His magic intertwined with Natasha's, reinforcing and stabilizing the barrier.
The shield thickened visibly, solidifying into a glowing dome of layered force.
Inside it stood Geralt, Natasha, Doregare, and the two Zerrikanian warriors.
Outside—
Chaos.
Natasha's gaze flickered sideways.
Niedamir still sat astride his horse, staring upward in stunned disbelief, frozen by the impossible sight of a falling dragon.
A moment of hesitation crossed her face.
He was a king.
Annoying. Ambitious. But not malicious.
With a sharp exhale, she thrust one hand outward and made a grasping motion.
A beam of pale force shot from her palm and latched onto Niedamir's torso.
"Ah—!"
He barely had time to cry out before the magical pull yanked him violently from his saddle. He stumbled across the rocky ground, dragged several meters before slamming against the inner edge of the forming shield.
The dome sealed just as—
Impact.
The Golden Dragon struck the mountainside with apocalyptic force.
The explosion of sound was beyond thunder. Beyond cannon fire.
The earth convulsed.
A shockwave blasted outward, ripping trees from their roots, shattering boulders, and hurling bodies through the air like rag dolls. Dwarves and mercenaries screamed as they were flung aside.
The ground beneath the shield fractured violently.
Cracks spiderwebbed outward, dust and debris filling the air in choking clouds.
The magical barrier screamed under the pressure.
Blinding light flared across its surface as debris—massive stones, splintered trunks, shards of earth—hammered against it in relentless succession.
Natasha gritted her teeth.
Power drained from her like blood from an open wound.
Doregare shouted another incantation, reinforcing weak points as fractures of light crawled across the dome's surface.
Geralt braced himself, one arm shielding his eyes as he stared outward through the storm of dust and chaos.
Outside the shield, the dragon hunters' formation had disintegrated completely. Horses bolted in terror. Men lay sprawled across the ground. Some did not move.
When the tremors finally subsided, silence fell—heavy and suffocating.
The shield flickered.
Natasha lowered her hands slowly. The barrier dissolved into shimmering particles of fading magic.
Dust drifted downward like gray snow.
Before them, carved into the mountainside, lay a massive crater.
And within it—
The Golden Dragon.
Its colossal body twitched faintly, golden scales dulled and cracked, wings broken and twisted against shattered rock.
Whether it was dead or merely unconscious, none could tell.
Geralt tightened his grip on his sword.
Above them, the sky was empty.
But something told him—
The battle was not over.
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