Chronicles of a Dimensional Tourist

Markus while conquering northern kingdoms, had copied the skills Blink and Dimensional Shift from Ciri four more times. He reached the limit he can copy from a person with this. At this stage, Blink reaching level 5 allowed him to teleport to targets within a 15‐meter radius, with a time dilation effect that slowed everything within sphere of 15 mt radius by 65% for five seconds. Although impressive, Markus knew that this was only the beginning he was determined to push this skill further, to harness its full potential and ultimately evolve it into a new ability.

To achieve this, Markus set up a rigorous training regime. In a secluded clearing near Crookback Bog, now cleared of the three sisters, he arranged several stationary and moving targets at intervals matching the current range of his Blink. Each target was meticulously chosen from animated constructs to roaming beasts, ensuring a variety of scenarios that would test his reflexes and precision. With each successful teleportation, the slowed time allowed him to execute rapid melee strikes or cast precise magical projectiles, turning the training ground into a veritable arena of speed and strategy.

Over the next two days, Markus honed his Blink skill with relentless focus. The training sessions were a blur of motion and arcane energy, as he shifted from one target to the next, his movements becoming smoother and more decisive. His keen mind analyzed every minute detail, the angle of teleportation, the timing of his strikes, and the synchronization of his movements with the time-dilated environment. The experience was transformative, pushing his abilities to their limits as he recalibrated his instincts and refined his execution.

Finally, after countless repetitions and an unyielding commitment to perfection, Markus's Blink reached level 10. His system flashed a message: "Blink reached level 10 and ready to evolve." In that instant, the familiar Blink metamorphosed into a new, formidable ability, Flash Lv.1. He analyzed the details of his new skill:

Flash (Evolved from Blink Lv.10) – Level 1

Range: 50 meters

Time Dilation: Locked at 90% (everything within range moves at 10% of its normal speed for five seconds)

Description: Markus gains an extra 20% bonus to both attack and movement speed during the effect. With each level up, both the range and the bonus speed increase by an additional 10%.

As the evolved Flash ability surged through him, Markus felt an exhilarating rush of power. His body pulsed with renewed vigor, and his eyes glimmered with anticipation for the future battles that lay ahead. 

Markus's triumph at Skellige had sent shockwaves throughout the continent. Word of his brutal campaign spread like wildfire Nilfgaard's forces retreated from the border without a word, while sorcerers, druids, and even seasoned Witchers began converging on his growing dominions. In Vizima, the air crackled with tension as the influential members of the Lodge of Sorceresses made their way toward Markus's newly established stronghold. Among them, Philippa Eilhart strode forward, the lodge sent her as an ambassador while the rest were waiting her return in Vizima. Her presence radiating cold authority as she reached the courtroom and demanded that Markus surrender Caleb Menge, leader of the Witch Hunters and King Radovid V the very person who took Philippa's eyes, to the Lodge.

With a sardonic smile, Markus arched an eyebrow at her audacity. "Did you really demand that from me?" he inquired, his tone dripping with amused incredulity. To him, a mere sorceress's command was nothing more than a misstep a miscalculation that allowed the misguided to perceive themselves as his equals. Unperturbed by her haughty demeanor, Markus closed his eyes and delved into her mind with brutal efficiency. Her defenses crumpling one by one as she screamed in pain. Markus extracted the precise locations of the remaining members of the Lodge.

In less than two minutes, Markus with his teleportation skills, gathered every member with surgical precision. Soon, standing before him were Philippa Eilhart, Triss Merigold, Keira Metz, Sabrina Glevissig, Francesca Findabair and Ida Emean aep Sivney all brought effortlessly into his court. Their eyes flickered with a mix of apprehension, shock, fear and latent respect as they realized that Markus's power transcended the petty ambitions of traditional magic.

Turning his attention back to the matter at hand, Markus issued a curt order to one of his Doom Knights: "Bring me Caleb Menge and Radovid V." Within moments, two heavily armored Doom Knights escorted the two captives into the grand hall. King Radovid V, with defiant eyes and a voice trembling with fury, began to demand his freedom.

Without a hint of emotion, Markus raised his hand to stop the idiot's rabbling, and with a mere thought, he levitated Radovid effortlessly using telekinesis. The King's protests were cut short as Markus began a gruesome display of power, slowly peeling the flesh from Radovid's body while he remained suspended in the air, healing him every minute to extend his torment. A macabre ballet of agony that left him bleeding and broken. The silence from the assembled Lodge was deafening; not one voice dared to break it.

Caleb Menge, the detestable opportunist, crumpled to his knees, pleading for mercy in a voice choked with fear and regret. His desperate cries, however, went unheeded as Markus's eyes glittered with cold amusement at the pathetic display of submission. The scene was as brutal as it was inevitable. Another reminder that Markus's dominion was absolute, and defiance was met with relentless cruelty.

With Radovid still suspended and dripping blood, Markus turned his steely gaze back to Philippa. "I do not like lower beings to 'demand' anything from me," he declared, his tone both icy and dismissive. "Tell me Sorceress what punishment do you think is fitting for such disrespect?" His words echoed in the grand hall, a challenge laid bare for the sorceress to answer her own miscalculation.

The tension in the room hung heavy, punctuated only by the soft, measured breathing of those present. Philippa, once filled with haughty defiance, now shimmered with uncertainty as she considered the weight of Markus's words. The assembled Lodge bore silent witness to a power beyond mortal reckoning a deadly, inexorable force that reshaped destiny with every calculated act.

Markus's command was clear: in this new world order, his word was law, and no demand or defiance would be tolerated. The gruesome fate of King Radovid V and the pitiful pleas of Caleb Menge served as brutal testaments to his unyielding authority. And as the silence deepened, Markus's challenge lingered in the air a chilling promise that in his realm, respect was demanded, and punishment was swift for those who dared oppose him.

Triss Merigold, her fiery beauty tempered by a rare note of humility, after locking gazes with the other members of the Lodge stepped forward with a measured apology. A voice both gentle and firm, she pleaded, "My lord, I ask you to show mercy to the Lodge. In return, we pledge ourselves to your service, ready to follow your orders without hesitation." Her words carried the weight of ambition and a desperate hope to remain relevant in a rapidly shifting world, yet Markus's cold, calculating gaze betrayed his skepticism. He had long dismissed such appeals as the naive chatter of ambitious sorceresses.

Aware of the erratic and often idiotic nature of the Lodge's inner circle, Markus resolved to correct their flawed characters using his mind domination skill. Every day, he would subtly yet persistently reprogram their thoughts, inserting precise suggestions to mold their behavior into something more efficient and controllable. To him, their inherent ambition was a weakness. A trait that had led to countless missteps. Thus, he viewed this reconditioning as both a duty and a necessary adjustment to ensure that his future personal maid and assistance team operated with ruthless efficiency.

Among those he deemed most troublesome was Philippa, whose reputation for cunning was tainted by a personal disdain Markus harbored. He coldly assigned her to his Vampire Lords, entrusting them with the task of "training" her until her rebellious nature and hubris were shattered, either with her personality included or otherwise was not his concern anymore. In his mind, she was nothing more than a remnant of a past life he had long grown to despise. This sentiment extended even further to other figures he found intolerable, notably Julian Alfred Pankratz, better known as Dandelion or Jaskier. A character he hated before his transmigration. Every interaction and quest he had while playing the witcher series, in Markus's eyes, been an affront deserved death.

The cumulative effect of these daily manipulations was profound. Markus's mind domination skill, honed to an unnerving precision, began to imprint a new order within the Lodge. With each passing day, the sorceresses were reshaped to fit his vision a cadre of obedient, strategically minded individuals whose personal ambitions were subservient to his grand design. Their previously chaotic and self-serving natures were being replaced by a singular focus on efficiency and loyalty, qualities that Markus deemed essential for his ultimate dominion. Of course it has nothing to do with their beauty or his bedroom being the place where they spend most of their time.

In his private thoughts, Markus reflected with dark satisfaction on the purge of their old selves. The transformation of these ambitious yet flawed characters into a cohesive, controlled force was a small, yet significant victory in his relentless pursuit of power. The prospect of their inevitable, permanent subjugation filled him with a sense of grim accomplishment. 

Meanwhile, word of Markus's brutal campaign had rippled through Toussaint and Nilfgaard the only remaining factions. On a moonlit road leading to Vizima, two envoys advanced unaware of each other. Ambassador var Attre of Nilfgaard, a seasoned diplomat with decades of political experience, traveled with calm determination. Duchess Anna Henrietta from Toussaint, regal and poised despite the turmoil, rode with a quiet urgency. Both were tasked with finding a peaceful solution to the upheaval sweeping the continent. A solution that might yet prevent further bloodshed.

As var Attre rode through the darkened countryside, his mind churned with calculated thoughts. "Emhyr var Emreis sent me to secure peace," he mused, his eyes narrowing as he recalled the stark transformation of the political map. "Markus's might is undeniable; his necromancy and arcane power have subdued entire regions. Yet Nilfgaard must remain untouched. We cannot allow his dark ambitions to spill over our borders. Diplomatic finesse is our only hope in dealing with this sorcerer-tyrant." His thoughts turned to the bitter lessons of past conflicts. Wars fought with honor and ruthlessness and he resolved that his mission was to find a compromise, however slim the chance.

Across the same troubled roads, Duchess Anna Henrietta reflected on her homeland's precarious position. "Toussaint has long prided itself on art, beauty, and refined power," she thought, her gaze fixed on the distant lights of Vizima. "But now, dark forces reshape the world. Markus's undead legions and his unyielding will threaten to upend the delicate balance we have maintained for centuries. I must ensure that Toussaint retains its state. It does not matter if her homeland was a Duchy under Nilfgaard or Markus's new empire. Our traditions and culture cannot be sacrificed on the altar of unbridled necromancy." Her inner voice was laced with both defiance and a sober understanding of the harsh realities ahead.

Upon reaching Vizima, the envoys were escorted into the imposing Courtroom of the renewed Royal Palace. A dark Gothic structure that loomed over the city. Towering spires, high battlements, and lifelike gargoyle sculptures guarded the palace walls, while Doom Knights stood vigil. At the entrance, two Vampire Lords greeted var Attre and Duchess Anna Henrietta with measured nods, their expressions a blend of duty and subdued awe at the sheer power that permeated the air.

Inside the dimly lit meeting chamber, the heavy silence was punctuated by the slow, deliberate footsteps of the envoys. var Attre's mind remained vigilant as he scanned the ornate surroundings, every detail a reminder of the old order now in peril. "These halls once echoed with legacy," he thought, "but now they must bear witness to a new era dictated by a man who wields death and darkness as his instruments." His seasoned resolve was tempered by a steely understanding of the stakes involved. Nilfgaard's future hinged on the outcome of this meeting.

Duchess Anna Henrietta, seated across from var Attre, allowed herself a rare moment of vulnerability. "I never imagined I'd see our world transformed by such monstrous power," she reflected silently, her mind a whirlwind of pride, fear, and determination. "Yet here we are, at the crossroads of destiny. New emperor's ambition may reshape our lands, but we must stand firm. The heritage of Toussaint demands that we preserve our Duchy and honor, even if it means confronting the darkness head on." Her inner thoughts resonated with the weight of her responsibility as a guardian of her people's legacy.

As the meeting unfolded, the tension between old powers and new forces grew palpable. var Attre and Duchess Anna Henrietta exchanged measured glances, each aware that Markus's dominion could not be ignored. They braced themselves for what lay ahead, uncertain whether diplomacy or confrontation would define the future of their realms. In the silent spaces between formal words, the envoys' inner voices echoed a shared resolve: that even as the world trembled under the weight of death and rebirth, they would fight to preserve the order that had sustained them for generations.

In that final moment before the meeting deepened into intense negotiations, the envoys steeled themselves for a conversation that could alter the course of history. Their minds, burdened with the legacy of their forebears and the weight of an uncertain future, clashed silently with the dark promise of Markus's vision. And as the meeting commenced, the fate of Nilfgaard and Toussaint, along with the entire continent, hung precariously in the balance a delicate dance between the old order and the relentless force of the new.

Markus's voice resonated with icy authority as he presented var Attre with two inescapable options: either Nilfgaard would accept vassal status as a duchy under his dominion or face immediate destruction. "Of course Nilfgaards can try to resist and we will decide it's fate on battlefield". A prospect that Markus delivered with an amused sneer. Var Attre's expression betrayed a mix of incredulity and reluctant understanding; despite his seasoned diplomacy, he couldn't help but notice the undeniable power Markus wielded. "Nilfgaard can try," Markus declared, his tone laced with dark humor that underlined the futility of resistance. Even as var Attre absorbed this ultimatum, it was clear that his people's fate rested on a precipice.

In stark contrast, Duchess Anna Henrietta, recognizing the overwhelming might before her, bowed her head in deference. "I have no viable choice," she murmured, her voice trembling yet resolute. Her only stipulation was that Toussaint's cherished culture remain intact, regardless of whether it lay beneath Nilfgaard's banner or within Markus's empire. Markus's response was curt, yet decisive. He agreed to her condition, dispatching ten Lich Generals and ten Vampire Lords to govern the newly established Duchy. His decision, cold and pragmatic, left no room for further negotiation.

Var Attre, still reeling from the weight of his mandate, sought permission to depart and relay this grim message back home. Markus's eyes, cold as death as he reminded him, "You have ten days Ambassador var Attre. If you fail to secure a peaceful surrender by then, I'll consider it a declaration of war." The threat was implicit and ironclad. A ticking clock that loomed over Nilfgaard's prospects. With a measured nod, var Attre accepted his task, his mind swirling with apprehension and the bitter taste of defeat.

Once var Attre departed, Markus turned his attention to Anna Henrietta, his voice shifting to a more personal tone as he inquired after her unruly sister. "And what of your sister?" he asked pointedly. Anna's eyes filled with a mix of sorrow and resignation as she revealed, "She is dead." Markus's lips curved into a cold smile as he recounted, in meticulous detail, the brutal campaign known as "Wine and Blood" from the chronicles of Witcher lore. 

Seizing the moment, Markus summoned one of his Vampire Lords to fetch Dettlaff van der Eretein. When Dettlaff arrived, his presence was as imposing as it was tragic. Markus inquired about Dettlaff's lover, Rhena the name Sylvia Ann used to deceive and entrap the immortal vampire. Dettlaf explained how she was kidnapped and how he was waiting to get more information on her whereabouts. "Let it be known: Sylvia Anna, as you Dettlaff van der Eretein knows her as Rhena is not abducted. You are merely a pawn in her grander scheme of revenge on her sister and Duchy of Toussaint" he declared, his tone dismissive of Dettlaff's burning passion. Dettlaff, seething with rage and sorrow, could only offer a strained nod as Markus coldly assigned the matter of her fate to himself.

Without waiting anymore, Markus teleported to Dun Tynne Keep, held Sylvia Anna by her throat and teleported back into the courtroom, throwing the scheming bitch toward Dettlaf. Startled by the sudden replacement, Sylvia Anna's eyes widened in shock and fear as she recognized the imposing presence of Dettlaff. and betrayal in Anna Henrietta's eyes. As she attempted to flee, Dettlaff's massive hand intercepted her escape. His anger materializing in a swift, brutal slap that rendered her unconscious. "Your lies and defiance ends here," Dettlaff growled, his voice echoing with the finality of his action. With a heavy heart and a grim sense of duty, he then sought permission from Markus to depart, his eyes reflecting both regret and sadness.

Markus, his gaze cold, offered no comfort. "You may go," he said flatly, then turned his attention to Anna Henrietta, whose eyes bore the weight of unspeakable loss. "What punishment do you deem fit for such person?" he demanded, referring to her sister's fate. In that moment, the air thick with tension. Silence was his answer. Markus activated his Mind Dominate skill to reprogram these two ladies to be his new secretaries in Toussaint. All it would take was a couple of days and existence of these characters will be repurposed to his personal use. 

Markus waited for 3 days. The last faction that had yet to come to him was Witchers of the Wolf School and Yennefer of Vengerberg. He decided to surprise these characters of a game in his distant past, a different reality, an origin perhaps. Markus approached Kaer Morhen, a keep carved into the rugged highlands, its ancient stone walls and towering battlements a testament to the enduring legacy of the witchers of Wolf School. In Witcher 3, Kaer Morhen is depicted as a weathered, isolated fortress nestled amidst craggy peaks, its imposing silhouette exuding both mystery and solemn history. Massive, arched gates and fortified towers loom over a sprawling courtyard, while the remnants of old training grounds hint at countless training sessions in its walls. Reality however, was worse.

With a mere thought, Markus materialized at the entrance of Kaer Morhen. As he strode purposefully through the courtyard, every step he took triggered an awe inspiring phenomenon: the castle's battered walls, crumbling battlements, and time-worn towers began to repair themselves. Stone by stone, the ancient structure was miraculously restored to a pristine state, its outer layers now gleaming as if newly built. Markus was honoring the time he spent on a chair in front of a PC playing the character Geralt of Rivia by repairing the castle. The transformation was seamless and silent, a display of raw, unspoken magic that left no doubt about the power Markus commanded.

Inside the castle, the atmosphere turned electric with disbelief. Vesemir, ever the stalwart mentor, regarded the spectacle with a blend of astonishment and wary respect, his seasoned eyes narrowing as he observed the restoration of their ancestral home. Geralt's expression was guarded yet intrigued, his eyes betraying a rare flicker of admiration beneath his gruff exterior. Eskel and Lambert exchanged incredulous glances, their voices hushed in wonder, while Yennefer, standing nearby, could only mutter "impossible" under her breath. The medallions of Geralt and other witchers had never reacted so strongly, and the entire assembly felt the magnitude of a power far beyond mortal sorcery.

Markus's silent mastery over magic was undeniable. As he advanced deeper into Kaer Morhen, his presence radiated an aura that merged ancient legacy with modern might. The witchers, traditionally proud and self reliant, were left speechless by the effortless rejuvenation of their fortress, a symbol of both their heritage and the new order that Markus represented. In that moment, Markus had not only reclaimed Kaer Morhen but had also redefined what it meant to command magic without incantation or elaborate gestures, leaving every soul present in the keep in awe. 

As he stepped through the grand, restored gates of Kaer Morhen, the first to greet him was Yennefer. With all the poise of a refined sorceress, she curtsied gracefully and declared, "Welcome, my lord, to Kaer Morhen." Her voice carried a melodic note of respect, yet behind it lay a mix of cautious curiosity about the man whose reputation now preceded him. Her beauty was on another level. The games did not do her justice on this regard. As she spoke, her eyes shone with the pride and determination characteristic of her formidable magic and uncompromising will.

Shortly thereafter, Vesemir emerged, bowing deeply as though greeting a true king. His weathered face bore the marks of years of battle and wisdom, and his tone was filled with sincere gratitude as he thanked Markus for restoring the ancient keep. "Your work on Kaer Morhen has given us renewed hope," he murmured, his voice laden with both reverence and relief. The venerable mentor's gesture was one of deep respect, recognizing the weight of Markus's power and the potential for a new era among the witchers.

Geralt then approached, his rugged features set in a wry smile as memories of their first meeting flickered in his eyes. With a teasing glint, he remarked, "Markus Tenebris, Conquerer of Kingdoms, Master of Dragons, Butcher of Skellige, Arch Sorcerer, or perhaps, the Emperor of the Continent? Which title suits you today?" His tone was light and laced with irony, yet beneath the humor lay an unspoken acknowledgment of Markus's overwhelming might. Eskel followed, extending a firm handshake that Markus returned with a warrior's grip, the silent exchange affirming mutual respect among warriors.

Lambert, ever the brash antagonist, couldn't resist chiming in with a crude comment. "You're just a simple sorcerer with a bit of extra power, and now the whole world's bending over for you," he sneered, his words dripping with disdain. Yennefer's eyes closed in disappointment as even Vesemir and Geralt fell silent, their expressions turning grave as they braced for Markus's reaction. With a calm, chilling gaze, Markus fixed his eyes on Lambert, and in a flash of magic, he opened a portal beneath the fool. A Doom Knight emerged, sent to spar with Lambert as a warning rather than to kill outright. The last thing heard was Lambert's terrified screams fading as he was falling in to the portal.

In the hush that followed, Vesemir stepped forward, his voice trembling with contrition. "My lord, please forgive his insolence. I beg you, do not harm him." Markus's lips curled into a cold, satisfied smile as he replied, "And what? Shall I leave him out in the cold?" His words carried both a mocking challenge and an unyielding command, leaving no doubt that defiance against him would not be tolerated. The atmosphere was thick with the unspoken understanding that, in this new order, Markus's dominion was absolute, and respect, whether earned or enforced was the only way forward. 

Markus strode into the withered hall of Kaer Morhen, where the ancient stone walls, marred by time and neglect, now began to mend themselves under his unyielding will. As he moved through the corridor, arcane energies flowed from him, repairing cracks and restoring faded murals with a precision that was nothing short of surgical. In the background, Yennefer and the Witchers observed in silent awe, their eyes wide with a mixture of wonder and apprehension as the castle transformed before them, seemingly by magic alone.

After settling at a massive, timeworn table in the main hall, Markus turned his piercing gaze toward Yennefer. His tone was cool and measured, carrying an edge of cold authority as he inquired, "Yennefer of Vengerberg, why have you not answered my summons for sorcerers and sorceresses?" His words, though not laced with overt disdain, left no room for misunderstanding, he expected compliance from those he deemed worthy of his attention. Shifting his gaze to the assembled Witchers, he repeated his question in an equally chilling manner: "Was it necessary for me to come here in person?" The chill in his voice resonated with the power of his presence.

Geralt broke the silence with a tentative reply. "We were not sure what your plans are, or how we might be involved," he said, his tone betraying both caution and curiosity. Markus raised an eyebrow at the response, his gaze sharpening as he countered, "And what makes you think you are needed or required for any of my plans?" His question hung in the air like a challenge, daring them to justify their place in his unfolding destiny.

With a slow, deliberate gesture, Markus summoned a formidable force: ten witcher hybrids emerged from the shadows, each a towering behemoth standing at nearly three meters tall, with their twin blades behind them, more massive by at least 50% than even Letho their "base model" so to speak. These hybrids, with dark, sinewy tendrils of shadow swirling around them, stood like silent sculptures, a testament to Markus's unyielding mastery over death and transformation. In unison, he then called forth ten Magus from his undead arsenal, spellcasters clad in dark robes with their faces hidden beneath deep hoods, their eyes glowing with eerie turquoise. He commanded them to repair every crumbling detail of the castle, and they moved with a speed that belied their grim appearance.

Markus then fixed his gaze on the Witchers and Yennefer once more, his tone resonating with icy finality as he demanded, "What do you think you can do for me that my army cannot?" His words cut through the hushed murmurs of the hall as the temperature seemed to drop with the weight of his expectations. The silence that followed was laden with a mix of awe, uncertainty, and the undeniable realization that Markus's power and his demands spared no one.

Yennefer broke the tense silence as she observed the assembled group, her voice clear and resolute: "They are still searching for Ciri, daughter of Emhyr var Emreis, Emperor of Nilfgaard. The one foretold to break the chains of fate. The Wild Hunt and the White Frost, the spectral riders who bring devastation, freezing entire realms in their wake." Markus smiled thinly, his eyes gleaming with amusement as he replied, "Ah, the Wild Hunt, more accurately, the Wraiths of Mörhogg. The Aen Elle of the Alder Folk ride the winds of doom, ever in search of the one bearing Elder Blood. Their purpose remains unchanged I see: to claim her power. Therefore save their people from the White Frost"

Without another word, Markus opened a portal directly into Vizima and called for Ciri. Moments later, an elegant figure emerged from the swirling gateway. To the shock of everyone present, Ciri was dressed not in her familiar rugged, tomboyish attire, but in a refined gown befitting a princess. Soft, flowing fabrics in deep hues that contrasted starkly with her usual utilitarian style. Her appearance was a revelation that sent ripples of disbelief across the room. Geralt, Vesemir, and even Eskel exchanged glances of utter astonishment, their mouths agape at the transformation.

Ciri curtsied gracefully as she approached the gathering, her eyes downcast in deference. "You summoned me, my lord," she said in a voice both gentle and resolute, addressing Markus with a tone that brooked no refusal. Her refined manner and dignified speech portrayed a mind that had been reshaped by Markus's influence, a mind that now viewed him as the savior of the realm. The shock on the faces of the Witchers and Yennefer was unmistakable; they had long known her as a fierce, independent spirit, and this new image was as unexpected as it was disarming.

Markus stood silently, his gaze unyielding, as he surveyed the scene. After a few moments, Ciri's keen eyes caught that no drink had been set before Markus. With a slight frown, she chided Vesemir, Yennefer, and Geralt, declaring that proper hospitality was in order, a value even in these dark times. "We must not forget the etiquette of our kind," she remarked softly, her tone mingling both reproach and genuine concern.

Heeding her call, Markus opened another portal to Vizima. Ciri entered without a comment, within moments, she returned bearing a lavish tray laden with exquisite wine. Ciri carefully served Markus first, then poured generous goblets for Yennefer and herself. The act was both a demonstration of refined courtesy and a subtle reminder that even a man of Markus's formidable power respected the conventions of civilized society, however twisted they might be.

As the wine flowed and the tension eased slightly, the room buzzed with whispered astonishment. Yennefer, still recovering from the shock of Ciri's transformation, murmured, "Impossible… how could the girl we knew be reborn like this?" Geralt simply shook his head, his eyes dark with contemplation, while Vesemir and Eskel exchanged solemn glances. In that atmosphere, Markus's mastery over fate was evident, not only through his sorcery but also in his uncanny ability to shape destiny and transform those around him.

Markus took a measured sip of wine before leaning forward, his gaze steady as he addressed the gathered company. "Listen well," he began, his tone both authoritative and dispassionate. "The Aen Elle you hear whisperes about are not spectral wraiths, but real elves, beings from another world. Their kind once thrived, their magic unparalleled, but now they face a dire threat. The phenomenon known as White Frost is creeping across their realm, a relentless, apocalyptic cold that endangers everything they hold dear."

He continued, his voice lowering as he wove the threads of destiny and legend. "The Wild Hunt, driven by desperate purpose, pursues Ciri. They seek her Elder Blood, her latent power to turn back the tide of the White Frost and perhaps even save their dying world. Yet in their desperation, they risk plunging all realms into eternal winter. The legends are not mere tales; they are warnings of what comes when the balance of life and magic is disturbed."

Markus then shifted his focus to the future of Ciri, explaining with cold precision his plan to empower her further. "I have decided that the Lodge of Sorceresses, especially those of elven descent, will take charge of her training. Their bloodlines run deep with the magic of ancient ancestors, and they alone can unlock the full potential hidden within her Elder Blood."

At that moment, Vesemir, ever the stalwart mentor, interjected in a respectful yet inquisitive tone. "Tell us, my lord, did you arrive in this realm by your own volition, or was it through the Convergence of the Spheres, the cataclysm that reshaped this Continent 1,500 years ago? You are not like any human or elf we know; what exactly are you?" Vesemir's words carried both curiosity and caution, his eyes reflecting the weight of ancient battles and lost histories.

A slow smile played on Markus's lips as he responded. "The Convergence of the Spheres, indeed, a celestial cataclysm that redefined the very essence of this world. That great event stripped the elves of their power to traverse dimensions, severing them from their ancestral homelands and magic. I have not come in the wake of that legacy. "

In response to Vesemir's probing, Markus allowed his form to shift subtly, a demonstration of his metamorphic mastery. In one fluid moment, he transformed his appearance, presenting himself as an Aen Elle with the ethereal grace of the ancient elves, then briefly as a fierce werewolf, and even as a reflection of Geralt himself. "I am beyond the constraints of race or form," he declared, his voice resonating with quiet power. "I am above these mortal classifications, existing as an arbiter of fate and a force of nature."

Markus rose from his seat with a cold, imperious air as the assembled group prepared to disperse. Before he could leave, Vesemir's voice broke the tense silence, asking about the whereabouts of Lambert. Without a word, Markus opened a swirling portal, and two Doom Knights emerged, seizing Lambert and hurling him through the portal. Moments later, the echo of Lambert's anguished screams faded away, his battered form having suffered a gruesome punishment, broken swords, a shattered jaw, missing teeth, and swollen, blackened eyes. Markus fixed his gaze on Lambert's silent form and, with disdainful scorn, warned, "Consider this kindness your first and last chance. Next time, think five times before you open that pitiful mouth. I will not show mercy again."

Turning his attention to Yennefer, Markus issued a terse command, "If you wish to be part of Ciri's training, report to Vizima within seven days." His voice carried the weight of authority that brooked no dissent, and without waiting for a response, he stepped into his portal and vanished from sight. Ciri, followed his example with a measured, dignified stride. Markus knew he had achieved his aim with this motley group, every member had played their part, except for Yennefer, whose beauty and enigmatic aura continued to intrigue him even as she faced his stern orders.

As Markus reappeared in his Vizima palace, he reflected on the valuable intelligence he had extracted from the minds of his opponents. In their interactions, he had gleaned details of ancient Djinn lore, as well as events about Yennefer and Geralt's past. Djinns, he mused, possessed the uncanny ability to reshape reality. A power he craved desperately. With that thought, Markus's eyes glinted with dark ambition; he resolved that he would soon harness this reality-warping skill for himself, adding yet another weapon to his ever-expanding arsenal.

Without delay, Markus asked his Vampire lords to summon the Unseen Elder and the Higher Vampires residing. When they met he teleported with them to the hidden cave of the Unseen Elder. A revered figure among the higher vampires whose regenerative powers and ancient wisdom were legendary. In the cave, where the lingering energies of the Vampire Realm still pulsed like a dark heartbeat, Markus found solace among these immortal beings. With his dimensional drift ability, he effortlessly perceived the boundaries of different realities, and he opened a portal to the Vampire World. "Your kin is welcome in this world," he intoned to the Unseen Elder, his tone both respectful and imperious. 

The ancient vampire, after a long silence that stretched like an eternity, finally smiled, a rare and precious gesture. "Athan," he declared softly, "my name is Athan, though none have called me so in countless eons." Markus bowed slightly, his respect tempered with the cold pragmatism of a ruler. He already copied the regenerative skills of Athan and the other higher vampires. The smile still lingers as he remembered the added line to his Ageless body skill, "Can only be killed by another being of the same race".  His race was Unique, thus rendering him immortal in every essence of the word. In Athan's native tongue, he said, "Safe travels, Old One. May we meet again." Regis and Orianna, standing by the Unseen Elder's side, bowed in unison, declaring their desire to remain in this world. The Unseen Elder, acknowledging their loyalty, accepted their decision and then turned his gaze back to Markus.

Before departing, the Unseen Elder crossed his arms in the customary gesture of his kind, silently expressing gratitude and mutual respect. "Your vision reshapes more than realms, Markus Tenebris," he murmured, before stepping into the portal. Only two higher vampires, Regis and Orianna, remained behind, and when Markus inquired if they wished to return with him to Vizima, they politely declined. With that, Markus dismissed them and, with a final nod of cold authority, teleported back to his Vizima palace, his mind already racing with plans for the future.

At the desolate shores of Hindarsfjall, Markus surveyed the surface of the sea, after a moment he flew and dove in to the murky waters, in search of a long forgotten vessel. A sunken ship that once housed the power of a sorcerer who tamed a Djinn. He found the wreckage after a while. Amid the wreckage lay an ancient, intricately carved seal, cut in half with the rest of the ship. Its once mystical runes now barely glowing under layers of time and decay. The chill water whispered of lost legacies as Markus approached, his eyes narrowing with a mix of curiosity and determination to reclaim the Djinn's long dormant powers. 

With a flicker of arcane energy, Markus activated his teleportation, vanishing from the depths of the sea and reappearing on the windswept peak atop a craggy mountain where the other half of the shipwreck loomed. As he found the other half of the seal he set to work on it, the dormant djinn stirred; sensing the disturbance, it launched a fierce assault, hurling torrents of air and crackling energy in a desperate bid to reclaim its freedom. Yet Markus, undeterred, observed the djinn's elemental fury with analytical detachment. 

Intrigued by the paradox of a djinn, capable of bending reality yet resorting to raw elemental attacks. Markus carefully repaired the broken seal, encasing the agitated Djinn in a shimmering cage of Ether. As the djinn thrashed against its bindings, Markus's ability to copy began to unravel the creature's skills as cards around it. 

The djinn's skills unfurled before Markus in vivid detail: it possessed a formidable Mastery of Air Element, which allowed it to launch devastating gusts, lightning, altering the weather and create protective barriers; a potent Reality Alteration ability, capable of warping physical laws and conjuring illusions, the cost though was the essence of the Djinn; and a notorious Wish Granting power, which, though offering unimaginable potential, drained 30% of its mana and essence with each use. In addition, the djinn displayed fleeting abilities of intangibility and invisibility, making it a truly enigmatic force of nature.

Understanding the reason behind the legendary three wish rule and reluctance of the creature to use Reality Alteration Markus was Eager to harness this formidable arsenal. Djinns were increasing their core, essence and mana with time, even though the process was agonizingly slow it was the reality of the creature. Markus allocated three copy slots, two reserved for Reality Alteration, which he promptly elevated to level 2, and one for Wish Granting, which he secured at level 1. His system whirred with activity as the magic of his being assimilated the djinn's essence, etching its potent abilities into his mind and soul. Each copied skill promised to augment his own powers, pushing him ever closer to absolute mastery over reality itself.

With a satisfied smile, Markus addressed the bound djinn, his voice resonating with a cold, commanding authority. "You will remain my guest for the next three days," he declared, his tone both menacing and playful. In truth, Markus had no intention of releasing the creature; instead, he planned to siphon every drop of its essence, copying Reality Alteration three and Wish Granting four more times, before ending its existence. Raising it as a hybrid ensuring that he can continue to copy to his heart's content.

As he observed the djinn's abilities, Markus meticulously reviewed the skill details in his system.

Reality Alteration allowed him to bend the fabric of reality: altering physical laws, creating intricate illusions, and reshaping environments over an extended range. With each level up, the range at which he could manipulate reality increased, while the mana cost for the Wish Granting skill steadily decreases, enhancing its efficiency. Wish Granting, although unpredictable and dangerous, offered the potential to reshape outcomes at a tremendous cost, draining 30% of the user's mana and essence per use. 

At the end of the third day, with his objectives met, Markus executed the creature ending it's torment, dispatching it in a burst of light, inexorable energy. As the ethereal form dissipated into nothingness, returning to ether. Markus's heart twisted with a twinge of anger and regret, there was no corporeal remnant to reanimate, no physical form left for him to exploit. This loss stung him not as a defeat, but as an inevitable sacrifice on his relentless path to absolute power.

Unyielding in his quest, Markus swiftly dispatched his envoys, a battalion of hundreds of Magus to scour the farthest reaches of the continent in search of other djinn, while simultaneously deploying 30 dragons and an equal number of Vampire Lords in every cardinal direction to map the hidden geography of this world. As he gazed out over the transformed landscape, Markus's mind buzzed with the possibilities of undiscovered continents and untapped sources of power. In his calculating vision, the boundaries of the known world blurred, leaving him to wonder: perhaps, beyond this continent, entirely new ones awaited his conquering might.