Volume 1: Chapter 1 - My Cheat System is Coming

“Did you hear? Old Mole’s boy got run down by a horse.”

“Poor kid. If I remember right, he’s only thirteen. He’ll probably be bedridden for life.”

“You’re talking about what happened a few days ago. The new word is, that Roy kid woke up, but his head’s gone funny. Stands out in the yard all day, staring into space.”

A few farmers whispered on the ridge between the fields. Behind them, a broad-shouldered man quietly set down his hoe and clenched his fists, anger and helplessness darkening his face.

He was the Old Mole they were talking about, a lowly dirt farmer like the rest. Half his life spent keeping his head down, tending the land, plain-faced, unskilled, and poor. He was twenty-three when a woman finally agreed to marry him despite everything.

They didn’t have children until he was twenty-five, which in this world was considered late; plenty of people were parents by fifteen or sixteen. Naturally, they doted on the boy, never letting him lift a finger.

Their son, Roy, was gentle and obedient, soft-spoken, always wearing a shy little smile. He was nothing like the rowdy boys who tore around the village all day.

“What a good child…”

At that thought, Old Mole’s heart ached. Good fortune never lasted long. Four days ago, a woman had galloped through the village on horseback and brushed against poor Roy. The boy had collapsed on the spot.

The village’s clumsy herbal doctor found no external wounds. Stranger still, after a day of unconsciousness, the boy woke up naturally-but like a different person. His eyes were blank, his mouth silent. He wouldn’t answer, wouldn’t move, only stood there staring up at the sky.

Like a fool.

Worry gnawed at Old Mole’s chest. Realizing it was getting late, he picked up his hoe and hurried home.

The village houses were all thatch and timber, fragile and crooked, as if one strong gust could tear them apart. The entire place barely had a hundred families. Old Mole’s home stood at the far west edge. It was noon, the sun blazing overhead, and a small figure stood in the yard, gazing straight into that blinding light without blinking-like a puppet stripped of its soul.

In the courtyard, a rough-handed woman was bent over, feeding the chickens.

“Staring at the sun like that, you’ll ruin your eyes! Susan! Didn’t I tell you to watch him? Look at what he’s doing!”

Old Mole burst through the overgrown gate, rushed to his son, and lifted him from the ground, setting him gently on the threshold. He brushed the boy’s cropped hair, and a touch of tenderness softened his sun-baked face.

“Little Roy, listen to your old man. Don’t do anything that foolish again.”

“Hm? Old man…”

Earlier, since waking, Roy hadn’t responded to a single word. But now, a flicker crossed his face, confusion giving way to clarity. His lips parted, forming the faintest murmur.

“Ray… Roy… right, my name now is Roy.”

“Did he just talk?”

The father leaned in, heart pounding, as if afraid to believe it.

Finally, he was sure-the son who hadn’t spoken for three days and nights wasn’t mute after all.

“Susan, come quick! He’s talking! Forget the animals, come here!”

At his shout, the woman hurried inside.

They flanked Roy, one on each side, and when they heard him call their names, tears welled up in their eyes.

Roy studied the couple carefully-Old Mole and Susan. Their faces were plain, their clothes woven from coarse linen long past its prime. Their skin was rough, their bodies thin from years of toil. Everything about them spoke of the simple, grounded life of peasants.

“These are my parents.”

His chest tightened; a strange, sharp ache rose in his throat. He wrapped his small arms around their shoulders.

Inside his mind, two streams of memories had finally merged. He was both Ray from The Union-an eighteen-year-old dropout-and Roy, son of a farmer from Kagen, a small village near the southern border of Aedirn, in the province of Lower Posada.

As Ray, his parents had died in an accident. He’d quit school, wasting away at home, drowning himself in games and fantasies, waiting to run out of money so he could join them. A parentless, penniless addict on the slow road to oblivion.

Roy, by contrast, though poor, lived surrounded by the warmth of family.

He was both Ray and Roy.

“I buried myself in games only to fill that emptiness inside.”

“Maybe this is my second chance.”

Now, with all of Roy’s memories and emotions inside him, the bond he felt toward Old Mole and Susan was real, blood-deep.

“Roy, what happened to you that day? You scared us half to death!”

“I… I think the horse startled me. I remember being terrified, then… nothing.”

“Stop asking!” Old Mole barked, then softened, resting a rough palm on Roy’s head. “It’s fine as long as you’re all right, that’s all that matters.”

After calming his parents, Roy began to look around the house, and a rueful smile tugged at his lips.

The walls were uneven and cracked. Inside, there was only a hearth, an iron pot, two or three rickety chairs and tables, and two “beds.” If you could call a pile of straw covered with cloth a bed, that was it.

Soon, Susan set out the meal. A few pieces of dry, lumpy bread that looked more like deformed yams, one egg, two strips of salted fish, and a thick stew of potatoes and vegetables. No seasonings, no salt to speak of-luxury for a family like this.

Roy forced a smile, took a bite, and thought, Why complain? In my last life, I could hardly eat vegetables this fresh.

Maybe it was the instincts of this body, but he soon accepted the simple taste. After days without real food, hunger took over and he devoured everything in sight.

The small spread vanished fast.

“Slow down, son, you’ll choke.”

His parents sat smiling, spooning food into his bowl again and again while barely touching their own. Occasionally they nibbled a piece of the dried fish.

…

That afternoon, after Old Mole and Susan left, whispering about slaughtering a chicken to strengthen their boy, Roy’s expression turned grave.

Aedirn.

He knew the name well. Once, he had been obsessed with The Witcher 3. How could he not recognize this world?

The Northern Kingdoms-Witchers, wizards, monsters. A cruel land where danger lurked in every forest and ruin.

Here, without power or status, death could come at any time.

From Roy’s inherited memories, the year was 1260.

If things followed the game’s timeline, in three years the ambitious emperor of Nilfgaard-the White Flame dancing on the graves of his enemies-would launch the First Northern War. It would begin far to the west, in Cintra, but who could say deserters or raiders wouldn’t spill into this region?

And seven years later, in 1267, the Second Northern War would erupt. Aedirn would fall into chaos.

“What strength do I have? What can I do?” he thought. “At the very least, I must protect Old Mole and Susan.”

Thirteen-year-old Roy didn’t have much time.

But his journey into this world hadn’t been without gifts. Like many who crossed between worlds, he too carried something special-a Cheat System, still waiting to be awakened.

Volume 1: Chapter 2 - The System Awakens

“Initialize personal template!”

At the thought, a strange stream of information slid into Roy’s mind.

Attribute Template

Name: “Roy”

Age: 13 years, 7 months

Gender: Male (henceforth omitted)

Status: Commoner

(You are the son of a farmer. To date you have received no formal training or professional instruction, possess no practiced skills, and no innate talents have been awakened.)

HP: 40 (Healthy)

Strength: 4 (5). Strength affects the power of some physical attacks. It also increases your carrying capacity, enabling you to wear or use heavier, stronger armor and weapons, and contributes to blunt-force resistance.

Agility: 5 (5). Agility governs movement and attack speed, reflexes and balance. Higher agility helps you dodge, parry and block, and perform difficult physical maneuvers with ease.

Constitution: 4 (5). Basic endurance: constitution determines your resistance to hits and your stamina for sustained running and combat. It also partially affects HP regeneration.

Perception: 5 (5). Perception is the sum of your hearing, smell, sight and intuition. It gives you a chance to detect danger early, to notice environmental details and hidden traces. The higher the perception, the greater your chance of sensing threats. At high enough levels you may perceive mysteries in the void.

Willpower: 4 (5). Willpower governs resistance to mental afflictions, recovery from pain and psychological distortion. Higher will lets you stay calm in crises and perform at your best. At very high levels, willpower can influence physical reality.

Charisma: 5 (5). Charisma reflects appearance, bearing and eloquence. It helps you communicate with living beings; higher charisma makes it easier to gain their favor and closeness.

Spirit: 6 (5). Spirit determines your focus, allowing intense concentration on tasks. Spirit also increases your capacity to absorb, contain and manipulate the four elemental-chaotic-energies, thus influencing spell- and spell-like powers.

Skills: None

Storage Space: 1 cubic unit.

Other: Unknown

XP: 1 / 100 (When XP fills, you may choose to level up. Each level grants one attribute point and one skill point.)

This template was, in short, Roy’s Cheat System. He’d been baking in the sun for three whole days; that, he supposed, explained why the template had started to take effect. Sunlight, the display said, contributed to clearing his muddled head, and indeed his XP had crept from zero up to one.

“Sunlight gives roughly 0.33 XP per day. Three hundred thirty-three days to fill the bar, and I’ll be stronger,” Roy told himself, a little calmer now. The plan was ridiculous and slow, but also safe and steady-the surest way he could think of to raise experience.

If sunlight granted XP, then food probably did too, he guessed.

Reality, however, was cruel. Given how meager their meals were, the energy he could get from eating barely sufficed to keep him alive and growing; there was nothing left over to convert into experience.

“So, to raise my body stats I have to find a way to earn some Crowns and improve my nutrition.”

(In the game-world, the circulating currency was Crown. Historically, the Northern Realms used the Temerian Oren as common coin; Aedirn’s basic units were the Ducat and the Mark. To avoid conversion headaches the system would use Crown and Oren going forward. 1 Crown = 1 Oren = 100 Copper Coins.)

If he could scrape together enough Crowns he could hire mercenaries, or even a reputable Witcher, and take his parents far from this trouble-stained place to Redania in the northwest, maybe settle in the free city of Novigrad.

Redania had fought in the Northern Wars, yet much of the country had remained untouched by the fighting; an ordinary person could at least live there in relative peace for years.

“Making money can wait,” Roy told himself, “for now I’ll test other ways to get XP.”

From his experience with games, killing monsters was one of the most reliable XP sources, and this world-this Wizard-and-Witcher world-was full of monsters. He could wander the fields outside the village, the ditches by the river; with bad luck he might meet a water wraith or some other damned thing.

But he was small and weak. Heading out to hunt monsters now would be a one-way trip; wild dogs or a pack of jackals would tear him apart before he reached anything worth fighting.

There was no second life here as in a game.

“I need to be careful. Legends begin from nothing; future Lord Roy should set himself a humble first goal.”

He went into the yard and eyed the livestock. The biggest white ram stood out, but it would provide milk and would be too large for his scrawny arms to handle, so he abandoned that idea quickly.

Several lively roosters darted past under his nose. He gritted his teeth and went inside to fetch a small, sharp knife.

“My parents said they might kill a chicken tonight to help me recover; I’ll just get it over with now.”

He fixed on a fat gray rooster. The bird somehow sensed danger and let out a piercing cluck, darting madly around the coop.

In the sun the scene was absurd: a lanky boy and a proud gray rooster chasing each other in circles, one after the other, a ridiculous little pursuit.

After slipping in the dirt a few times, sweat beading his forehead and his legs going weak, Roy finally grabbed one wing. The blade in his right hand hovered at the bird’s throat, but he hesitated.

“Counting past lives, I’ve never held real blood in my hands. I never thought the first life I’d take would be a foolish rooster,” he thought of Geralt of Rivia, the legendary monster hunter-White Wolf, butcher of Blaviken, giant-killer-and felt a strange, guilty amusement.

“If word gets out about today, and I’m a legend later, will the bards mock me as… the Rooster-Slayer?” The thought made him move faster.

He clumsily slit the rooster’s neck. Blood spurted like a fountain, a few flecks even smacking his cheek.

The rooster flapped and let out a strident, final cry. Minutes later it lay on the ground, twitching and then still. Roy let a small smile break his face.

2 / 100, XP rose by a point.

“It actually worked.”

He felt a private glow of triumph, only to be interrupted by an alarmed shout from outside the yard: “Oh my gods! Idiot Roy… possessed by a monster… he’s killed his own chicken!”

A snot-nosed kid of seven or eight was screaming at the top of his lungs, panic plastered all over his face. The voice was strident and absurd, like a frantic ground-squirrel.

Roy’s eyes brightened at the sight of the boy.

“Balen, the butcher’s son.”

Balen’s father was the village butcher; in Kagen, most households had their sheep and cattle slaughtered by him.

“If I apprenticed with the butcher,” Roy thought, “then I wouldn’t have to worry about XP so much.”

Volume 1: Chapter 3- The Butcher’s Test

On the rutted lane through the village, two children-one big, one small-made their way north toward the butcher Grok’s yard.

Roy remembered hearing that the butcher was some distant relative of Susan’s; the families visited each other now and then, so maybe, just maybe, his plan had a chance.

“Hmph, Rooster-Slayer,” Balen sneered, blowing a wet strand of snot up onto his upper lip before wiping it away with utter contempt, “look at you, scrawny as a stick and thinking you can be my father’s apprentice? Go home and stare at the sky some more.”

Roy fell into step behind the shorter boy. Balen stood barely four feet tall; Roy was almost five foot four and could look down at the kid’s bowl-cut. He couldn’t help reaching out to flatten the tuft of hair that stubbornly stuck up on Balen’s head, then pulled his hand back as if nothing had happened before the other boy even turned.

There-much better.

Eighteen years in his prior life had taught Roy not to squabble with a kid. He shrugged, put on an air of indifference, and said, “I’m thirteen, not a child. So what if I killed a chicken? Only someone who’s never seen the world would make a fuss. Rooster-slayer? That’s a terrible name; nice imagination you’ve got.”

“You can’t even plow a field, fool, and you have the nerve to kill a chicken yourself. There’s a strong chance you’re possessed by a demon, that much I can tell,” Balen shot back, smearing the corner of his mouth with his grubby little hand, then using his clean white shirt to dab at it more properly.

As the butcher’s son, Balen’s family was better off than most in the village. They weren’t short of meat, and their clothes were neater. Even at his age the boy was used to being fawned over by others; he carried a quiet superiority. How could he stand being mocked?

“My father once met Queen Meve of Lyria and Rivia at the Winter Solstice feast,” Balen boasted, chest puffing up. “He tells me the stories every night. You’ve never left Kagen, you country bumpkin, and you dare say I haven’t been out and about?”

“Oh, every night you hear Grok brag, do you? Has he taught you any magic tricks?” Roy asked casually, watching Balen’s face. The moment he mentioned “magic tricks,” Balen’s eyes lit up; his words came in a gush of spit and awe.

That settled Roy a little. He stopped walking, stood up straight and struck a pose, “If you help me persuade Uncle Grok to take me on as an apprentice, the great Lord Roy will perform a miracle for you.”

“Rooster-slayer-save your lies for Donnel’s baby, I’m not falling for-” Balen sputtered and then stopped dead, his mouth hanging open wide enough to fit an egg. A string of snot slid, wormlike, from his nose.

“Hiss… how did you do that?” Right in front of him, in the bright sunlight, a pebble that lay in Roy’s palm vanished without warning as if shifted into some invisible pocket.

He closed his hand, opened it, and the pebble was back.

“That’s the trick I meant,” Roy said, pleased. In truth the stone rested quietly inside the one-cubic-unit storage space the template provided, and he could move it in and out at will with a thought.

“Do it again, I don’t believe you!”

“This time use something of yours. Do you have any money?”

“Yeah.” Balen sometimes pilfered a few coins from his butcher father to buy dried fruit and a swig of sour cider with the other village kids.

“Give it to me, one Crown will do.”

Whether from curiosity or pure foolishness, Balen fumbled a bright, yellow Crown out of his pocket and tossed it to Roy. He leaned forward, eyes fixed, watching as Roy closed his fist over the coin, flipped his hand downward, and when he opened it again the Crown had vanished.

“I’ve been holed up at home studying tricks,” Roy proclaimed, “now I’ve perfected one. Time for you all to see.”

Balen patted Roy, searched him suspiciously. Roy’s clothes were clean and empty; there was nowhere to hide anything. The boy stammered, then agreed.

“You teach me the trick, I’ll beg my father to take you as an apprentice. Fair deal.”

“One more thing, and I warn you serious,” Roy said, pocketing the Crown after Balen offered it, “don’t ever call me Rooster-Slayer again, and don’t repeat it to anyone.”

…

In the butcher’s yard a broad-shouldered, barrel-chested man was running his hand over a cow that hung by all fours from a rack, preparing to make the cut. He saw Roy and the boy and ignored Roy, turning his face hard as he shouted at the chubby child, “Where’ve you been wandering off to this month? How many times have you missed reporting to the village head? Waste of the money I earn! You can’t even read properly; what kind of bard do you think you’ll be? Get inside and learn a trade!”

Balen’s cheeks flushed crimson at being called out. The idea of a butcher’s son dreaming of being a graceful, roving bard was ridiculous; if the other villagers heard it they’d laugh him down. In Kagen, fewer than three people could read and write, even the village head. Most folk paid to have letters written for relatives far away. Grok, big and rough as he was, did not want his son to grow up illiterate.

“If you win the village head’s praise, I’ll have Uncle Tom take you to Vengerberg to see the world. If you learn well enough, I’ll spend every Crown I have to send you to Oxenfurt Academy to study! Your mother wanted that before she died; don’t disappoint her.”

Roy’s brows rose as the butcher kept talking; Grok actually had ambitions. But whoever could read and write in the North had a far better life: even basic literacy could get you a job copying texts in a city, and that brought respect. Oxenfurt Academy was one of the world’s top universities, talked about in the same breath as institutions in the Nilfgaardian Empire. Geralt’s friends and acquaintances had come from there.

“Don’t underestimate country folk,” Roy thought, watching the exchange between father and son.

Grok kept scolding his boy and ignored Roy’s approach. Balen shot Roy a look pleading for help; Roy stepped forward and said, “Uncle Grok, I came today-”

The butcher waved him off impatiently, cutting him short. “Little Roy, are you healed? Take a piece of fresh meat home later to help you recover. Susan’s been worn out these past few days, spend some time with her.”

Balen, emboldened by the trick talk, blurted, “Grok, he wants to be your apprentice.”

“You? Look at him.” Grok eyed Roy up and down with no mercy. “I planned to take an apprentice, but can Susan really allow a boy who’s never worked a field to join me? Besides, you’re too thin; you’d be useless, can’t even handle a whole beast on your own. Don’t bother me, go cool your heels somewhere else.”

But the work of slaughtering and butchery, though dirty and tiring, paid well for those who could wield a knife. Grok had once hoped to pass the trade to his son for a life of steady comfort. If Balen preferred literacy and better prospects, Grok would not force him.

Roy, who had decided he needed a steady source of XP, wasn’t shaken by the obstacle. He counted off on his fingers in a practiced way and said, matter-of-fact, “Uncle Grok, please give me a chance, let me explain?”

Grok nodded once.

“Actually I’ve already talked with Old Mole and Susan; they agreed I should have this chance,” Roy said, pausing, “You said butchery needs strength, and that’s true. But this craft also depends on technique and experience, and those can be learned gradually. From what I’ve seen, with your skill you could butcher an animal blindfolded and have the cuts perfect.”

“Though I’m skinny now, I’m young and energetic, and my strength will grow. I learn fast. If you teach me step by step, I won’t let you down.” Roy dug in his heels and pushed, “If during the apprenticeship I fail to do the work properly, you don’t have to pay me! Just give me the occasional scrap of meat.”

Grok’s mouth split into a grin. “Little Roy, you’re different than before. You used to go days without saying a word; now you’ve got the gift of gab. I’d look like a fool to refuse you on Susan’s account. All right, I’ll test you. Do you dare do the deed?” With that he stepped aside to reveal the big yellow cow hanging behind him.

“If you can kill this beast yourself, and not puke from the sight of it, I’ll take you as my apprentice.”

Grok thought it a sure bet that the boy who’d never seen blood would balk.

He didn’t know this young body harbored the soul of an information-age Earth youth who had seen every gore scene on a screen; nothing in the world’s cruelty would shock him.

Roy took the butcher’s curved ear-knife from Grok without blinking and walked up to the hanging cow. He turned and met Grok’s gaze with an earnest expression.

“Uncle Grok, after the horse hit me the other day I had a long, strange dream. When I woke I decided I needed to change. I’m a country boy, I can’t plow well, but I can learn a trade and support myself, help feed the family. Old Mole and Susan have cared for me for years; it’s time I repay them.”

Silence fell in the yard; you could hear a pin drop. Balen’s face went ashen. Though the butcher’s son, he had never once drawn a blade-he always hid when his father slaughtered animals, fingers in his ears. The sight of Roy, gaunt and steady, holding a gleaming blade, made him uneasy.

Roy no longer looked like the meek, timid boy he used to be.

Grok’s oily, meat-scarred face registered a flicker of surprise: has he grown up? He glanced at his snotty son.

Could a single knock from a horse age a boy overnight?

“Roy, come here,” Grok said. “Near the cow’s neck you’ll see a swelling I marked. Aim for that knot. If you strike true the beast won’t suffer long.”

Roy’s eyes narrowed. He recalled the steady hand he’d found killing the rooster.

His movement was clean and sure. He drove the knife in with a single decisive motion, then withdrew it. The great cow looked at him with dark eyes, two wet trails marking its cheeks. It gave two weak moos and, with little struggle, went still.

At once Roy’s template readout updated: XP rose to 7. Killing the cow had granted him five whole XP.

The second drop of blood, the dreaded “vomit” reaction, didn’t come. He felt no surge of revulsion, but the kill was different from the chicken. Instead of joy, Roy felt a thin, hollow sorrow and a prickling fear.

What logic tied life to XP? If killing an animal gave experience, what would slaying a person yield?

To the template, was life only a means to experience points? How did it judge value-size, vitality, the weight of a soul? He would need many more kills to figure it out.

Questions flooded his mind as he stood holding the still-dripping blade, lost.

The butcher slapped him on the shoulder with a booming laugh, the force of the blow snapping Roy back to reality.

“Good lad, you really had the nerve. A knock from a horse and you grow a spine! You passed. If you don’t mind the blood and the stink, come by at dawn tomorrow. If you can keep up, I won’t talk about wages yet, but there’ll be plenty of perks.”

Grok was no youngster. With Balen set on scholarship and letters, he needed an honest assistant. Roy might be skinny, but he was familiar, honest, and owing Susan some kinship by marriage; he could be taught.

“Uncle Grok, I’ll be there on time,” Roy said, shaking off the heavy feelings and making his gaze firm. He caught himself smiling ruefully inside-hungry, with dangers lurking, why spare pity for a slab of beef? He folded away his brief crocodile tears and tightened his grip on the knife.

Volume 1: Chapter 4 - Blood and Guts

That night, after Roy begged and pleaded, Old Mole and Susan finally agreed to let him apprentice with the butcher.

The couple, who had known the boy since he was born, were well aware of how much he’d changed in a single day. Ever since he woke, his manners and bearing were different: the quiet, shy child had become talkative, lively, more open.

But the worry and care woven through Roy’s words and expressions were genuine; that could not be faked. So the two simple parents took no offense, only heartfelt relief. They felt their child had survived something terrible and grown up all at once.

The next morning, many villagers in Kagen were surprised to see the burly, blunt butcher Grok with a thin apprentice at his side.

“Old Mole’s boy got hit by a horse, sure, but gone mad? With that soft temperament of his, how could he be here slaughtering livestock?” someone scoffed.

“What do you country folk know? After almost getting run down, a change is only natural. Still, I bet little Roy won’t last a week, butchering isn’t for everyone. And it pays well-why would Grok give him a break?”

No matter how the villagers gossiped, Roy threw himself into the work. After a day on the job he found the reality differed from his imagination.

When large animals like cows and sheep were brought in, Grok would first feed them a yellow powder to dull their nerves and spare them violent struggles at death.

The butcher said the village herbalist had given him those anesthetics.

After the animals were killed came the hardest part: breaking the carcass down. To cut meat properly, to separate bone from flesh without ruining the grain of the muscle, you had to know the anatomy of cows, sheep and pigs intimately.

Grok could not draw diagrams for Roy to memorize; his schooling would be by example, a cut shown and then another, with the boy following the motion.

Roy watched Grok calmly skin a cow, remove its innards, and slice through bone and muscle. The air was thick with the metallic reek of blood and the steam of hot, red flesh.

He doubled over, retching. The first cut hadn’t been too bad; the later butchering was the true test.

“Eh,” the butcher teased, “you didn’t flinch when I killed the cow yesterday, now you scared? This trade is filthy and exhausting, and I don’t say that for nothing. If it weren’t so, more people in the village would do it besides ignorant little Roy. I won’t give my work away cheap to outsiders. Let’s see if you’ve the grit and patience to take over my stall.”

Roy rallied from his dry heaves, head swimming and knees weak. Grok gave him no more rest.

“Bring the knife here, hold it like this, cut along here.”

“I told you to go up, where are you slicing?”

“You eaten enough or what?”

At the slightest hesitation, a torrent of curses met him.

He sighed inwardly: being a butcher’s apprentice meant not only enduring the yard’s grime and blood and the rough insults but also swinging a knife until his arm ached. His Constitution was under five; less than a typical adult’s, he tired faster.

The physical and mental strain made him feel faint.

“What did I expect? I brought this on myself, choosing to be a butcher’s apprentice.”

Even as he complained inside, Roy performed the tasks meticulously; he could judge priorities.

More important, every beast he helped kill meant one more chance to snatch the final, fatal blow-and collect XP.

“Under this roof, I get training, XP, and meat to eat. Perfect… who am I to complain?” he muttered.

The first day as an apprentice was grueling. Grok’s yard slaughtered two beef cattle brought from another village and earned ten Crowns from the customers. Grok said business like that did not happen every day. Kagen had only about a hundred households; even with customers from neighboring villages, no guarantee a butcher would be busy day after day.

When the work was done, Grok was not stingy. He handed Roy a palm-sized slab of fresh meat. As for wages, Grok did not treat him as free labor-the apprenticeship paid one Crown for the week, roughly a handful of Copper Coins a day. Roy was not dissatisfied; learning a craft required patience, and pay came later.

“Uncle Grok, what do we do with the guts?” Roy asked.

“Toss them later,” Grok replied.

In this world-much like Central Europe in his former life-many people did not accept animal offal. After butchering, innards were often buried and burned out of town or thrown in the river to feed fish.

“Give me those bits,” Roy said, ignoring propriety. In poor households, every scrap of meat mattered.

He was still growing; he could not let food pass by.

By evening Roy had washed the yard’s blood away and tramped home with a heavy, bloodstained sack. Ten XP richer but dizzy-eyed, he left the butcher’s yard.

Under the setting sun in Kagen, blackened chimneys puffed out thin white smoke. Men came home from the fields with hoes slung over shoulders. Grubby children chased chickens and dogs in small courtyards. Tiny wooden houses lit candles one by one.

Roy took a deep breath. “How long will this peace last?” he wondered.

A little farther on, he saw two soldiers in yellow padded gambesons, swords at their waists, hauling several heavy linen sacks to the village gate and loading them onto a cart. The villagers looked on without surprise. This was routine.

Roy knew why. Each month Kagen had to hand over a quota of produce to the lord of Lower Posada as tax, roughly thirty percent of the harvest, which they called “generous.” Old Mole’s family grew reeds and hops; this month they turned over two sacks of dried reeds.

The reeds were used much like tobacco leaves back on Earth; villagers liked to tuck a reed pipe between their lips and savor smoke at leisure.

On the subject of taxes, the Aedirn kingdom and its vassal territories taxed farmers more heavily than the other Northern Realms. That excess had long fueled peasant revolts.

From the villagers’ gossip Roy learned that at this time the southwest of Aedirn, around Aldersberg, had erupted in a peasant uprising.

“No idea what the royal council is thinking, no wonder Aedirn will fall to pieces one day,” one villager muttered.

“Too dangerous, we must hurry while we can,” another warned.

Roy’s pressing worry, however, was still food. Leftover chicken remained from yesterday; tonight he’d brought home some beef. Susan braised a large pot of meat soup without ceremony. Though nearly flavorless and carrying a metallic tang, it at least had fat.

He washed the butcher’s discarded innards clean, found some parsley and wild greens, begged a pinch of precious salt from the old couple, and stir-fried everything together.

A plate of meat and offal steamed with oiliness and a lingering iron scent. In his former life Roy would have been unable to stomach it, but this body did not balk. Meat was scarce here, and people ate only twice a day; a growing boy could not pass up any chance to eat.

Unfortunately, the meal only granted him 0.1 XP. He understood now that killing was the faster path to level up.

“Even if I slaughter a head of livestock every few days, I’ll level much faster.”

He felt a surge of anticipation.

Volume 1: Chapter 5 - The Tavern Gambler

Night had settled over Kagen. In nine out of ten houses the lights were out; men lay with their wives, children pressed their faces to windows and counted sheep across the sky. Thompson, the night watchman, torch in hand and a rusted steel sword at his hip, patrolled the village, warding off prowling beasts, thieves, or signaling an early alarm.

Only two places still burned bright: the village headman’s home, and the shabby tavern at the center of town, The Old Captain Inn.

Sometimes younger men with energy to spare, not yet married or fathered, would drift in to kill some time, sip a dram, and, if spirits were high, drag One-Eyed Jack-the tavernkeeper with a full beard and endless tales of his Skellige sea days-into a round of Gwent.

By candlelight and hearth-glow The Old Captain Inn hosted a scatter of figures. Roy stood by a Gwent board, eyes shining as he stared at the stack of ornate cards.

These were the real thing. Genuine Gwent.

Gwent was invented by bored dwarves, but its simple rules and endlessly varied play had made it irresistible. Nobles and commoners played it after meals to pass the time.

The cards featured popular heroic figures: Emhyr of Nilfgaard, King Foltest of Temeria, Aedirn’s crowned king Demavend, the beautiful Queen Meve of Lyria and Rivia, and more.

Dwarven craftsmen carved and painted the cards with such skill the pieces were nearly impossible to counterfeit. The finest sets, made by master dwarves, were miniature works of art.

Common Gwent cost a Crown or two and could be found in general stores; rare cards could buy a house in Vengerberg, the capital. Collectors rarely sold them.

Roy had watched the table long enough to see Nilfgaardian, Northern Realms, and Skellige decks in play, but not a single Monster card, nor a Squirrel Party card. Monster cards were rare; the Squirrel Party had not yet risen to prominence in the timeline-its raids helping Nilfgaardian strikes against northern humans would come later, after the wars-so no Squirrel Party decks were in circulation yet.

“Little Roy, why aren’t you at home sleeping? What are you doing in the tavern at this hour?” One-Eyed Jack’s big, hairy hand reached for Roy’s head, but the boy dodged with a quick step.

Roy gave an ingratiating smile; at thirteen, a little charm did no harm. “Uncle Jack, I’m waiting for Balen. He promised to buy me some fruit wine tonight.” In truth he’d come to teach Balen a simple trick he’d learned online before crossing over.

He also had another idea for making money. Old players of The Witcher 3 had a hard time resisting Gwent.

One-Eyed Jack’s weathered face curled into an ugly grin. “That fat boy steals from his dad now and then for a drink. I watered his cider so he’d be sober, otherwise old Grok’d smell the booze on him and teach him a lesson. Don’t pick up his bad habits.” A light flashed in the one good eye and he casually tossed a pale Gwent card onto the board.

His opponent’s face went ashen.

“Take my frost strike, melee units unified! Ha, thirty-five to twenty, old Ott, that’s my game!”

Coins clattered into a pile by Jack’s elbow.

The farmer across the table scowled. “Tonight my luck’s worse than a Kovir salted fish. I’m out.” He pushed back his chair and left.

Roy slid into the vacant seat opposite One-Eyed Jack and stared the man down.

“Move over. My regular’s almost here; I aim to ruin him until he’s penniless, not even a pair of drawers left.”

“Uncle Jack, I’m bored. Let me play-think of it as warm-up.”

Jack shook his head. “You got Gwent? A ten-year-old never has the coin for a deck.”

“Everyone in the village knows Captain Jack, the Gwent collector. You’ve got duplicates. Be kind, lend me a deck?” Roy clasped his hands, hopeful.

Jack sighed, made a mock slapping motion as if to swat his own past meekness away, then relented. “Fine, I’ll owe you one. But Jack doesn’t play for nothing. If you lose a round, you sweep the tavern once.”

“And if I win?”

“One Crown.”

“Wasn’t it two Crowns a game just now?” Roy covered his mouth before Jack could glare.

Jack handed him a thirty-five-card Northern Realms deck: thirty-one common unit cards with no unit over power six, and four weather cards. No rare hero cards among them.

The cards felt smooth, finer than a maiden’s skin; Roy was reluctant to let them go.

He had no idea what One-Eyed Jack held in his own hand.

The games began. At some point Balen skulking up had brought along a hulking, dark-reddish man over six foot four to watch.

Roy started slowly, laying cards hesitantly; Jack played with lightning speed, arms folded, indifferent.

As expected Roy lost the first two rounds.

But as the evening wore on the tide turned. One by one Roy’s hands prevailed. Jack’s face darkened; he played harder, his moves growing stiff and wary.

“You little cheat!” Jack roared after half an hour, standing up, muscles knotted, fury making his face flush.

A pair of rock-hard biceps shoved him back into his chair.

“Boss, I’ve had my eye on him. I swear the lad isn’t cheating,” said Pussig, grinning despite himself. He relished seeing his old captain humbled.

Roy gave a grateful look to the red-haired, broad-shouldered man. Pussig, the village blacksmith who fixed tools for Kagen, had once sailed with Jack as a deckhand in Skellige. He’d followed Jack after the man retired and settled here. Not a native but bold and blunt, Pussig was the sort who spoke plainly and acted without hesitation.

“Little Roy, you ought to thank the horse that ran you over,” Pussig clapped Roy on the head. “You were a delicate thing before-now you’ve got some manly steel.”

By the end of thirty minutes and eight matches, One-Eyed Jack had lost five games. Roy’s winnings stacked to five Crowns, a sum an apprentice would need a month and more to earn.

“Incredible, by Melitele, you favor this brat? My hand was leagues better and I lost five. That’s not skill,” Jack spat.

Jack glared, resentful; Roy dabbed a meaningless sweat from his brow and wondered if he’d been reckless.

He had cheated, in a manner of speaking; he used his Inventory Capacity. Each round he’d slip two weather cards into his storage space when no one was looking, then swap them back at the crucial moment. Freezing the opponent’s carefully built strength felt delicious.

“I’m lucky,” Roy said, trying to sound steady. “Nobody in Gwent has more favor from fortune than me.”

“Damn it!” Jack slammed his fist against the wall. “If that thief Sasha hadn’t taken my ‘mystic sprite,’ you wouldn’t be winning!”

Sasha. The name snagged in Roy’s mind; it sounded familiar from game lore, but he couldn’t place her instantly.

Balen’s eyes rolled and he blurted out, “Sasha, was she the woman who rode the horse that hit Roy?”

At that Jack fell silent, then sighed. “If I hadn’t chased that woman, she might not have panicked and ridden into Roy. I’m not keeping score on that today.”

Roy put it together: Jack’s missing rare card had brought a thief, who in turn led to the chaotic encounter with the horse. That chain explained Jack’s earlier debt and his willingness to lend a deck.

“Little Roy, come back tomorrow,” Jack warned as he settled, “I’ll catch you cheating for sure one day.”

Roy accepted the challenge gladly. He’d earned five Crowns in half an hour; why pass up the gift? The old captain’s Gwent habit ran as deep as any dwarf’s debt to chance.

Balen, eager and sticky-cheeked, tugged Roy’s sleeve. “Roy, teach me that trick.” He shoved a yellow, sweet-smelling snack into Roy’s mouth.

“It’s pork crackling. Tastes good?”

“Grok renders the pork rinds after each slaughter; I’ll bring you snacks every day if you teach me.”

Roy smiled at the chubby, naive face and smoothed the tuft of hair that stuck up on Balen’s head.

“Hurry up and teach me, we’ve got to get back and sleep.”

Volume 1: Chapter 6 - A New Skill Awakens

The calm days drifted by like water, and nearly a month passed. Roy’s hectic days as a butcher’s apprentice and nightly Gwent games at the tavern followed their own steady rhythm. In this small village that felt both familiar and foreign, Roy had begun to find his footing.

A month later, he had saved up 60 Crowns, most of it earned from beating Old Jack the Captain and Pussig the blacksmith at Gwent. It was enough to pay for a journey to Vengerberg or any of the larger cities, though both men had grown wary of him, and now rarely played with him. The easy winnings had come to an end.

During this time, Roy often talked to Pussig about his homeland, Skellige, trying to build a relationship. He spent 50 Crowns on a self-defense stash-a dagger and a small crossbow, named Gabriel after the blacksmith from Verden. It was a gray, compact crossbow, easy to handle with one hand, and it came with twenty wooden bolts.

In Aedirn, no local blacksmith would have sold Gabriel to a boy, but Pussig, raised in Skellige, was of the mind that in such a chaotic world, boys should be prepared for self-defense from an early age. In the islands, even children under ten had already started swinging swords, and Roy, with his particular needs, suited Pussig’s thinking.

Unlike the crossbows that could be found with ease in games, real crossbows had incredible power. Even though Gabriel’s design was old, with a short range and slow loading time, it was simple to use, requiring little skill. Even a weak child or elderly person, as long as they could hold it steady, could hurt a seasoned soldier with it.

For Roy, whose physical attributes were below that of an adult and who lacked any combat skills, the crossbow was the most efficient weapon. His Perception attribute, however, was as sharp as any grown man’s, with a wide field of vision. It was perfect for him.

He tucked the dagger and crossbow into his inventory, which had proven immensely convenient. It could store anything that wasn’t living, with only size as a limitation. With a thought, he could instantly retrieve any item.

The next morning, dew covered the village’s overgrown paths. Roy waved at a farmer heading out to work, but most of the villagers ignored him.

In Kagen, the traditional mindset was that the children of farmers would follow in their parents’ footsteps, toiling the land. Roy, on the other hand, was learning how to butcher cows and sheep, spending his nights at the tavern and building friendships with the wild folk from Skellige. His behaviors had earned him some disapproval and envy.

Had this been the old Roy, he might have retreated into himself, but now, he didn’t care much.

According to his plan, once he reached the next level, he would start exploring the wilderness outside the village, hunting small animals and selling their pelts for more Crowns. In these remote rural areas, there were no hunting laws.

Once he leveled up, gathered some self-defense power, and saved up enough, he’d figure out a way to bring Old Mole and Susan out of Kagen, and to settle in Novigrad. Only then could he fully focus on gaining strength and exploring this strange, magical world.

In his mind, he already carried a lot of information. The Aretuza Academy, for training female sorceresses, was located on Thanedd Island in Gors Velen; Ban Ard Academy, which accepted only male apprentices, was in the Kingdom of Kaedwen. The Wolf School of Witchers had its hidden base at Kaer Morhen, nestled in the Blue Mountains of Kaedwen, where old Vesemir lived. All of these were on his mental checklist, and he was determined to make them a reality.

Today, he would take a small step forward on his journey-just one more animal to kill, and he’d level up.

After a month of harsh lessons and hard labor, Roy’s stats had quietly improved:

Roy

Age: 13 years, 8 months

Class: Commoner

HP: 41

Strength: 4 → 4.2

Agility: 5 → 5.1

Constitution: 4 → 4.1

Perception: 5

Willpower: 4 → 4.5

Charisma: 5

Spirit: 6

New Skill Unlocked:

Unnamed (Passive) LV1

(You’ve killed and dissected over four types of animals, totaling fifteen. Your body carries an inescapable blood-scent: Enemies that attack you within a one-foot radius have a 1% chance of being intimidated. If their Willpower is lower than yours, they temporarily lose control of their bodies for up to 1 second. You have gained an understanding of the bodily structures of mammals like pigs, cows, sheep, and wild dogs, allowing you to exploit their weaknesses. You now deal 1% more damage to animals with similar anatomy.)

Inventory Capacity: 1 cubic meter

XP: 98/100

Roy’s appearance had improved too. After a month of hard work and good nutrition, his once pale face now had a healthy glow. Though still thin, he no longer looked fragile. His body had become noticeably sturdier, and his attributes had increased significantly.

His Willpower had increased the most. Anyone working in such a dirty, bloody environment would naturally harden over time.

As for the new passive skill... Roy felt something sinister about it. Though its chances and damage were only 1%, it was just level one. With more kills, it would level up, and as his personal level increased, he could enhance it with Skill Points.

He decided to call it “Carnage.”

Halfway down the road, Roy ran into Balen, who was running toward him like a little squirrel. The plump boy, seemingly gifted with magic tricks, had mastered every trick Roy had taught him over the past month. The boy was full of enthusiasm for magic now, a spark Roy had never seen in him before.

Roy was tired of playing the clown and had no patience for more tricks. “I’ve already taught you everything, enough with the magic, little snot!”

But Balen wasn’t deterred. “You haven’t seen my new improved trick, Roy! This will make me famous across Kagen, no-Lower Posada!”

Roy sighed, “No thanks. I have work to do.”

Balen pouted. “I’ll bring you some fried pork skin. Grok made it yesterday.”

Roy rolled his eyes. The boy was spoiled, but he couldn’t resist the offer. “Fine, show me your trick.”

Balen grinned, knowing that Roy wasn’t serious about stopping him.

Later, at the butcher’s house, Roy watched Grok and a villager struggle with a large, white pig. Grok grabbed the pig’s head while the villager tugged at its tail, but the pig was thrashing around, screaming.

Roy rushed over to help them hold the pig down. Once Grok administered the tranquilizer, the pig calmed.

Grok plopped down on the pig’s back, undeterred by the mess. He turned to Roy, “You saw Balen, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. He’s off showing his magic tricks to some kids.”

“Good, good. After we’re done here, call him back. The little rascal keeps making people wait for him.”

Roy helped Grok kill the pig, and once the blood was drained, his XP bar hit 100%. He felt a faint tremor run through his body, and after making an excuse, he found a quiet spot to sit and concentrate.

Roy’s level 1 progress bar appeared with a “+” sign. As he focused on it, the words “Level 1 (3/500)” appeared, along with a faint, warm sensation flowing through him like energy, Chaotic Energy.

He gained one attribute point and one skill point. He carefully studied his attributes.

Strength and Constitution were still weaker than an adult’s. He didn’t see the need to use his valuable attribute points on them yet. Charisma didn’t interest him, so he focused on Perception, Agility, and Spirit.

Agility would help his reaction speed, and Perception would improve his awareness. Both were critical for using the crossbow and would be useful for his plans.

Roy’s eyes gleamed as he focused on Perception. With a thought, it increased from 5 to 6. A rush of energy flooded his senses. The world around him became vivid-the smell of blood from the butcher’s yard, the droplets of dew on leaves, and the warmth of the breeze.

Everything came alive, and for a moment, he was lost in this extraordinary sensation.

He chose to allocate his skill points to Carnage, leveling it from 1 to 2. The damage boost and intimidation chance increased dramatically from 1% to 5%, and his body felt even more attuned to the world around him.

Roy felt a surge of confidence, knowing that his journey was just beginning.

Volume 1: Chapter 7 - The Missing Child

In the dead of night Roy slept soundly in his warm bed, dreaming he had just bested a griffin, a higher vampire and a shadow elder, when the dream blurred and a hawk-nosed, pockmarked mirror merchant stepped into the scene.

A thunder of knocking ripped him awake.

“Susan! Old Mole! Hurry, open the door!” Roy scrambled up, sweat chilling his skin, and saw his parents at the doorway holding candles. Outside, the broad-shouldered butcher stood trembling, his voice thick with panic as he tried to explain.

A rush of night air flooded the room and Roy cleared from fuzziness to full alert.

What could have shaken a cursing, hard-faced man like Grok so badly? One answer slid into Roy’s head.

“Uncle Grok, did something happen to Balen?” He shrugged into his thin linen shirt and moved to stand with his parents.

By candlelight Grok’s eyes were bloodshot and his lips cracked, the restlessness of a man on a hot pan showing in every twitch.

“That little brat…” Grok dropped his head, torch hand and beard shaking a little, “he’s gone, he didn’t come home tonight.”

“Have you checked Mindy’s house? Maybe he’s crashed at one of the other boys’ places?” Roy drew a breath and kept his tone steady. “Or The Old Captain Inn, he sometimes hangs there.”

“Everyone!” Grok shook his head. “I’ve searched. I asked every household. Since noon nobody’s seen him. He’s mischievous, but he’s never stayed out this late.”

“Don’t panic, Uncle Grok, think-where might he go? We’ll help you look.” Roy tried to sound reassuring.

“Stay here and rest,” Old Mole put a firm hand on Roy’s shoulder, “Susan and I will go help!”

“Father, don’t forget what I’ve been doing this past month,” Roy said, squeezing their hands. “I’ve seen more blood than most men see in a lifetime. Nighttime doesn’t scare me. Trust me, I can look after myself.”

Old Mole and Susan exchanged a glance and sighed, then nodded.

They had seen how Roy had changed in the last month-no longer meek, no longer always shrinking into himself. Once he made up his mind, good luck changing it.

They surged out of the yard together.

Grok gripped Roy’s hand. “Thank you, lad.”

Roy felt the squeeze and nodded. He had noticed how much Grok had looked after him that month; he could not stand idle now.

If that snot-nosed boy were to be lost, Grok would be broken. Roy had learned the grief of losing parents himself; he could not allow another family to suffer.

…

Torches lit the village streets. Not far behind Grok stood One-Eyed Jack, the blacksmith Pussig, the night watchman Thompson, and three steady, plain villagers, each carrying a torch; some wore swords at their hips, others held hoes or pitchforks. They were ready.

“Only this many?” Roy felt a flicker of disappointment. “No posse from the village head?”

One-Eyed Jack tugged at his beard and sighed, “People get older and more afraid. They say the wild is dangerous at night, and they agreed only to send searchers in the morning. Hard enough to get this lot together. We’d better move quick, or Skellige’s salted fish will spoil by dawn.”

“Boss, don’t be a downer.” Pussig glanced over Grok and tried to steady the mood. “Little Balen probably wandered off outside the fields, he’s a clever kid. Melitele will keep him safe.”

Everyone knew what “missing” could mean in a tiny village hemmed in by wilderness, but nobody wanted to say it aloud.

A cold knot tightened under Roy’s ribs. He remembered his harsh words to Balen that morning.

If something had happened to Balen, he would feel responsible.

“No. We must find him.”

“Split into two teams, keep each other in sight. Search east and west outside the village; don’t go too far, and come back quick if you find nothing.” Thompson sorted the group. He put Roy, Pussig, One-Eyed Jack and Grok together, while Old Mole, Susan and three villagers took the west.

“Father, Susan, don’t worry. The blacksmith’s with me, I’m fine. You two take care too.” Seeing the gear the other team had, Old Mole and Susan nodded.

Torches raised, the five of them-blacksmith, butcher, Roy, the tavernkeeper, and the watchman-stepped into the black beyond Kagen.

No one knew what lurked in that dark. In Lower Posada wild dogs, wolf packs and worse things were never in short supply.

…

Autumn nights in Aedirn bit cold, the air close to freezing. Roy hugged his coat and shivered.

The full moon hung like a pale coin. Strange sounds hung on the breeze, insect chirps or something else.

Under the moon the wheat waved dull gold and the wild hops tossed faint bitter scents into the air, but there was no answer.

They began sweeping the fields around Kagen, calling Balen’s name.

Even with torches and moonlight, vision was limited for most of them; only the nearest ten feet were clear.

That was not the case for Roy. He found his sight almost as good as in daylight; objects at thirty feet were clear to him. He realized the Perception of six had sharpened his vision; he had not allocated that point in error.

An hour passed as they scoured every field around Kagen with no clue. Faces tightened; the longer they delayed the slimmer the chance of finding a child alive.

Old Jack stopped and spoke up. “Running around like headless flies won’t do. Grok, think-where might he have gone?”

The butcher crouched, hands to his head. “That brat always talks about going to the big city as a bard, but he’s never left Kagen. Maybe the riverbank for fishing, but never far.”

“I haven’t fulfilled my promise to him, I meant to take him to Vengerberg or Oxenfurt,” Grok muttered. Roy paused-then an idea struck him.

“Uncle Grok, where is your wife buried? Balen’s mother?”

Grok’s face dimmed. “Anna died of whooping cough three years ago. She’s buried-”

“The cemetery!” Grok leapt up, suddenly urgent. “Anna’s in the graveyard east of the village. Do you think that boy might have gone there? I used to take him to pay respects now and then. It’s been months.”

“Then what are we waiting for? To the graveyard!”

The cemetery lay about three miles east, connected by a narrow path choked with brush. They ran with torches held high through the dark.

Roy kept pace with the grown men though he puffed for breath; his stamina was a little short of an adult’s, but he would not let a grieving father slow.

Old Jack panted beside him; age and drink had worn him too.

After about a mile Roy’s left eyelid flickered and a warning rose, sharp and wordless; he shouted, “Careful!”

At his shout, in the dense, black hedgerows around them, several eerie green lights flashed.

Not lights-pairs of pupils like will-o’-the-wisps.

A chorus of low, oppressive snarls swelled, and moonlit shapes-wolfish and terrible-cut them off. Several gaunt, snarling wolves barred their path.

Volume 1: Chapter 8 - Wolf Pack at Midnight

A swarm of ghostly green lights drifted among the brush, and where they moved a pack of mottled, gaunt wolves followed.

They ringed the five of them at a cautious distance, not too close, not too far, baring white fangs and low-throated snarls, ready to spring.

By rough count there were twenty or so, calves in size but lean as sinew, a sight that put a chill under the skin.

The men tightened into a circle and drew their steel blades.

Roy found himself instinctively shielded at the center by four big men. Less than thirty feet away the wolves crouched, and he could taste the damp, rotting tang of meat on the cold wind. One pair of those eyes after another filled his vision with a hungry, animal cruelty he had never properly seen before.

Nothing in a story, no distant description, matched the shock of meeting predators up close.