The Devil of Cintra (The Witcher x Youjo Senki)

Braathens was sweating. The Devil - and she sure looked the part - floated above the battlefield like a scorned angel, while fires raged below.

What remained of the cavalry had retreated after they fired or threw whatever projectiles they could at the escaping enemy riders, while their infantry was slowly trying to make their way out of the hellscape to safety. This was unfortunately not an easy task - their own sorcerous bombardment had left the once-green pass littered with fires large and small, each of which had now grown to truly preposterous dimensions.

Somehow, each fire had been repurposed into a conduit to the Elemental Plane of Fire, which provided more energy for their growth in a demented feedback loop that would hopefully end with the Cintran sorceress popping like a grape, and soon. Once he made it back home, he’d make sure the next generation of textbooks in the Imperial College included this as an exercise. It was truly exemplary.

Then again, maybe it was better not to. Only the Great Sun knew that there were some sorcerers bright enough to see it as a challenge.

He shook his head, returning his gaze to the battlefield.

Most of the Cintrans had retreated beyond their reach, though a small group remained, likely hoping to retrieve the Devil if she survived. It was of little matter. If the sorceress somehow did not kill herself, Braathens would make certain she did not live long enough to reach the ground.

Not that the mad sorceress seemed to understand that her goals had been achieved.

Like many before her, she had thought herself above the petty warnings of old men. Braathens almost sympathised. He could still remember his youth, and the isolation of genius. It was a simple trap, really. If you are smarter than those around you, proving them wrong again and again, then how can you distinguish between real danger and idiotic superstition?

Turns out, the answer is: not very well. Braathens had survived his ordeal, as his experimentation had been much more modest - a simple candle - while his mistress had been near enough to intervene before it was too late.

The sorcerer did not quite regret his actions, for he had acted with the best information available to him at the time, and the lessons he had learnt had been invaluable, both the magical and the mundane. It was those experiences that made him pity and dread the Aretuzan sorceress floating above the battlefield, even as he strained to shield the retreating troops.

Making use of fire was far from impossible, of course. With an iron will, low doses and plenty of experience, it could be managed. Just like a person of sufficient determination could snort fisstech and not be consumed by addiction. Similarly, there was no reason for rational men and women to partake.

He glanced at Xanthia. The masked young woman stood tense at his side. Hopefully, this was enough for his disciple to learn as well.

In many ways, the Power of Fire was paradoxical. Great moderation and a calm mind were two necessary ingredients for even an experienced sorcerer to make use of the element - yet, without the incentive of an approaching death, why risk it? Making use of the other elements might take longer, but so what? In battle, moderation completed the paradox. If you were desperate enough to draw on fire, chances were, moderation was not going to suffice.

Degurechaff was hardly the first who had thought to use fire as a last-ditch effort - not many managed to do much more than to scream and die. Unfortunately, whether through luck or skill, the Aretuzan sorceress did not belong to that group.

Their best bet was to weather this until the Devil of Cintra burnt herself out. She was almost certainly barely lucid, as her attacks now were poorly aimed and half-hearted at best, but that did not make her any less dangerous. For the moment, at least. He knew that could very rapidly change if something attracted her attention.

He grimaced as she shot another of those heat beams, scorching the empty earth below her.

Soon, the Power would overwhelm her and she’d burst, or she’d tear open a hole into the Elemental Plane of Fire, and then die.

While the Emperor would probably not be happy with the latter, Braathens himself didn’t mind. Some wonders were too dangerous for one to attempt alone, but he’d happily witness the work of others.

Perhaps they might even see an Ifrit.

I walked through the streets of Berun in a resplendent general’s uniform, a magnificent crimson cloak trailing behind me, while the people bowed in reverence.

Soldiers patrolled in force, a mix of knights and riflemen, the streets illuminated by brightly lit… torches?

The red sun took over half the sky, casting Berun in crimson hues.

All was as it should be.

At my destination, the firing squad had already taken aim at the kneeling figures.

Everyone who had tried to use me and who had opposed my ascent to my rightful place at the top. Those who deserved punishment.

The black diamond grew uncomfortably hot against my thigh.

First, the figures of the two generals - the hulking Rudersdorf and the greying Zettour, both trembling in fear now that I was free of their machinations.

Calanthé knelt next to them, her ashen hair tangled and wild instead of neat, while her defiant expression had been replaced with sheer terror.

Ortagor and Lergen were next, both trying to look stoic, but I could see through their facades.

Then, many other figures. Grantz, Koenig, Cyril, Roderic, Weiss, Neumann, Isengrim, Aevinne…

I paid them little mind, my eyes landing on Tissaia.

The Headmistress was a pitiable sight, her once-intricate dress dirty and torn, while her hair flowed freely, a state I knew must be driving her insane.

I looked into her eyes, ready to savour the terror, yet I only saw sadness and resignation.

The black diamond seared my flesh, red-hot against my thigh. A gift from Tissaia, I recalled.

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I frowned. That wasn’t right.

Still, it was no matter.

I raised my hand, but before I gave the signal to fire, I spotted two more figures near the back.

I squinted.

Was that… Visha? And the small figure next to her, Pavetta?

That was definitely wrong.

“Do it,” a voice hissed into my ear, and I recoiled in surprise.

“Burn it all down.”

Behind me stood a woman made of fire, though she no longer looked human. She was a being of white flames, radiating pure hunger.

I stared at the creature unblinkingly for the few seconds it took me to summon my mage blade.

The glowing weapon erupted from my hand, and I slashed, cutting the apparition from top to bottom.

The two pieces of the burning woman stayed intact, her cruel smile morphing into a frown. Then the flames rejoined, and she was whole once more.

So I cut again. And again and again. Again again again again.

As the figure reformed, the flames melding seamlessly, something clicked in my mind.

“Being X,” I gritted out, causing the figure to tilt its head. It seemed that my opponent had not been content to leave me be, and worse, that they had changed their tactics.

I no longer knew what game the entity was playing.

“Burn them all,” it spoke again, making me doubt my previous conclusion. “You know you want to. They are ungrateful, irrational. You could be so much more.”

Though I would never describe Being X as fully sane, whatever apparition stood before me was clearly a couple of steps further along that path. Then again, it was possible that more time had passed since my second death than I had subjectively experienced, and that this wretch was Being X, merely a changed one.

Perhaps he had finally understood my arguments and performed a lobotomy on himself for the betterment of mankind?

Well, it was good to dream, but I did not think Being X would have been capable of such selflessness even in a million years.

Which left me exactly where I had started.

Staring at this strange entity, while Berun - or the illusion of Berun - burned around me.

The pain emanating from Tissaia’s gift grounded me, though my mind still felt somewhat hazy.

Suffice to say, I had absolutely no idea what was happening. Visions weren’t exactly an uncommon side effect for those who tried to make use of the Power of Fire, but this didn’t feel like a vision. Then again, how was a vision supposed to feel?

I shook my head. The exact nature of my predicament wasn’t pertinent in any case. What mattered was only how to get back.

I closed my eyes. The Power filled me almost to bursting. I might not have been where I needed to be, but I had just recently learnt a spell to remedy such issues, had I not? I wasn’t sure if a portal would even work, considering I had little idea of what was happening. It was certainly bound to be dangerous - but hardly more so than letting the Nilfgaardians march on my forces unopposed.

“You can do anything,” the creature of flames whispered, as if in response to my thoughts. I felt no intrusion, but that left me no less wary.

At least I had the confidence of some half-insane flame apparition.

With no better ideas, I began casting.

“What is she doing?” the newly-minted Governor asked.

Braathens glanced at the skeletal Nazairi, before his eyes returned to the floating figure. The Emperor had yet to speak, but the sorcerer did not need to be a genius to understand that he was displeased.

It was no wonder why. Their gambit had succeeded only partially, and their losses had been worse than expected, if still light.

The army of the Great Sun stood arrayed on the field in loose formations, facing north and the floating sorceress. Yet, all actions had their costs. Their grip on Metinna would suffer because of the rapid withdrawal of so many soldiers - even if it was just a single, numerically small, though elite, army group - but the opportunity to conquer Nazair and cripple Cintra was well worth the price. One out of two wasn’t bad.

He had half a mind to ignore Governor Octavian. While the governor's help might have been invaluable, it was best for the provincial to learn his place early.

The army stood still, awaiting command.

His command for this glorious moment, for though he was no Marshal, his expertise in magic was unmatched by any others present.

Braathens eventually shrugged, “Losing her mind, most likely.”

He glanced towards the engineer crews, the men still painstakingly working to aim their scorpions.

The army had only brought a handful, as their foremost concern had been speed, but a mundane answer to the Cintran war beasts had been deemed necessary.

Now, they were left with the unenviable task of shooting a small target up in the air.

If Braathens was not mistaken, Degurechaff’s magical senses were very likely intact, if not heightened, but she’d have no recourse against a ballista bolt.

One hit, and she’d be paste. No risk of her lashing out and burning hundreds of people to a crisp, and especially no risk to himself.

If he was wrong, then things would get… interesting.

“Xanthia, prepare yourself,” he spoke to his apprentice, sparing a glance at her mask and really hoping she had just been too lazy to remove it, instead of taking a fancy to her disguise.

He glanced at the floating Devil and her dark armour. In that one aspect, the Cintran sorceress was certainly a bad influence.

Soon, the engineers were done, a burly officer giving them a nod.

The Emperor’s eyes gleamed. He unsheathed his sword and raised it in the air.

That was when he spotted it.

Degurechaff’s hands were moving, and Power flowed like cheap beer at a tavern.

“LOOSE!” The Emperor’s voice boomed, clearly not weakened in the least from his days as an imperial officer, and the siege engines spat their payload.

Then the sky cracked, and things went wrong.

The transition was abrupt. One moment, I was finishing the portal spell. The next I was above the battlefield, looking at Nilfgaard’s army assembled hundreds of meters away from the still-burning battlefield. I had not passed through the portal, so the abrupt change left me momentarily surprised.

Above me was a jagged hole in reality. It was as if someone had taken a rusty knife to the sky, unveiling dark red void behind it as they cut, a void which, even now, was siphoning massive amounts of Power from the world and radiating enough heat that I felt my flesh beginning to burn. I suspected that the someone had been me.

The worst of it was the sound. An unholy screech, as if a thousand nails were scraping on a thousand chalkboards.

This certainly wasn’t how portals were supposed to work.

On top of it all, I had not undergone some mid-battle epiphany and as such, did not have a proper flight spell ready. This was slightly problematic - not because of the fall, but because I did not think the Nilfgaardians would let me get to the ground peacefully. Apparently I’d get to stress-test some of my ideas after all.

Oh, and there were ballista bolts a couple of seconds from skewering me.

Truly, Being X’s hatred knew no bounds.