"Crack—Rumble!"
The sound was sharp and violent, echoing like thunder through the mountain pass. In the instant that followed, the suspension bridge beneath them gave way without warning. Thick wooden planks snapped like brittle twigs, ropes frayed and tore apart, and the entire structure collapsed inward as though the mountain itself had decided to swallow it whole.
The horses carrying Geralt and Natasha screamed in terror.
Rearing wildly, their hooves lost all purchase as the bridge disintegrated beneath them. Wood, rope, dust, and debris cascaded downward, vanishing almost instantly into the mist-shrouded abyss below. The horses, dragged along by gravity and panic, were pulled over the edge, their cries fading rapidly as they plummeted toward the bottomless depths of the cliff.
The suddenness of it all left no room for hesitation.
Several horse-lengths behind them, Borchi and his two Zerrikanian maiden guards reacted just in time. Their mounts skidded violently, hooves scraping against stone, stopping mere steps from the collapsing edge. The three could only stare in horror as Geralt and Natasha disappeared over the cliff along with the remains of the bridge.
"Geralt! Natasha!" Borchi shouted, his voice strained with alarm.
But there was nothing he could do—charging forward now would only worsen the collapse.
At the very instant of the fall, Geralt's Witcher-honed reflexes exploded into action.
As his body dropped into empty space, he twisted midair with terrifying precision. His left hand shot outward, fingers spread wide, and clamped onto a jagged rock protruding from the cliff face. The impact sent a shock through his arm, but his grip held firm, tendons bulging as his fingers dug in like iron hooks.
With his other hand, moving just as swiftly, he reached back and seized Natasha's wrist.
Her scream was cut short as Geralt's grasp closed around her, arresting her fall just as gravity threatened to claim them both.
Their descent stopped abruptly.
The two of them now hung suspended over the abyss—Geralt clinging to the cliff with one hand, Natasha dangling beneath him, her body pressed against the rock wall, her fingers desperately gripping his arm as if it were her only anchor to life.
Natasha gasped sharply, her breath coming in ragged bursts. Her face had gone deathly pale, lips trembling as the realization of how close she had come to dying finally caught up with her.
But the danger was far from over.
The rock Geralt was gripping began to protest under the immense strain.
A low, ominous crack sounded near his fingers. Fine fractures spread rapidly across the stone, branching outward like a spiderweb. Pebbles broke loose and fell, vanishing into the mist below, each one a grim reminder that their hold was temporary at best.
The cliff edge itself groaned, shedding dust and fragments as it bore the combined weight of two fully equipped adults.
Borchi felt his heart sink.
He reined in his horse hard, forcing it to halt at a safe distance from the edge. Even so, his hand hovered near the reins, uncertain whether to move closer or stay still. Any wrong step could trigger another collapse.
His two Zerrikanian guards instinctively leaned forward, but Borchi raised a sharp hand, stopping them.
"Don't move," he ordered quietly, though tension vibrated in every syllable.
He hesitated, debating whether to use a spell—but magic, too, could destabilize the already-fractured cliff.
Geralt's grip tightened as he felt the rock shift beneath his fingers.
Not much longer, he thought grimly.
Just as the situation reached its breaking point, footsteps approached the edge of the collapsing cliff.
They were unhurried.
Almost casual.
A figure walked forward at a pace utterly at odds with the surrounding panic, as though he were strolling through a peaceful meadow rather than toward a crumbling precipice.
It was Karl.
Or rather, "Arnulfati," as he was known to those present.
Loose stones rolled away beneath his boots, tumbling into the abyss, yet he showed no sign of slowing down. The dizzying height and the unstable ground might as well not have existed.
He came to a stop directly above Geralt, standing on the very edge of the cliff the Witcher was clinging to.
Karl did not lower himself. He did not brace or widen his stance.
He simply bent at the waist and looked down.
Geralt lifted his head, meeting Karl's calm, unruffled gaze. A mix of shock, relief, and gratitude surged through him. For the first time since the bridge collapsed, hope flickered in his eyes.
Karl spoke evenly, his voice steady and unconcerned.
"Hold on tight."
Below, Natasha swallowed hard, fear gripping her chest like a vice. Her breathing quickened, and she nodded repeatedly, pouring every ounce of strength she had into her grip. Her fingers clenched painfully around Geralt's wrist and forearm, as if letting go would cause the world itself to vanish.
From Borchi's perspective—and from several other adventurers who had just rushed over—the scene was unreal.
Karl extended one hand.
With frightening ease, he grasped Geralt's arm—the one holding onto the rock.
Then he pulled.
There was no strain, no buildup of effort.
"Whoosh!"
An overwhelming force surged upward.
Geralt and Natasha felt their bodies lifted as if they weighed nothing at all. Nearly two hundred kilograms of combined weight, plus armor, weapons, and gear, were hauled upward in a single smooth motion.
In the blink of an eye, they were clear of the cliff.
Karl set them down gently on solid ground beside Borchi, as casually as one might place two stones on the roadside.
He even brushed his hands together afterward, as if dusting off imaginary dirt.
The cliff continued to crumble behind him, rocks falling endlessly into the void, yet Karl remained standing at the very edge, peering down into the dust-filled depths with mild curiosity. He showed no urgency in retreating to safety.
Natasha collapsed to her knees.
She clutched her chest, gasping for air, her entire body trembling uncontrollably. Her face was drained of all color, eyes unfocused as she struggled to process the brush with death she had just endured.
Geralt, though his heart still pounded fiercely, recovered more quickly. Years of training and countless brushes with danger had taught him how to regain control under pressure.
He immediately checked himself—especially the arm Karl had grabbed and the wrist Natasha had nearly crushed in her panic.
There was no pain.
No swelling.
Not even a bruise.
Given the force involved, an ordinary man's arm would have been torn from its socket.
A faint crease formed between Geralt's brows as doubt flickered through his mind.
Just how strong is he…?
Still, now was not the time for questions.
Geralt extended a hand and helped Natasha to her feet. She swayed slightly but managed to stand, leaning on him for support as her breathing gradually steadied.
Together, they turned toward Karl, who had already stepped back from the edge.
Geralt inclined his head deeply.
"Thank you, Arnulfati," he said sincerely.
Karl nodded once, accepting the gratitude without ceremony. His gaze briefly shifted to the side.
A Ranger Knight stood nearby, holding a rope that shimmered faintly with magical energy. He had clearly intended to assist, but his reaction had been far too slow to matter.
Geralt noticed Karl's posture—how he still stood perilously close to the cliff, as though the abyss beneath his feet were nothing more than flat ground.
A question escaped Geralt's lips before he could stop himself, driven by instinct and professional curiosity.
"Arnulfati," he asked, "aren't you… afraid of falling?"
From Geralt's perspective, Karl's actions—though lifesaving—had been outrageously reckless.
Karl burst out laughing.
He shook his head, amusement dancing in his eyes.
"Afraid?" he repeated lightly. "Geralt, I'm not you."
He pointed casually toward the cliff.
"That drop is what—thirty meters? Maybe forty, at most."
He shrugged.
"For me, that's nothing. Just a shallow puddle."
His smile widened slightly.
"Even if I jumped straight down right now, I wouldn't need to bend my knees when I landed."
Geralt stared at him.
Then he looked at the cliff again—at a height that would kill nearly any living creature.
Then back at Karl.
Silence stretched for several seconds before Geralt finally spoke, his voice carrying a complicated mix of awe and unease.
"Arnulfati… I'm starting to think you're more of a freak than I am."
Borchi approached then, flanked by his two Zerrikanian guards.
His eyes were fixed on Karl, filled with admiration—and something else.
Curiosity. Wariness.
"Geralt," Borchi said slowly, "why have I never heard you mention this warrior before?"
He studied Karl carefully, measuring him from head to toe.
"I have no doubt that the strength he just displayed could overturn a fully armored warhorse in full charge."
Karl met Borchi's gaze.
Their eyes locked.
In that instant, Borchi felt a sudden, inexplicable chill crawl up his spine.
A primal sense of danger surged within him—an instinctive warning, like standing before a natural predator while wearing no armor at all. It felt as though something vast and terrifying lurked beneath Karl's calm exterior.
One wrong move.
One careless word.
And death might follow.
The sensation vanished as quickly as it appeared.
But Borchi did not forget it.
Not for a moment.
For more chapters
patreon.com/Robertt45