My days in Cintra passed quickly and I stopped thinking about the so-called prophecy. I couldn’t know whether it was genuine or whether Being X was messing with me, but even if it was, the prophecy was too vague to be of much help anyway. So I moved on, putting the matter out of my mind.

  Moving my equipment proved not to be much of an issue, considering the scope of the reinforcements assigned to guard the pass. Around fifteen hundred men, a mix of volunteers and conscripts, from all over the kingdom. All levies, thus unpaid and generally bringing their own lacking equipment. The supply train for such a group was considerable, so adding an extra wagon with my personal belongings was a trivial matter.

  I had also commissioned a specialty metal sheath for the dimeritium dagger I had gotten from the first assassination attempt on my person. The dagger had been irritating to carry in a practical manner otherwise, and while it likely would not have helped me overmuch against the Nazairi sorcerer, it could be a potent tool in other situations.

  The size of the reinforcements was rather puzzling when I considered the long-term nature of the assignment. Levies usually weren’t raised for more than a few months, at least when possible, to avoid issues with farming. However, with Cintra having enjoyed a few decades of peace, the Hochebuz skirmish notwithstanding, there was probably an overabundance of third and fourth sons.

  “It is because of Attre,” Vissegerd explained when I asked, walking alongside me through a military camp hastily pitched outside of Cintra’s walls, where the majority of the levies resided for now. A few Royal Guards tailed us. I had my reflex enhancement running just in case as well, considering my past experiences.

  I quirked an eyebrow.

  Vissegerd sighed, before looking around, “With the blow you’ve dealt, no one is keen enough to stick their necks out and test the Crown, especially for sensible matters like this. It won’t last, but for now, they’ll take the loss.”

  I hummed.

  “The Queen will try and keep them in Marnadal for as long as possible,” he continued, “But between us, if the border stays quiet, I wouldn’t rely on them remaining once the fortress is done.”

  I nodded in understanding, “Each day they work for me is a day they aren’t working for their lords,” This was Human Resources 101.

  “Quite right. The fops,” his nose wrinkled, “are silent now, but that’ll quickly change. Especially if there are any incidents on the Temerian border, as the majority of the levies hail from the north.”

  We continued walking through the ramshackle camp. The soldiers, if they could be called that, either ignored us or gawked, with most of them lounging around. I even spotted a pair playing Gwent, though with knockoff cards.

  I certainly saw nothing that would disabuse me of my earlier conclusion.

  Ideally, they would only be there to help speed up the construction, so it wasn’t as much of an issue as if we were heading for an active warzone, but I still did not like it.

  Luckily, my training methods had proven fairly adequate, though I’d refrain from training on the march this time. Reinforcing Marnadal and helping with the construction was my priority now. The sooner its defences were up, the sooner I’d be safe. Wasting time marching would be counterproductive to those ends.

  With most of my time free, I could continue working on portals. With my new position, they’d be invaluable not only for escaping or striking deep into enemy territory, but also for having an easily accessible route outside should the fortress come under siege.

  Providing supplies for thousands of people through a single portal, maintained for a few minutes on average, was a complete pipe dream, of course, but we could still bring in some, amongst many other possible uses in such a situation. Evacuating high-value wounded, bringing in specialized reinforcements, sending saboteurs outside our walls unnoticed… the volume would be very limited, but the possibilities were endless.

  Considering my promise to continue serving as a Court Sorceress to Calanthé, learning how to create portals was now my current objective.

  I was close now, though. Tissaia’s advice had been especially helpful. With a bit of luck, I’d crack it before we reached Marnadal.

  As we made a full circle around the camp, I spotted Monck, sitting alone on a tree stump, staring towards the city walls. I nodded towards him, which made Vissegerd’s gaze sharpen.

  When we exited the camp and stepped onto the path towards the city gates, Vissegerd spoke up, “That is the assassin, is it not?”

  I nodded, “We’ve come to an arrangement.”

  The Marshal frowned, “I hope you weren’t convinced by whatever sob story he concocted. It’s always the same with their sort. Never at fault, always an excuse. It’s best to deal with them quickly,” He made a chopping motion with his hand.

  “Do I look like someone who’d be moved by a sob story?” I shot back.

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  Vissegerd paused, then snorted, before looking away, “Well, you are the Provost of Dreadhold.”

  I blinked, “Provost of the what now?”

  Vissegerd smirked, “Oh, you haven’t heard? The Queen thought the name would fit your style,” he stared at my armour pointedly.

  I suppressed a groan. The armour’s style had legitimate tactical value! A castle was a castle, no matter the name. How embarrassing.

  “Is that… permanent?” I asked, my voice neutral.

  Vissegerd began chuckling, before laughing out loud. He got himself under control after a moment, then looked me in the eye, face serious, “Yes.”

  I sighed, eliciting more chuckles from the Marshal.

  “In any case,” Vissegerd spoke, before clapping me on my armoured back, “You’ve done a great job with the Nazairi dogs. It doesn’t sit right with me that you are getting shuffled to the wilds just for dealing with a few traitors, even if you are getting a castle out of the deal.”

  I shrugged, “Politics. A soldier is, in the end, just a sword. We go where our wielders will it.”

  Vissegerd gave me a queer look, before nodding, “Right you are. I suppose you are a soldier now. The bards will have a field day with that one, I can already hear it.”

  I grimaced openly, eliciting some more chuckles out of the Marshal.

  “The Sorcerer Knightess, or General, perhaps?” He hummed, as if he was planning a career change. I did not know the Marshal too well, but I did not think he’d make a good bard.

  Seeing my grimace, Vissegerd turned to me again, “Now, now, surely being the Hero of Cintra is not so bad?”

  “Action needs to be taken against the Devil of Cintra!” Duke Lucien spoke in the throne room, his elderly voice resounding throughout the hall while the King watched over the Nazairi nobility with an impassive face.

  Shouts of agreement erupted from the hall, the majority coming from the group gathered around Lucien - the largest group.

  “And leave our southern border undefended?” A second voice, one filled with scorn, spoke up. The room fell silent, all eyes coming to rest on the tall figure of Duke Octavian, alongside his much smaller group of compatriots. The rest of Nazair’s nobility mingled between the two groups.

  Octavian raised one skeletal hand to his chin, his green eyes flashing, “Or, perhaps, that is your aim?”

  Duke Lucien, though elderly, had yet to lose any of his fire, “Should we focus on the dull dagger yet to be raised against us, or on the spear currently thrust towards our throats?”

  “Thrust?” Octavian laughed, “The fortress is hardly ideal, but it is not an existential threat, unlike our new southern neighbour. Do any of you truly believe Nilfgaard will stop with Metinna? We have months at most to prepare!”

  “Fearmongering!” Lucien shot back, “Nilfgaard will struggle for decades to contain Metinna and Ebbing, if they will even succeed, while the Cintrans are already softening us up!”

  “And,” Octavian paused dramatically, adjusting his spectacles, “If they don’t?”

  “Then we never had a chance to begin with!” Lucien spat out, before realising what he had said and looking furtively towards the throne. With all eyes on Lucien, none managed to see the thoughtful look that appeared on Octavian’s face.

  “Enough,” Severin Mordain, the King of Nazair, spoke up, making the room go silent.

  “Our Kingdom has found itself in a crisis. A crisis that we will struggle to overcome while divided,” he continued, looking from noble to noble, “Yet to fully devote our attention to either of our adversaries would leave us vulnerable to the other. I decree thus: the North shall prepare a punitive expedition against Cintra, while the South shall make a levy in gold, and focus on fortifying our border.”

  Murmurs erupted amongst the gathered nobles.

  “Death to the Devil of Cintra!” Lucien shouted at the top of his elderly lungs. Others soon joined him.

  “Death to the Devil!”

  “Justice for Wenceslaus!”

  “Death!”

  The shouts were silenced with one loud clap, which once again found the gathered people’s gazes drawn to the King, whose face was now marred with a frown.

  “I was not finished,” he spoke calmly, though all could see the displeasure in his eyes, “Duke Octavian of Clan Moritat,” he turned towards the Duke, “Report on your findings in regards to the mercenary companies in Ebbing and Metinna.”

  The skeletal Duke bowed, “I have found a few promising ones, chief amongst them the ‘Black’ company. I’ve hosted their second-in-command, a man called Tawny Owl, for some time now. He claims that the company is both ready and amenable to a contract,” he paused for breath, “There are others, but the Black company is the biggest and most professional of the lot.”

  “How many?” The King asked.

  “One and a half thousand,” Octavian responded.

  Murmurs erupted again at hearing the Duke’s answer. At those numbers, it was less of a mercenary company and more of a small army.

  “I was unaware such a large company operated in Ebbing,” The elderly Duke Lucien spoke up, “Could it be a ploy?”

  Octavian snorted, “Now who is fearmongering? Is this not exactly what you wanted, Lucien?”

  Lucien frowned, but before he could respond, the King spoke up, “Answer the question.”

  Octavian offered a small bow towards the throne, “It is a conglomerate of sorts, rather than a singular company. After the fall of Ebbing and the… raid, on Cintra, they came to an agreement to pursue employment elsewhere, fearful of a Nilfgaardian crackdown. If Tawny Owl is to be believed, their leadership is composed of free sorcerers wishing to escape Nilfgaard’s iron fist, making deceit unlikely.”

  The King nodded towards Octavian, before speaking to the audience at large, “My men tell me the Marnadal garrison hovers around two thousand, their fortress unbuilt. Duke Lucien, how many troops can you marshal?”

  Lucien looked around at the nobles gathered around him, “Five thousand.”

  “The Crown will send another three thousand, then,” The King added, “The largest army fielded by our great nation in this century.”

  Severin Mordain’s eyes narrowed as he beheld the gathered nobility.

  “For the future of Nazair, we will crush them all.”

  Alex Everett becomes a Progenitor, a mythical race thought extinct, and is empowered by more than just the System. Now, if only the universe can survive him.

  What to Expect: LitRPG System Apocalypse, Weak to Strong MC (sometimes OP), Smart Lead, Base Building, plenty of magic and sword fights, and No Harem. Daily chapter releases!

  A Progenitor never stops growing.