In Prince Yurkas's council chamber.
A portly middle-aged nobleman with a comical mustache, his face flushed, said:
"Your Royal Highness, stop clinging to false hope."
"According to intelligence from my merchant caravans."
"There have been unusual movements in Vizima's grain market."
"Vizima must be acquiring grain, secretly preparing for war."
"If you don't muster an army now, you might be caught off guard by Vizima's forces."
This stout nobleman was Prince Yurkas's finance minister, highly sensitive to commercial flows, and was able to pinpoint the crucial issue through abnormal grain trade, offering a good suggestion.
Unfortunately, his highly valuable suggestion was mockingly rejected by Prince Yurkas.
He was a very arrogant prince, and also petty; otherwise, he wouldn't have sent assassins after Princess Adda at such an opportune moment, when he could have waited until she was engaged or about to inherit the throne.
"Hmph! Brut, I think you're overthinking it."
"With the Nilfgaardian Empire eyeing us covetously, and Temeria being the northernmost country closest to the south, how could Foltest dare to act rashly?"
"Moreover, I have an agreement with King Demavend of Aedirn; in about half a month, he will send cavalry to wait at the border, ready to support me at any time."
"By then, if Foltest dares to mobilize his army, he will be met with a pincer attack from two large armies."
The finance minister wanted to say more, but the military officer nobleman opposite him shook his head, signaling him to stop.
Most noble rulers are arrogant and foolish, and Yurkas was no exception. It was kings like Foltest, who listened to advice, that were rare.
If he continued to defy his wishes, he might even incur punishment.
The portly finance minister sighed, thinking that he would find an opportunity in private to persuade his monarch again.
Unfortunately, there would be no more opportunities.
With a loud crack, the council chamber's skylight suddenly shattered, and a massive figure descended from above, crashing onto the wooden table in the chamber with a thud.
Before anyone could react, a sharp sword light sliced across the necks of two noblemen by the council table.
The fat finance minister and the military officer nobleman were decapitated by Guilliman's steel sword without even a sound.
A beautiful maid serving in the council chamber, her mouth agape, had just started to scream when she was also brutally cut down by the Witcher; a flying knife mercilessly pierced her throat.
During combat, unless it was a beautiful woman with a name and a story, everyone else, in Guilliman's eyes, as long as they had a health bar, was an enemy, with no quarter given.
In less than five seconds, out of the three people and one maid who had just been discussing countermeasures in the council chamber, only Prince Yurkas remained.
The arrogant Prince of Maribor widened his eyes, his gaze fixed, seemingly unable to believe what was unfolding before him.
What was happening? Just moments ago, he was discussing military matters with two ministers; how had they suddenly become two headless corpses?
It wasn't until he recovered from his terror, just as he was about to shout "Assassin!"...
that the Witcher's large hand clamped over his mouth. His body then went limp, paralyzed by the enemy's immense strength, utterly powerless to resist.
The tall Witcher held him by the neck with one hand, gripping him like a small chicken, while his other hand held a sharp, cold, serpent-shaped dagger against his chin, saying in a cold voice:
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