After nearly twenty rounds of combat, the cursed Striga, Adda, had accumulated dozens of wounds of varying depths across her body.
Dark red blood soaked her filthy fur, and her movements had slowed considerably.
Geralt was already breathing slightly heavily, and his Arzu's Shield was flickering.
Karl, however, was still breathing steadily, with not a trace of sweat on his forehead.
At this level of battle, he felt almost no exertion, his condition far better than Geralt's.
For the first time, a glimmer of fear and retreat appeared in the Striga's maddened eyes.
These two humans were more difficult and terrifying than any prey she had ever encountered!
Suddenly, she swung her claws with all her might, using the moment Karl blocked to leap backward.
She let out an unwilling screech and turned to dive back into the depths of the darkness to recover.
This was all within Karl and Geralt's expectations—more precisely, it was the situation they had deliberately orchestrated. They needed to temporarily drive the Striga away from her nest.
Geralt immediately moved towards the sarcophagus, ready to execute the plan.
However, just as he was about to jump in, Karl grabbed him.
"Wait! Lambert, it's too dangerous for you to go in!" Karl said in a deep voice.
"You're wearing leather armor. When she returns and finds her nest occupied, you won't be able to withstand her claws."
"Let me do it. My plate armor and strength can hold up better!"
Geralt was stunned for a moment, then immediately understood that Karl's reasoning was absolutely correct.
The space inside the sarcophagus was small, making evasion nearly impossible, and once discovered, it would be purely a contest of endurance.
His spell shield had already been activated, and a single Quen Sign wouldn't be enough to hold twice.
His leather armor and relatively fragile body were indeed far less suitable for this task than Karl's.
However, it wasn't his style to understand this and let his companion take the greatest risk while he remained relatively safe.
But Karl's suggestion was indeed the optimal solution at this moment.
Geralt looked into Karl's resolute eyes, hesitated no longer, and nodded heavily: "Alright!"
He quickly raised his hand, covering the sarcophagus and casting the Yrden Sign.
A slowly rotating purple rune shimmered on the lid, repelling any creature that tried to open it.
"Karl, you have to survive."
Geralt's voice was still even, but the meaning was different.
This was no longer just a cooperative relationship, but comrades-in-arms trusting each other on the edge of life and death.
Karl nodded, without hesitation, he flipped over and lay down in the cold, narrow sarcophagus. Geralt immediately pressed down on the heavy lid.
In the final moment before the sarcophagus was completely sealed, Karl's voice came from inside: "Tell Triss I'm alright..."
......
In truth, Triss had already seen everything happening on the battlefield through her crystal ball.
She almost couldn't stop herself from activating the spell to teleport Karl back, but quickly calmed down.
Karl wasn't risking his life recklessly; if she teleported him away, everything Karl and the others had done would be in vain.
She clasped her hands, anxiously watching as Karl lay down inside the sarcophagus.
BOOM! The lid closed completely, sealing Karl off from the outside world.
Almost simultaneously, from deep within the passage, another throbbing roar and the sound of rapid running echoed.
The Striga had indeed returned, seemingly sensing her nest was occupied, becoming even more frenzied.
At first glance, she saw the only target near the sarcophagus—Geralt.
Those burning red eyes instantly locked onto him, and she lunged with monstrous fury.
Geralt didn't dare to engage her directly; he immediately stepped aside, dodging, fighting, and retreating towards the palace exit.
He skillfully evaded her deadly strikes, using the ruins as cover.
Having lured Adda far enough away from the sarcophagus, Geralt's eyes flashed with a cold light.
Suddenly, he unclipped two alchemical bombs from his belt—first, Dragon's Dream was precisely thrown near the Striga.
POOF! Dragon's Dream shattered, releasing a large amount of colorless, odorless flammable gas, which spread instantly.
Immediately after, Geralt formed a specific gesture with his left hand—the Igni Sign.
Countless hot sparks flew accurately into the gas cloud.
BOOM!! A powerful explosion erupted instantly, flames shooting into the sky, completely engulfing the Striga!
The massive shockwave shook the entire palace, debris raining down.
Almost simultaneously, Geralt threw another Honeycomb bomb.
The Honeycomb bomb exploded at the edge of the flames, and countless quenched metal fragments flew like a swarm of bees.
Most of them were deflected by the Striga's natural armor, but many were deeply embedded in the wounds she had received earlier.
SCREECH!! Under the dual torment of fire and toxins, the Striga let out a cry of intense pain.
Her cry was filled with madness and agony; she thrashed wildly in place.
Geralt didn't press the attack; he seized the moment to turn and dash as fast as he could into the dark passage.
Finally, he cast one last look back at the sarcophagus, which remained immovable amidst the tremors.
A flicker of barely noticeable worry passed through his eyes, and then his figure completely disappeared at the palace entrance.
Inside the palace remained only the blazing flames, the Striga thrashing and screaming in despair, and the sealed, cold sarcophagus containing the man within.
......
The sounds of fierce fighting, terrifying screams, and the final two deafening explosions echoed from deep within the palace,
shattering the silence of the night like thunder, instantly disrupting the peace of the outer camp.
"There's fighting inside!" a guard shouted in panic.
Foltest abruptly emerged from the makeshift camp, his face deathly pale in the flickering firelight.
His hands were clenched into fists, his nails almost digging into his palms.
He stared at the dark palace entrance, his heart pounding, hope and fear intertwining.
Soon, a figure emerged from the shadows of the ruins—it was Geralt.
The leather armor on his body had a few fresh scratches, and his face was smudged with soot.
His breathing was also slightly quickened from the rapid escape and the recent explosions, but overall, he appeared to be in decent shape.
However, he was alone...
Foltest's gaze anxiously scanned behind Geralt, but he never saw a second figure emerge.
The expectation on his face instantly froze, replaced by a foreboding feeling and uncontainable rage.
"Witcher! Where is Karl?! Why didn't he come out with you?! What the hell is going on in there?!"
Foltest's voice trembled with anger, and he stepped forward, almost pointing a finger at Geralt's nose as he questioned.
His voice carried an undeniable authority and deep worry, as if Geralt might be torn apart on the spot for an unsatisfactory answer.