The Witcher: Astartes Of The Bear School

Chapter 65: Fleeing

The Head Eater, Ubank, walked out of his tent with his two loyal hounds and a small bundle slung over his back. 

He was traveling light, his efficient preparations making it seem as if he had been ready for this moment all along. 

Just moments ago, he had stood on the high platform outside his tent, promising hefty rewards that had sent the bloodthirsty thugs into a frenzy of cheers. 

But now, no one cared about the platform that symbolized the leader's authority. 

The thugs were terrified. 

They were running around like headless chickens, shouting, panicking, and even turning on each other in their nervousness. 

"Tsk, tsk, tsk." 

Ubank clicked his tongue, watching the chaos in his camp with a mix of pity and resignation. 

He had no intention of stepping forward to restore order. That monstrous witcher was still out there, slaughtering everything in his path. Still slaughtering! 

If he stepped forward to take command now, there was a good chance the witcher would spot him and charge straight at him with a sword. 

Who here could stop him? 

And when it came to a camp collapse, hoping for the chaos to subside on its own was about as reliable as praying to the gods. 

Unless an external armed force intervened, the only way a collapsing camp would calm down was if everyone was dead or had fled. 

What was strange, though, was that Ubank, the leader of the camp, only showed a limited amount of regret as he watched his carefully built empire crumble. 

It wasn't even deep sorrow—just a faint sense of "what a shame." 

It was as if the camp about to collapse wasn't his life's work, but just a convenient tool he had been using. 

"Hey! Old Hansen! Stop, stop!" 

Ubank first tucked his precious bundle securely under his clothes, then, after a quick glance around, called out to a man. 

A white-bearded old man, running around like a headless chicken, stopped in his tracks. His panicked, confused eyes regained a glimmer of rationality when he saw Ubank. 

"Boss!" His eyes lit up with hope. 

A leader—any leader, regardless of their competence or character—was what a lost and panicked group craved most. 

But before he could say more, Ubank cut him off. 

"Looks like you've calmed down. Good. Come on, let's gather a few more good lads. We need to get the cargo to the rendezvous point at sea." 

With his two hounds following closely, Ubank kept walking as he issued orders. 

The rapid-fire instructions left Old Hansen, who had just been lost in fear and confusion, momentarily stunned. 

"What? Boss, what about the camp?" 

"The camp?" Ubank paused, turning to look at Old Hansen with an expression of disbelief, as if he were dealing with a misbehaving child. 

"Have you lost your mind, Old Hansen? We're all just here to make a living. Who knows who? There's no saving this mess now. Just worry about yourself." 

"The camp's gone, the men are gone. But we've got to think about the future, right? People need to eat, and eating costs money. Listen to me. Let's grab a few level-headed lads, take advantage of the fact that the witcher's busy killing elsewhere, and head to the detention area to grab some cargo for trade." 

"We can't take it all, but we won't have to split it with so many people now, will we? It's still a profitable deal. Then we'll have the buyers take us away. With money, we can live anywhere." 

His words were logical and concise, a stark contrast to his rough, barbaric appearance. Even Old Hansen, who could barely read, found himself calming down under Ubank's reasoning. 

"That makes sense, that makes sense…" The old man muttered under his breath. "My two sons are probably still alive. I'll bring them along, and you give me an extra share." 

Ubank gave Old Hansen an appraising look. 

'Not bad, old man. Only when you're safe and need people to make money do you remember you have two sons… Cold-hearted, huh? No wonder you've lived so long.'

"Sure, we'll all gather people, then load the cargo onto the boats at the port. Whoever loads the cargo gets the money—fair enough. But I've got a piece of advice for you…" 

"Go on, I'm listening!" 

Old Hansen eagerly looked at Ubank, now placing absolute trust in his leader's wisdom. 

"See those two cages over there?" Ubank pointed toward the detention area, where two cages stood. 

One was the small cage holding Margarita, and the other was the larger cage where White had been thrown. 

"The people in those two cages—we don't touch them. You've seen that witcher, right? Damn, he kills like he's slaughtering chickens! Scary as hell! I've figured it out—he's here for those two cages. Let's not mess with them. We're here to make money, not to die." 

"You're right! You're right! I'll steer clear of them!" Old Hansen nodded repeatedly, then turned and disappeared into the chaos to find his two sons. 

Ubank, with his two hounds in tow, also began gathering the men he needed. 

At this point, Lan could feel his body being ravaged by the excessive toxicity of the potions. 

He wanted to inflict as much damage as possible before the potions wore off. Once the effects faded, he would be incapacitated—at best, temporarily weakened. He needed to create a safe environment during this time. 

So, even if it meant moving away from the detention area, he had to hunt down the remaining armed thugs in the camp. 

This played right into Ubank's hands. 

The short, stocky man gathered three more helpers and began loading children from the large cage onto a small boat. 

As he passed Margarita's small cage, he even gave a polite nod to the sorceress, who was still dazed from overexerting her magic. 

At the port, the two groups had gathered nearly twenty children. Old Hansen wanted his sons to make another trip, urging them to bring more. 

But Ubank, also at the port, noticed something unusual—the growing brightness of the flames at the edge of the camp. 

The firelight was unnatural. That was Ubank's first thought. 

The witcher had used his magic to start fires, but those had been limited to the sandy area near the detention zone. He hadn't set the camp itself ablaze. 

And while the witcher was now killing in the camp, using his sword was far more efficient than using fire. 

The shape of the flames didn't look like an uncontrolled blaze—it looked more like a formation. 

The witcher had allies! 

Ubank shuddered. He grabbed Old Hansen by the collar and dragged him onto the boat. 

"No time for more cargo! They've got backup! You can either live to spend your money or die trying to grab more cargo. Your choice!" 

The armed thugs on the boat exchanged glances, then hesitantly picked up the oars. 

At the edge of the camp, a deep, commanding voice rang out. "Damn slavers! Cursed cannibals! In the name of Vserad, crush them!" 

The sound of galloping horses shattered the night. 

The already terrified thugs, spurred by the approaching cavalry, began rowing with all their might, pushing the boat away from the port as if their lives depended on it. 

Even the greedy Old Hansen fell silent, muttering under his breath, "My money, my money…" 

The cavalry charged into the camp, their horses trampling tents with ease. 

The disorganized thugs, already leaderless, were as fragile as whipped cream under the onslaught of the cavalry. 

The small boat drifted further into the dark sea, its occupants watching the shore with a mix of relief and fear. 

Had they delayed even two minutes, they would have either been beheaded by the ghostly witcher or trampled into paste by the cavalry. 

Everyone was shaken. 

But then, a brown-haired child next to Old Hansen suddenly pulled a small dagger from their waistband and, in the rocking of the boat, stabbed the old man in the arm before lunging toward the edge of the boat to jump into the sea. 

The old man cried out in shock, but his years of experience kicked in. Despite the blood streaming from his arm, he grabbed the child. 

"Where did this little brat get a dagger? Who searched him?!" 

The child panicked. The child's eyes rolled back, and one of Ubank's hounds, which had been lying at his feet, suddenly lunged at Old Hansen, biting him viciously. 

In pain, the old man let go, and the child plunged into the sea with a splash. 

"My cargo! Your dog! Damn it! My money!" 

Old Hansen wailed on the boat, unsure whether he was crying over his lost money or his injured arm. 

Ubank, meanwhile, stared in disbelief at his hound, which now looked up at him with clear, innocent eyes, as if it had no idea what it had just done. 

"Damn it… Am I seeing ghosts today?" 

***

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