The dense storm clouds, the lightning, the thunder, all vanished in an instant. The sky cleared again, and the doomsday vision dissolved like smoke.

Unfortunately, Azar Javed’s severed head had rolled right into the middle of the battlefield, to the feet of Rudolf, commander of the Order of the White Rose of Ellander.

The burly man stared at the familiar face on the ground, his expression blank. Not long ago, Azar had still been full of swagger, painting a splendid blueprint of capturing the Lady of the Lake, receiving a lavish reward from His Majesty, and becoming Ban Ard’s rising star.

Now his head and body lay apart.

“So Master Azar is gone just like that. Was this whole operation a mistake?”

Rudolf’s beard trembled faintly. His fingers clamped so hard around the hilt of his sword that the knuckles whitened. Even their greatest trump card had been destroyed, so what right did the Order have now to oppose the Lady of the Lake?

At the same moment, every Vodyanoi and Drowner on Black Gull Island came back to their senses. Baring teeth and claws, shrieking hideously, they pressed once more toward the White Rose Knights in the center.

After a brutal fight, the original thirty-odd Knights had been cut down by more than half. Only a little over ten remained, every one of them drenched in blood and worn to exhaustion. They still stubbornly drew together into a knot, longswords held before their chests. They had killed twice their own number of enemies, yet they could not change the outcome of the battle.

“Gods… Father of the Sky, Lebioda, Eternal Fire, Melitele, save us…”

The Knights kept praying, but the gods they longed for gave no answer.

Instead, a graceful figure appeared out of thin air. With one small, pale hand, she saved every life there. The Vodyanoi and Drowners froze at once, like soldiers who had heard a command.

“The Lady of the Lake?!”

The Knights cried out.

Floating in midair was a woman with long, lake-green hair, astonishing beauty, and an enormous tail of brilliant, iridescent scales. Her smile was gentle. Sunlight gilded her delicate features in radiant color, drawing every eye and holding it fast.

“Warriors of the White Rose, lay down your weapons. You have misunderstood me.”

Her voice was sweet and soft, like the greeting of a loved one, reaching straight into the soul, brushing away fatigue and tension, making people lower their guard before they even knew they had.

Several of the Knights looked dazed with enchantment. Not even their dimeritium necklaces could spare them from the Lady of the Lake’s Charisma.

The few who remained clear-headed looked to their leader.

Rudolf said nothing. His face twisted with conflict.

High Priest Adda strode quickly to the Lady of the Lake and bowed before her.

Their eyes met for an instant, and she understood the goddess’s will at once.

“Knights of the White Rose, Azar Javed’s death was entirely his own doing. He deserved it!”

“But you, from beginning to end, were kept in the dark. That is why the goddess grants you special mercy.” Adda’s narrow eyes swept over one weary face after another as she urged them softly on. “Lost lambs, all you need do is cast aside your weapons, repent sincerely, and drink the Holy Water. Then you shall be redeemed.”

“Those who accept redemption will return to Vizima alive,” Adda declared loudly. “I give you my word, I will persuade His Majesty to remit all punishment!”

Three of them wavered. Their taut bodies loosened. But the moment they lowered their eyes and saw the corpses of their comrades strewn all around, they tightened their grips on their swords again.

She pressed further.

“Think of your parents, your wives, your children. Is it worth throwing away your lives for a dead and evil Sorcerer?!”

Rudolf sighed at that and stepped straight out from among his men.

“The tide has turned. There is no point in useless sacrifice…” A flash of resolve passed through his eyes. “Drop your weapons. All of you.”

“Commander?!” Several Knights crowded around him, faces full of bitterness. “Are our brothers to have died for nothing?!”

“Are you deaf? Did you not hear what I said?”

“Knights of the White Rose, all of you, drop your weapons!”

“You mean to disobey orders?!” Rudolf glared at them one by one, his gaze severe.

With no choice left, the Knights removed their swords and hand crossbows and threw them to the ground at a distance. A few of them also let out quiet sighs of relief.

“Now step back. All of you, step back!” Rudolf drove his men away, then dropped to one knee, pleading written plain across his face. “Your Highness, you have won this time. But only I and Sorcerer Azar were at fault. The Knights of the White Rose were only following orders. They knew nothing of the truth.”

“Please, spare them.”

“Of course. I gave my word. So long as they repent, I will let bygones be bygones.”

“Good…”

Rudolf let out a breath and straightened. His gaze swept over the Lady of the Lake hovering in the air like a deity, a hidden trace of helplessness passing through his eyes. Then he turned and fixed on the young Witcher.

He had noticed this man kill several of his brothers. He was a formidable foe, and a rare opponent.

Rudolf’s fingers tightened once more around the hilt of his sword.

Anyone else could surrender, but not him.

He stood for the honor and backbone of the White Rose.

“Your Highness, I have one final request!”

“Speak!”

“Before I die, I want a fair duel!”

The moment the words left him, without waiting for the woman’s answer, he abandoned the other Knights and charged the young Witcher, sword in hand.

Several Knights, jolted by the sudden turn, instinctively rushed after him.

Then a sigh drifted into their ears. The Lady of the Lake, still hovering above them, blew softly toward the crowd.

Her breath fell to the ground.

The thing was uncanny. Several thick vines burst from the earth and wrapped around their ankles like starving pythons, spreading fast, binding them tight from head to foot until only their eyes remained exposed.

And so they were left to watch the battle in the middle of the field.

“Watch carefully. The Knight of King Foltest of Vizima, and my Knight, which of them is stronger? This is a fair Swordsmanship Duel, one that concerns honor and life. No one may interfere!”

Bald Letho stood with arms folded, watching beside the bound White Rose Knights. A grave look flashed in his amber eyes.

“Kid, don’t go dying too easily.”

……

Clang. The air screamed. Sparks flew.

The two swords smashed together. One of them was knocked off line by the sheer force of the impact and skidded wide at once.

Roy sprang back to bleed off the force. The instant he landed, he spread his arms and thrust Gwyhyr forward as far as he could, the point constantly wavering before the other man, pressing him, crowding his line.

Rudolf’s sword was much heavier than a standard steel blade, a good match for his superior strength.

And his reactions were no worse than those of a mutated body. His Swordsmanship was polished to the utmost.

The Knight’s longsword stood slanted before his chest, its point aimed up from below at the Witcher’s throat like a plow blade. His body was slightly bent, shoulders relaxed, footwork nimble and precise. Every movement of his Swordsmanship was flawless, as if hammered out over a thousand refinements.

Faced with such an enemy, the Witcher had no intention of using anything outside Swordsmanship.

This was a fair duel of the blade. Any trickery would leave an indelible stain on a man’s life.

The two circled each other, stepping wide, the distance between them drawing long and short by turns. Their longswords shifted angle and position with every step.

They held like that for a time.

Then the Witcher moved. His right foot stepped in. From Plow Guard, Gwyhyr slashed from upper right to lower left toward Rudolf’s chest and belly.

The longsword carved a silver arc.

Clang.

The Knight lifted his blade diagonally upward. The two swords struck.

Rudolf knocked Gwyhyr’s point aside. His own sword carried forward with the motion, its point driving straight for the Witcher’s unguarded throat.

But Roy retreated faster. The instant the blades met, he snapped diagonally backward into a T-stance and slipped clear of the edge.

At the same time, Gwyhyr flicked down in a light cut toward Rudolf’s outstretched elbow.

Clang.

The Knight’s sword swept sideways and knocked Gwyhyr away.

Both men’s faces darkened. They retreated in unison, widening the distance, and squared off once more.

The watching Knights did not dare blink. In less than a second of exchange, both men in the field had brushed past death.

Bald Letho’s face had grown grim beyond measure. His thick hand clenched into a fist, then loosened, then clenched again.

……

Roy exhaled. He opened into a lateral T-stance. As his steps shifted, the plow on his left became one on the right. His dark-gold pupils stayed locked on Rudolf’s body, not daring to drift for even an instant.

A bead of cold sweat slid down from his brow to the tip of his nose.

It was the first time he had ever met an opponent so evenly matched. In a normal fight, crossbow bolts, Signs, Intimidate, several methods together, would have been enough to kill a man.

But with Swordsmanship alone, he held no advantage.

Rudolf might be a shade slower to react, but his Swordsmanship was finer, his duel experience richer.

He knew how to find the shortest attacking line and the most efficient target in a rapid exchange.

And Roy, the only thing he had that could match him, was the instinct Orin had drilled into him.

Instinct told the Witcher how to attack and how to defend.

……

Clang, clang, clang.

The two figures crossed. Their blades collided several times in savage succession, sparks falling like a cascade.

Then they sprang apart. Rudolf withdrew one step, the Knight’s sword trailing behind him like the tail-club of a dracolid, every muscle in his body poised to strike with lethal force at any instant.

Roy raised Gwyhyr high above his head, as though he were shouldering a Knight’s lance, the center line of the shaft being his opponent himself. Compared with Rudolf, who remained unhurt, Roy had taken a wound to the shoulder. One thrust had pierced him, and blood had soaked through his leather armor.

Yet his expression did not change. He stayed calm.

A memory flashed through his mind, that first spar with Orin.

Out of the corner of his eye he tracked the changing angle of the sun. He kept moving back and forth, always measuring the distance between himself and his opponent.

Then came the moment.

As Rudolf paced to his left, two body lengths away, Roy suddenly twisted his wrist. Gwyhyr turned from vertical edge to horizontal, and at the same time he angled the blade.

The Knight’s eyes were struck by the reflected sunlight.

One tenth of a second.

Clang, clang. The descending Gwyhyr and the rising Knight’s blade collided with a sharp, brutal crash, but this time there was no deadlock.

Common iron could not stand against Goblin craft tempered a thousand times over, nor against a bound weapon enhanced again and again. Gwyhyr cleaved straight through the battered Knight’s sword and split it clean in two. The broken half spun far away.

And the Witcher’s blade did not stop. It passed beyond the shattered steel and came to rest against the burly man’s throat, drawing a thin line of blood.

“My apologies, Your Majesty… I have failed your trust.” Rudolf Valaris murmured. His eyes half closed, and he let out a breath. “You’ve won, Witcher…”

“You lost to the weapon, sir. Otherwise, the outcome was still uncertain.”

But in Rudolf Valaris’s bloodshot eyes, that wolfish hunger for battle had already gone out. He had abandoned all thought of resistance. “Defeat is defeat. In a just and noble Knight’s duel, I lost to you… Witcher.”

He suddenly turned and shouted to the Knights, “Brothers of the White Rose, I order you to cease resisting. From this moment on, you are entirely under the Princess’s command!”

The Knights bound like trussed fowl screamed and shouted with all their strength, but it came out only as a thick, muffled blur of sound, impossible to make out.

“Any man who defies orders will be cast out of the Order at once!”

After saying all that, Rudolf suddenly smiled at the Witcher, open and calm, gratitude in his eyes.

He seized the Witcher’s blade in one hand, without hesitation, without fear, and, gripping the point, drew it across his throat from left to right, opening a vast, ragged wound.

A fountain of steaming blood splashed Roy from head to face. The tall man opposite him still clung stubbornly to the sword and remained standing.

Even as the strength in him ebbed away.

For an instant, it seemed a thread of black smoke rose from his body and flew upward, toward the brilliant ruby in the Lady of the Lake’s hand, and vanished into it.

Rudolf Valaris lay quietly on the ground. Though he was covered in blood, beneath that thick beard, a trace of a smile had frozen upon his hard-featured face.

Only his eyes had dimmed, all light gone from them.

The Witcher closed them for him. He had been an opponent worth respecting, and his body ought to be laid to rest properly.

Nearby, the surviving Knights of the White Rose looked stricken. They stared at their commander’s still-warm corpse, tears in their eyes, reverence plain upon their faces.

But there was no hatred there, no regret.

To die in a one-on-one duel was no disgrace for a Knight.

“Your Highness, please allow us to collect our brothers’ bodies.”

“Go,” Adda said with a nod. Carrying a porcelain bowl filled with Holy Water, she went to the Knights still bound tight in vines and began persuading them one by one.

Roy walked over to the Lady of the Lake.

“My lady, now that all is settled, I have a question to ask you… What was that black smoke that appeared after Rudolf Valaris died?”

Letho, who had done little more than stand by through the whole affair, raised a brow. He had watched the entire battle, yet had noticed no black smoke at all. “Kid, have you overtaxed yourself so badly you’re seeing things?”

“I know what I saw…”

“The fact you can see it means there is something unusual about you.” Trailing her splendid tail, she seemed to descend step by step through invisible stairs in the air. Then her small nose wrinkled slightly. “A Knight returned in triumph ought to be granted decent treatment.” As she spoke, without any visible movement on the Lady of the Lake’s part, a fresh, damp vapor wrapped around the Witcher’s whole body. It swept lightly over him and carried away all the blood, grime, and filth clinging to his skin, hair, and clothes.

Roy was made new in an instant, once more the proud, straight-backed Witcher he had been.

The Lady of the Lake nodded in satisfaction. Her lakeweed-green hair danced in the wind, giving off a faint scent of wet plants. “Now I will answer your question… When any living thing dies, it leaves behind a trace. That radiance is what people commonly call the soul.”

Roy heard every word clearly. Letho, however, could only see the Lady of the Lake’s lips moving, without hearing a sound. He knew he had been excluded.

In the end, his decision to stand aside during the fight had displeased her. He did not regret it. He gave Roy a sign, then walked off toward Adda.

“Then by your meaning, that black smoke was Rudolf’s soul.” Roy’s dark-gold pupils shifted to the Ruby in the Lady of the Lake’s hand. Beneath the translucent, blood-red shell, he could just make out more than ten strands of black smoke drifting about like tailed meteors. That meant there was more than one soul within.

“As you can see, the Ruby is not only a vessel for faith, it can bear souls as well.”

So it truly was a vessel for all uses. Roy had the dim sense that the Ruby would prove important later.

The Lady of the Lake watched his expression. “This time, you ran yourself ragged to resolve my crisis, and our bond has grown closer. I can share with you some deeper secrets of this world.”

“Remember my words. The most precious thing in this world is not money, nor power, nor divine weapons, but the soul.”

“For many ancient beings from the Wilds, souls are a vital resource for increasing their strength. A Ruby infused with souls is the equivalent of a special currency.”

“In exchange for souls, you may borrow the power of certain ancient beings, or hire them to serve you. Of course, they are very cunning, so you must be careful, careful they do not take what is not freely given.”

A certain vagabond’s face flashed through Roy’s mind. So that was what Master Mirror was.

From the look of it, many ancient beings knew of one another’s existence.

“And for you as well?”

“I do not toy with souls. I desire only pure faith.”

“There is more than Rudolf alone in that gem?”

“My most devout Cultists, the Vodyanoi who fell in battle, and the valiant Knights of the White Rose are in there as well.”

“And what do you intend to do with them?”

The goddess bit her lip. Her willow-brow drew faintly together, and a touch of sorrow, lovely enough to stir pity, showed on her face. “Entering the Ruby is only the first step. In a moment, I will let you witness their fate.”

Roy fell silent for a while, then asked what had long been buried in his mind. “My lady, if you had not intervened, where would they have gone after death?”

In recent times, he had seen death countless times, yet he had never seriously thought about the question. Did the Witcher’s world have an afterlife?

And before him stood an ancient and powerful being who could answer it.

“There are three possibilities…” The Lady of the Lake was patient. “The first is that they mutate into foul ghostly things, what Witchers call wraiths, painting spirits. But that is a wretched fate. Ghosts remain in the mortal world only because of the obsessions in their hearts, and those obsessions are often memories of past suffering. To linger within them is a torment, and an endless one. Only when they are slain can they be freed.”

“The second possibility…” The Lady of the Lake suddenly looked into the distance. A clamor had risen there. Adda, together with several Knights of the White Rose who had sworn loyalty to her, was loudly berating the remaining nine Knights still bound like dumplings. She seemed to be bullying and coaxing them by turns, while Witcher Letho watched coldly from the side. “Within a very short time, minutes, perhaps hours, they vanish completely. The flesh dies, and the soul cannot exist on its own.”

A sudden fear rose in Roy’s heart. If the soul too was scattered, then where would it go? Endless darkness, some unknown void?

“The third possibility is to be devoured, or imprisoned, by certain beings.”

……

“Now, my Knight, come and bear witness to the final destination of my Cultists.” The Lady of the Lake noticed the abrupt change in his face. She raised a hand. At once, damp mist wrapped around the Witcher’s body, like a lotus skiff floating in the air, and carried him swaying away from the center of Black Gull Island to the edge of the lake.

Viviane slowly descended onto the surface of the water. Her long, splendid tail sank into the lake. With slender hands she scooped up a handful of clear water and let it stream through her fingers, then immersed the Ruby full of souls into the lake and crushed it lightly.

The Ruby shattered.

In an instant, more than ten strands of black smoke flowed into the lakewater. She blew gently over them, and from the smoke were born lovely little creatures, bright-scaled fish with short barbels at the jaw, each ringed in seven colors. They swam around her playfully, brushing her body with affection.

Bathed in lakewater, she turned in a slow circle. Her slim fingers touched the fish one by one, and silver-bell laughter spilled from her lips. Her pretty face was full of delight.

After a warm little game, the fish wagged their beautiful tails, bade her farewell, and dived into the water, vanishing into the depths of Lake Vizima.

Having watched the entire thing, the deeply shaken Witcher reached up and held still the medallion at his throat, which had begun to tremble violently.

“These fish… are your dead Cultists?”

In the world seen through Scry, these little colored creatures were not true fish at all. They were formed wholly from surging magic. One could call them Water Elves.

Viviane lifted her palm-sized face. Holy sunlight gilded her delicate features, and her voice rang with force. “As the daughter of Lake Vizima, as the faith of the Church of Virtue, the only thing I can do is shape a body of water for them, a vessel their souls may enter after death. Thereafter, they may begin another wonderful life in the kingdom beneath Lake Vizima.”

“At least that way, the poor souls of my Cultists need not be left exposed to the air, where they would dissolve into nothingness.”

So that was the benefit of believing in the Lady of the Lake. Her dead Cultists went on living, in another singular fashion.

At that moment, all the prayers he had heard so many times rang in the Witcher’s mind, may your souls be reunited in the realm of the goddess Melitele.

And the kingdom beneath Lake Vizima, in a certain sense, was not that the Lady of the Lake’s divine realm?

“And their memories? Do they remain?”

“This is a new life. They shall exist as reborn Water Elves. And if Lake Vizima is ever attacked, they will become its guardians.”

Roy said nothing. Better to lose one’s memories than to vanish entirely.

……

“And the stone I gave you last time?”

Roy opened his hand and revealed a Ruby. It was perfectly pure, bearing neither faith nor soul within it.

“I have a question… This Ruby remained in your care for over two months, yet it collected no souls at all, not human, not even beast. That is not natural. Unless in all that time, you have killed nothing.”

The Witcher rubbed at his temples as he searched his memory. “The wolves and wild dogs outside the city, the White Widow centipede in Brokilon, the wraith in the Verrieres family graveyard, my sword has scarcely rested this whole time…”

“And that is the crux of it. The Ruby did not collect their souls. They could not simply have vanished for no reason.”

“Then where did the souls of the lives I killed go?”

Roy pondered in silence for a moment, then reached a startling conclusion. “Just now, when Rudolf used Gwyhyr to cut his own throat, his soul was collected by the Ruby, and I gained no XP at all. Then is this the Template’s secret?”

Anything he killed with his own hand, its soul, and perhaps some part of its essence, was converted into the Template’s XP.

“Have you found the answer?” The Lady of the Lake stepped closer. Her lakeweed-green hair brushed the Witcher’s face on the wind sweeping in from the water. Her clear eyes gazed at him with eager expectation, like a bottomless whirlpool, drawing in a man’s spirit and soul alike. “I have told you every secret, Knight of Lake Vizima… I hope you will be equally candid with me.”

Roy shook his head. His lips moved, but in the end he said nothing. He could not invent a plausible lie in such haste, but neither would he ever tell anyone his greatest secret.

“You do not wish to share with me?” The Lady of the Lake suddenly lowered her eyes and lightly shook her head. Her petal-soft lips pushed forward in a faint pout. “I will not force you. One day, you will speak all your secrets willingly.”

“Now, another matter. Before you killed Azar Javed, how did you perform that Teleport?”

So the Lady of the Lake truly had seen everything.

“A gift born from bodily mutation after drinking the Decoctions of the Grasses,” Roy said, remembering Orin’s warning. “It only allows teleportation over very short distances, and it consumes a great deal of magic.”

Viviane let out a breath. Whether she believed him or not, there was no telling.

“This time, you acted on my behalf, so you must be rewarded. I will give you three choices. You may choose one of them as your recompense.”

“First, in the ruins of the Sunken Kingdom there lies a reserve of ancient gold. I can grant you a portion of it. By Adda’s reckoning, at current prices it would amount to roughly one thousand Crowns.”

“Second, give Aerondight to me, and I will further strengthen its power for you.”

“Third,” the Lady of the Lake’s gaze moved over the Witcher’s face, his eyes, and the slight sharpness of his ears, “I have noticed that the magic within you is far too weak. I can grant you a portion of Blood Essence to strengthen it.”

“And Letho…”

“You did notice, did you not? Your teacher never acted from beginning to end. Plainly, he does not approve of our actions or our creed. Naturally, he has no share in this reward.”

Whether he chose a great sum of money or further strengthening for Aerondight, both were tempting, but there would be other ways to obtain such things in time. As for increasing his magic, the Witcher could think of no other path.

After giving it due thought, he chose the third reward.

“I knew that would be your choice.”

The Lady of the Lake brushed a slender fingertip across her white teeth, then flicked lightly.

A single round drop of golden blood flew from her fingertip and hovered before Roy, spinning in place.

He twitched his nose. A rich scent of grass and living things drifted over, intoxicating enough to make one reel. He had only to breathe it once, and warmth flooded his whole body, light and soft, more alluring than the finest vintage.

Roy stared at the drop of blood. His throat bobbed on its own. He forced down the craving rising in him.

“I am the daughter of the lake. My blood is rich in magic. With a special blessing laid upon it, its effect is no less than an Elixir. Swallow it, and your magic will grow stronger.” Viviane gave him a mischievous little blink. “You need not feel guilty. As the Knight of Lake Vizima, the stronger you become, the safer I am as well.”

Roy stopped hesitating.

He opened his mouth and drew in a breath. The drop in the air flew into him.

The liquid was nothing like the cold of lake water. It was close to the warmth of the human body, gentle, yet carrying within it a taste that seemed buried in the deepest part of memory.

The Witcher lingered on it. His eyelids grew heavier, his body slackened further, and the thoughts in his mind dissolved into muddled haze. It was as though he had returned to the time before birth, drawing up his knees and curling inward by instinct.

There was only the constant flow of warm liquid, like amniotic water, exchanging things between inside and outside his body.

He sank into deep sleep.

Time fled within the Magical Transformation, like sand running through fingers, impossible to grasp.

When the Witcher woke again, he felt only chill all over his body. He lifted his head and saw a full moon high in the sky, pouring down clear light and revealing where he was.

Black Gull Island, lonely and silent. There was no one on it but him. Not even an insect stirred. The whole place was as dead as a graveyard.

He stretched lazily, and every bone in him cracked in a lively string of pops.

There was a draft between his legs too. Looking down, he found his skin covered in a sticky, clotted layer of fluid. When he peeled it away, the wound on his shoulder had healed into a line of pink scars.

He had kept up high-intensity training for a long time now. The Witcher’s body had been honed lean and even. His muscles were not overly bulky, but they were hard, cleanly shaped, full of explosive force.

He had six neat ridges of muscle across his belly as well.

That, however, led to one problem.

He was standing there stark naked, slick and bare as an eel.

On Black Gull Island in the dead of night, the Witcher stood in the cold wind with a blank look in his eyes. After a long moment, a laugh drifted across from the surface of the distant lake.

“So the Lady of the Lake is punishing me for hiding things from her earlier?” He shook his head and sighed. “And she thought this would trouble me?”

He focused his thoughts into the space. In an instant, a brand-new set of linen clothes appeared in his arms, with a broad hooded cloak besides.

He had always liked to keep stores on hand against the unexpected.

He washed himself clean in the lake, changed into the new clothes, then sat down on a charred tree stump to inspect his status.

Inside the Template, a striking line of text stood out.

“You have consumed the Blessed Blood Essence (Lady of the Lake Viviane). Some of your attributes have been permanently increased.”

Constitution: 11.8 → 12

HP: 158 → 160

Spirit: 12.5 → 14

Mana: 165 → 180

Charisma: 7 → 8

……

All told, that one transformation had raised his attributes by more than two full points, the equivalent of leveling up twice. The greatest gain was to Spirit, which did much to relieve the awkward weakness of his magic.

But Constitution had risen only a little, while Charisma had gone up by a full point. That, he had not expected.

By the lake’s reflection, the Witcher’s features had not changed much, but there were small adjustments here and there. The lines of his face had softened a little. His skin looked finer. His dark-gold pupils shone brighter and deeper, as though stars lay hidden in them.

“Viviane is generous as ever.”

Roy could not help thinking further. If the Lady of the Lake’s blood could raise attributes, then perhaps the blood of a legendary Dragon might have a similar effect.

Once he had the strength for it, he meant to find a Dragon and test that notion for himself.

……

By the time he had finished examining every change in his body, more than half the lights in Vizima across the lake had gone out. The night had quietly moved into its latter half.

Using the moonlight, he searched among the reeds at the island’s edge until he found a rotten little boat. After no small struggle, he rowed it to the lakeshore, stepped into the wet mud, slipped into the trees along the shore, and stood in the cool night wind, staring into the heavy dark.

Roy’s interest rose.

Now that the Lady of the Lake’s trouble had been settled, why not try Kalkstein’s Spell Crystal?

His mind sank into the Template.

Summon Mount!

His vision blurred for a heartbeat.

Amid several clumps of bushes, on an open patch thick with wet grass, the bright moonlight suddenly revealed a beast the size of a calf, eagle-headed and lion-bodied.

It lay curled on its side. Its two gray wings rested over its back like a feathered coverlet, rising and falling slowly with the deep rhythm of sleep.

Roy’s dark-gold pupils swept across it. A smile touched his lips. He lunged over and wrapped the sleeping Griffin in a tight embrace, burying his face in those warm wings and rubbing against them greedily. Then the smile on his face froze.

The Griffin had all the worst habits of wild animals. Its body smell was overpowering. It had spent a long time shut inside a cage, and most likely had not bathed once in all that time. The stench was enough to kill a man.

Roy’s enthusiastic mauling woke it from its pleasant dream.

“Guh!” It let out a low growl and turned its head angrily. But the moment its great black eyes fell on that familiar face, the fierceness went out of it at once. The growl softened into pleading little whimpers. It pressed its neck against the Witcher’s chest and craned up to lick his face.

“Hss, foul as rot. Stop. Griffin, swallow your slobber, at once, right now!”

“Grrl, grrl…”

“That’s better. Good girl. From now on, you brush your teeth and wash every day.”

Roy wiped his face clean with the mane at its neck, patted his hands, and stood. His gaze deepened.

Griffin

Gender: Female

Age: 6 months

Identity: Griffin

HP: 80

Attributes:

Strength: 6 → 7

Agility: 7 → 8

Constitution: 7 → 8

Perception: 7

Willpower: 6

Charisma: 4

Spirit: 5

Skills:

Hybrid Beast (Passive Trait): A creature of mixed lineage, possessing both avian and beast traits, granting balanced physical capabilities and adaptability.

Predator (Passive Trait): A natural-born hunter, enhancing tracking ability, attack precision, and killing efficiency against prey.

“Not bad. Since we last parted, your attributes have improved again.” The Witcher stretched out his left arm like a signal flag and began issuing commands. “Crouch, up, turn in a circle.”

The Griffin obeyed each order with exact precision, like a well-trained hound.

“Very good. I’ll feed you extra tomorrow. Now let’s make it harder. Run, sprint.”

Huff, huff.

A strong gust whipped across the level ground.

In the moonlit grass, the black-and-yellow beast lowered its head and charged. Its gait was nothing like that of an ordinary four-legged animal. The sharp claws of its hind legs tore through the turf like plowshares, leaving the ground ripped and mangled wherever it passed. Its broad, heavy forewings worked like the blade of a shovel. Every time they struck the ground, they flung up clods of mud and shredded grass with a great racket.

Roy stroked his chin, watching with gleaming eyes. As befitted a top predator, even at this age its speed and strength already far surpassed those of a grown man. The sheer force behind its movement was no less than a wagon at full run. It could probably smash a person senseless.

If it pounced cleanly, even a Witcher would not come away lightly.

“Mm. The Griffin’s main method of attack ought to be pouncing. I’ll need to train it specifically for that later.”

There was only one point Roy disliked. Its motions while running were far too exaggerated. There was none of the easy fluidity of a horse, or even a dog or cat. It looked terribly laborious.

“The Griffin’s true battlefield is the sky.”

Roy looked again at those two enormous wings. At half a year old, they could hardly be there for show.

“Fly, Griffin!”

“Guh?” With a hooting cry like an owl, the Griffin slowed its forward rush. Its upper body rose upright in an instant. The two great wings beat furiously in the air, stirring a blast of wind and sending pebbles flying.

The next moment, the eagle-lion Monster lifted from the ground, shot up three yards into the air, glided clumsily forward for perhaps five, then dropped with a thud like a kite whose string had snapped.

“Again!”

Run, lift, fall.

Then once more.

“Guh… guh…” After who knew how many attempts, the Griffin, dizzy from all the crashes, gave itself a little shake and sent across a feeling of dejection.

“Come here, good girl…” Roy patted its smooth, supple back. “You’re still young, and you spent too long shut in a cage. It’s normal you can’t fly far.”

“If I train with you every day, sooner or later you’ll soar free through the sky.”

“Guh, guh…”

The Witcher spoke, and hot blood surged in his chest. Once the Griffin was trained, he too would finally taste what it felt like to fly.

When the Griffin had rested a while and regained some strength, the Witcher swung himself onto its back like a man mounting a small horse.

At its present size and condition, carrying a rider into the air was plainly impossible. But carrying one at a run…

“Guh… guh…”

“Good girl. Move. Run for the lakeshore.”

“Guh!”

And so, along the shore of Lake Vizima, there appeared a most bizarre sight. A half-lion, half-eagle Monster, with a gold-eyed Witcher riding on its back, ran round and round by the water, while the man on top shouted and whooped into the night wind, startling whole flocks of animals from the brush.

Half an hour later.

Roy jumped off the Griffin’s back drenched in sweat and rubbed at his aching backside. The Griffin too was panting heavily with its tongue hanging out. Both of them were worn out.

Compared with riding a horse, riding a Griffin was at least twice as jarring. There was not the slightest sense of exhilarating speed.

In only half an hour, Roy felt as though his backside had nearly been split open. It was more painful than the first time he had ever ridden a horse.

Still, he could understand why. The Griffin’s body was a combination of great cat and eagle, two hind legs and a pair of clawed forewings. Its near-ground movement was bound to be unlike anything else. Sitting steady on its back would require a great deal of skill and a great deal of training.

Even a saddle and reins would do little to improve that.

“Griffins aren’t made for riding on the ground.”

The realization settled in the Witcher’s mind. In most circumstances, trying to ride the Griffin overland would be less convenient and less agile than simply using his own two legs.

“Let’s hope it performs better in the air.”

“Guh guh…”

“Tired? Then that’s enough for today. Before we head home, let’s dress you up a little.”

Roy grinned brightly and pulled out the diamond-shaped Spell Crystal, the so-called random polymorph stone.

“Lie still and don’t move. Relax all over and keep your heart open.”

“Guh.”

Mana -100, Random Polymorph activated!

A blaze of light burst from the crystal and swallowed the Griffin whole. It was like overlapping layers of cloud wrapping fully around its body, hiding it from sight. Within the cloud, faint arcs of lightning flickered, and there came a constant sizzling sound.

The whole process lasted a full minute. When the magic cloud dispersed, the half-lion, half-eagle Monster before Roy had vanished entirely. In its place stood a tiny creature no bigger than a fist, with spindly limbs like a frog’s, soft pink toes, and half-transparent green skin.

Not only was it small, it seemed a bit undergrown as well. Its head was absurdly large for its body, shaped like a catfish’s, with round black eyes like two gems set into it.

It stared up at the Witcher in an endearingly foolish way, full of affection.

“A Vodyanoi hatchling counts as a small animal? Kalkstein really is a genius.”

“Grrlu…”

Its thin, long mouth opened and closed, letting out a muddled little call. The whiskers by its cheeks wriggled like earthworms.

The Witcher pinched it by the belly and lifted it. At once it shamelessly wrapped all four limbs tightly around his hand. The short, thick tail behind it wagged briskly, just like a little dog trying to please its master.

“This look is much more manageable, and easier to keep alive too… Tomorrow I’ll put some cold water in the bath to make you a little nest, then feed you dried fish. Keeping you as a pet won’t be bad at all.”

Roy recalled what he had seen in the market square. “With a bit of training, I can take you out into the street now and then to perform tricks. We’ll set up a little tent, charge admission at the entrance, and earn some extra crowns on the side. Change your form every day, and the customers will never tire of watching.”

“At night, once you turn back, we’ll train your flying and hunting, and prepare your food while we’re at it. How does that sound, Griffin? Satisfied with the arrangement?”

“Grrlu…” The tiny beast, hanging upside down, blinked its innocent eyes.

Roy cradled it in his palm, rubbed it to his heart’s content, dropped it into the hood hanging behind his neck, and started back through the night.

In the pitch-black darkness of Vizima’s Trade Quarter, a ghostlike shadow kept leaping from rooftop to rooftop. A pair of dark-gold pupils shone in the night like a beast’s, the figure cutting through the wind. He suddenly stopped on a roof and held his breath, below, two patrolling guards were passing along the broad stone-paved street.

The night wind blew. The Witcher crouched motionless on the tiles, balanced without so much as a twitch. In the hood behind him, a strange little thing clutched a lock of his hair in tiny fists and made a “grrl, grrl” sound, half like insect chirring, half like a frog’s croak.

“Did you hear that? Strange sound… close by!”

“Brother, it’s not winter yet. There’s always some damned thing in heat this time of year. Sounds like somebody’s cat or dog to me.”

“Bloody beast. It’s cold enough out here to freeze the thing into a stick, and it still has the mind to go into heat?”

“Fancy warming up over at the Night Queen?”

……

Only after the guards had vanished completely did the figure on the roof move again, skittering like a lizard until he finally slipped in through the top-floor window of a certain villa.

Plop. A thread of hot sweat slid down his calf and darkened the wooden floorboards.

The bald Letho, asleep on a hanging cot in the room, woke at the noise. His amber eyes swept over.

“Kid, that’s how hard it is for you to part with the Lady of the Lake? You spent the whole day chatting with her?”

“Finished the contract, took the reward, nothing more,” Roy said, looking down at bald Letho and shaking his head. “A pity some people put in no effort and ended up with no reward.”

“Better that than let greed blind you and turn you into a toy and a puppet.” Letho rocked lazily in the cot, but there was warning in his voice.

“You really have it in for the Lady of the Lake? Still, don’t worry…” Roy drew a breath and said gravely, “I know exactly where I stand. The Lady of the Lake, the Church of Virtue, Princess Adda, all of it is cooperation and hire, mutual benefit. I won’t let them control me.”

“Remember those words… and keep your distance from religion as much as you can.” Letho sighed. “There are too many madmen in it. Even if you stay clear-headed for a while, sooner or later they’ll wear you down and make you one of them.”

“Mm.”

“Go take a bath. Smell yourself. You stink worse than a Rotfiend.”

Letho tossed him a towel, then flicked his gaze over Roy’s shoulder. “And what’s with that toad?”

……

“Hah…” Roy let out a long, pleased sigh as he lounged in the bathtub.

The scalding steam had flushed his skin red and brought sweat to his brow, but he was completely at ease. There was no need to worry about a lobster crawling out of the tub and trying to kill him.

The water was strewn with flower petals, private stock belonging to Sorceress Coral, the things she used for bathing. Roy had now been granted the right to use them as well.

Bald Letho glanced at his apprentice’s arm. The skin was fine, nothing like that of a Witcher who lived in sun and wind. Not just the arm, every inch of him was finer-skinned than before.

What use was it for a Witcher to look this good? Letho could not help worrying for the boy. Had the Lady of the Lake a mind to turn him into a pretty pet for her bed?

Shaking the thought off, Letho grabbed the “toad” by both legs and lifted it upside down, looking it over from every angle.

In this altered form, the little creature had a mild temperament. It made no resistance, only stared back curiously with round black eyes, while its long narrow mouth bubbled in the water.

“What in hell is this thing, a Vodyanoi spawn? Where’d you get it?”

“Remember that lunatic alchemist Kalkstein? You could say it was a gift from him… a pet.” Roy wiped his wet hair with the towel. After a moment’s thought, he decided not to reveal the Griffin’s true identity yet. Better to let them grow used to each other first.

Whatever the case, the little thing would be joining the Witchers’ company in time.

“You can call it Griffin. Today it’s in Vodyanoi form, but that may not hold tomorrow.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ll know when the time comes.”

A finger as thick as a carrot prodded its round belly. At once it wrapped all four limbs tightly around it.

Letho’s eyes narrowed.

“It’s a cute little thing, but pretty and useless, dead weight. Want to sell it? I’d wager some noblewomen in Vizima would be interested… and we’ve spent a fair bit of coin forging those weapons.”

At once the upside-down Griffin glared furiously at bald Letho, baring itself and growling in bubbling outrage.

“What do you mean, dead weight?” Roy rolled over and rested his chin on the rim of the tub, arguing back. “The Griffin will be useful later. Selling it is out of the question.”

“Unless somebody offers ten thousand Crowns.”

“Grrr…”

Roy then asked about Princess Adda and the Order of the White Rose of Ellander.

By day, though Alzur’s Thunder had been interrupted on Black Gull Island, the fishermen and masons by Lake Vizima, and most of the residents within Vizima itself, had all seen the strange phenomenon above the island. Some said it was a demon invasion. Others claimed it was a sign of the world’s end.

To calm the public.

Princess Adda had brought Dagon out again as a shield. She staged a little performance with the surviving Knights, then, through Mayor Velerad, spread a false account through the city: the Evil God had once more brought disaster upon Lake Vizima, and the Lady of the Lake, together with the Order of the White Rose of Ellander and Vizima’s royal magical advisor, had joined forces to destroy it. The great upheaval on Black Gull Island had merely been a shadow of that battle.

Thus the fallen Knights of the White Rose and Azar Javed alike were granted the honorable title of having died for the realm, and the citizens of Vizima were soothed.

“Foltest has no objections? Adda wrecked his whole arrangement.” Roy was curious. “How exactly did Your Highness persuade her father?”

“That you’ll have to ask her yourself. But the situation looks grim.” Letho shook his head. “What happened on Black Gull Island will only deepen Foltest’s suspicion. The Lady of the Lake’s Church won’t have an easy time in Vizima.”

“We’ll have our answer in a few days.”

After bathing, Roy spent the next several hours in Meditation until dawn began to break.

A faint white glow showed beyond the window. He and Letho left by separate ways.

By Roy’s reckoning, the Kael brothers’ business in Toussaint ought to be done by now, so Letho needed to find a way to contact them and tell them of the Viper School’s new refuge in Vizima.

And, while he was at it, keep watch over Berengar and the forge, waiting for the four swords to be finished.

Roy, for his part, first went to order a new set of leather armor from a clothier, black, in much the same style as before.

Even without all this, he would have needed new clothes soon enough. He had been growing quickly of late, and now stood six feet tall, still lean and balanced. His body lacked the great bouldered muscles of bald Letho, but it was a hard, spare build, far more developed than an ordinary man’s.

His old clothes no longer fit well.

After that, the Witcher made his way to the Temple Quarter to look into matters. The Griffin came with him, its tiny body hidden in the hood, with only its round eyes peeking out curiously at the world.

The little thing had all but made a home in the Witcher’s hood.

“Everything’s normal.” Roy cast a distant glance over the square. It was packed shoulder to shoulder. The townsfolk coming to worship the Lady of the Lake were as numerous as ever, perhaps even more so since the mayor’s words the day before had stirred curiosity in many of Vizima’s people.

The whole square was jammed solid.

“No. Princess Adda isn’t here.”

Another priest had taken over the morning service. That was too important a duty, and Adda would not usually entrust it to anyone else.

Roy understood at once that something must have gone wrong on Foltest’s side. He felt a flicker of worry.

“Grrl…”

“I’m fine, Griffin, no need to worry.” Roy felt the pet’s unease through the bond and pointed toward the tall statue. “This is a gathering. They’re praying to the Lady of the Lake, Viviane.”

As he spoke, he could not help remembering the sight of the Lake Lady transforming the souls of her Cultists into Water Elves.

Was that fate truly a blessing, or not? And how many of the Cultists here would accept it, if they knew?

“Guh… grrl…”

“Quiet. Make another sound and no dried fish for you.”

After observing the situation in the Temple Quarter, Roy went to visit the alchemist Kalkstein.

This Frankenstein’s monster of a man seemed to have had a rough time of it lately, his appearance much changed. His unruly hair, pointed beard, and eyebrows were all gone. One side of his pinched, monkeyish face was covered in scorched black scar tissue, smeared over with cooling salve.

“My body’s unwell today. I’ve no time for visitors. Come back after a while, once I’ve healed.”

Bent over and limping, he let Roy in. His face was sickly, his voice weak and listless.

The Witcher looked him over with a half-smile, another suspicion taking shape in his mind. This Frankenstein’s monster had likely known of Azar’s plan beforehand, and with the man’s wild cast of mind…

“Master Alchemist, does it only seem to me, or do you look like you’ve been struck by lightning?”

“Ahem, ahem… I’ve no notion what you mean. Lightning? This comes from a recent accident in one of my experiments. An explosion.”

“All right then, an accident it is…”

“Young man, that is the truth.” Kalkstein stressed every word. “Do not go out and spread nonsense that will make trouble for me.”

“I give you my word. No one will hear your secret from me.” The Witcher patted his chest, then lowered his voice. “Truth is, I came here today for another reason, Azar Javed…”

The alchemist suddenly slapped his forehead, eyes lighting up. “How did I forget that? Azar Javed has ‘died for the realm,’ and that’s a gift from the gods. His villa is now an unguarded treasure house. Why don’t we work together again? Like last time. This time you can cut loose properly and smash every trap in the place.”

“Well? What do you say? We’ll need to move quickly, before the soldiers seal it off.”

“You aren’t saddened at all?” Roy asked, surprised. “You and Sorcerer Azar used to work together, didn’t you?”

“Who says I’m not saddened?” Kalkstein rubbed a blackened finger against the dried sleep crust at the corner of his eye and flicked it away. “I already broke custom and mourned him for a quarter of an hour this morning. That is quite enough. I have research to do.”

Cheap friendship. Roy mourned for Azar in his heart for all of two seconds.

“How do we divide the inheritance?”

“All research materials go to me. Naturally, you may choose to take part of it in copied form. The remaining jewels and Crowns are yours.”

“Done.”

The Witcher carefully avoided the patrols near Foltest’s Castle and slipped without trouble into the villa of the Royal Advisor, Azar Javed.

Its master had already died by his hand, so there was no need to worry that breaking magical traps would raise an alarm.

Besides, according to Kalkstein, this Sorcerer from Zerrikania, a graduate of Ban Ard, had never joined the Brotherhood of Sorcerers. He kept his distance from the Brotherhood, and had no close Sorcerer friends either. Taking his inheritance would bring no trouble afterward.

The Witcher searched the place without restraint. His target was not only the laboratory. He turned over every room in the villa.

By chance, beneath the floorboards of one bedroom, he found a heap of scattered human bones, enough for perhaps a dozen bodies.

The surfaces of the bones were riddled with pits and scars where strange Potions had eaten into them. It was easy enough to imagine how much agony their owners had suffered while still alive.

Roy silently gathered up all the remains, intending to bury them outside the city.

“So Azar Javed had already begun human experimentation by this point. A cruel bastard.”

In truth, although Sorcerers possessed great power and long lives, they were bound by certain iron laws. This was the fundamental principle that allowed Northern Sorcerers to settle securely within human kingdoms, they were absolutely forbidden to coerce ordinary people into inhuman experiments on living bodies, most of them Black Magic experiments.

Unless such experiments were openly declared within the organization, safe in process, and carried out with the subject’s willing consent.

Any violation discovered would be judged fairly and equally, the usual punishment being shackling the offender in dimeritium for several centuries.

Plainly, this Sorcerer from Zerrikania had not bothered adapting to local ways or obeying Sorcerers’ iron laws. But he had concealed it so well that no one had known.

According to the original history, he should have lived another ten years or so, until he became one of Salamandra’s core members and began using living people in mad Witcher mutation experiments.

“Killing him ahead of time probably saved a hundred innocent lives.”

At the root of Azar Javed’s death lay Roy’s earlier talk with Adda. Because of that conversation, Vizima’s princess had made contact with the Lady of the Lake, and all the events that followed had diverged from history.

Vizima’s whole balance had shifted because of his interference.

“Azar is dead. Will Salamandra even appear in the future? And if there’s no Salamandra, then haven’t I indirectly done Kaer Morhen a favor?”

“So does the Wolf School, and Geralt, owe me one now?”

……

The outcome of the looting was rather different from what the Witcher had expected. In his view, most Sorcerers ought to be able to accumulate a respectable fortune by relying on their long lives and alchemical magic. On the one hand, that let them enjoy luxurious living. On the other, it let them pay for costly experiments and Spell Components.

Azar’s current status was still that of Foltest’s Royal Advisor, and the salary must have been generous.

By rights, he should have had a great deal saved up.

And yet, no matter how thoroughly Roy searched the place, he found only a small pouch of coins and sapphires, worth less than two hundred Crowns in all.

“A miscalculation. Azar must have kept the valuable things in Spatial Equipment carried on his person. And now the Knights of the White Rose have already taken the body back.”

The Witcher had come away on the wrong end of the bargain. Angered, he decided simply to pack up the rhinoceros head mounted in the laboratory, along with part of the grotesque organs preserved in glass vessels.

Some of them he recognized, White Widow and Endrega Worker mutagenic proteins, rare Spell Components.

There was also one Armored Arachas Mutagenic Extract, merely ordinary-grade, but enough to count toward the Mutagen required for class advancement, Mutagen (2/10).

As for written materials, besides Azar’s research notes from the last several decades, the Witcher also found an old leather manuscript hidden in a secret compartment, its cover marked with profound Elder Speech.

“Grrlu…” The little one sleeping on his shoulder gave a soft call and stretched a webbed finger toward the book.

“You can read this, Griffin?”

“Guh… grrl… grrl…” It stuffed its pink little finger into its mouth.

“This isn’t food. Endure it for now. Once we get out, I’ll get you some dried fish. And remember, you’re a proud Griffin. Being transformed is no excuse to start acting spoiled.”

“And if you turned into a dog, would you…”

The Witcher stroked the fishlike head and opened the book. “Gwen Alzur ray… Alzur’s Thunder.” The first half of the book recorded in detail, in Elder Speech, the legendary spell Azar had used on Black Gull Island. The latter half described another spell of equal rank, Alzur’s Double-Cross.

Roy knew little about magic, but thanks to his solid Elder Speech, he grasped the general meaning. It was a terrifying summoning spell. Once fully cast, it could create a gigantic Magical Creature.

That spell, too, had come from the famous Sorcerer Alzur, one of the creators of Witchers.

Behind the spell was a historical note as well. Alzur had once used Double-Cross to summon a gigantic centipede. That monstrous beast swiftly destroyed half of Maribor, and to this day whole stretches of ruins remained there.

The power of a Forbidden Spell could well be imagined. Fortunately, part of this manuscript was missing. Had it not been, Azar would have attacked them with more than lightning and thunderbolts.

The Witcher carefully put the Magic Tome away. After some thought, he decided to share it with Kalkstein after all. There was no knowing whether that man was already keeping an eye on him, and they might well cooperate again in the future.

……

“Witcher, you not pocketing the Magic Tome surprises me…” The Alchemist spread his pointed mouth in a grin and reflexively reached toward his throat to stroke his beard, only to find empty air. Not a single hair of his goatee remained. “Your honesty has earned my trust!”

The Alchemist shook the Witcher’s hand, then suddenly straightened his back. “I feel life returning to my body, so I’ve decided to teach you a few extra things.”

“Three Alchemy Recipes, as payment for your honesty.”

That was an unexpected delight. Roy took the chance to ask for something else.

“Master Alchemist, those notes… could I have a copy first?”

“Witchers cannot master magic, so why would you be interested in Arcane Research Notes? You need to give me a reason. Ordinary notes are one thing. But this Magic Tome…” The Alchemist’s face turned unusually grave. “If it spreads, it will bring disaster.”

“Rest easy. I intend to give the Magic Tome to a Sorceress friend of mine.” The Witcher’s gaze softened. It counted as an investment of a kind. “A member of the Brotherhood of Sorcerers. She won’t abuse such power.”

Kalkstein stared at him hard for several moments, then handed over a copied version and began, there in his own laboratory, teaching the Witcher those three Potion formulas step by step.

Compared with Azar’s laboratory, Kalkstein’s was much larger and brighter, and far stranger besides. Dried herbs were everywhere, along with ground saltpeter and sulfur. This was the Alchemist’s true trade.

The Griffin, still in Fishman Form, had been set on the table and was enjoying a feast of fresh fish. Beside it sat a black cat named Sandru, Kalkstein’s pet.

Cats in this world were highly sensitive to magical energy, and usually took a liking to Sorcerers who carried magic. That was why many Sorcerers kept one.

“Witcher, we’ve some little acquaintance between us now. From now on I’ll call you Roy, and you can call me Karl.”

“Mm…” Roy pulled on a pair of leather gloves, imitating the Alchemist, but his eyes drifted aside despite himself. Black Cat Sandru held its head high with the pride of a king. Its whiskers trembled as it pressed one black paw against Griffin’s sticky little head. Griffin paid it no mind and kept wrestling with the fish.

“You said you’ve mastered five Alchemy Recipes already, Celandine Potion, Paralyzing Venom, Swallow, Petri’s Philter, and Thunderbolt. That means you’ve got a decent foundation in Potioncraft. But I still need to examine your real level. Pick any formula you already know and make it from the materials and tools on hand.”

The Alchemist wore a stern face now, with a trace of the strict master about him.

“Now?”

“A problem?”

Roy chose the most common formula, Celandine Potion. It could stop bleeding and prevent infection.

He had spent a considerable stretch of time focused on sharpening combat Skills, and had neglected regular practice in Potion-making.

But the moment his hands touched the herbs and apparatus laid out on the bench, countless images flooded his mind. They were the steps of all the Potions he had brewed in the past, so clear they played like a projector, frame by frame, every detail laid bare.

“Celandine, Nettle, one part each, crush them…”

“Add a quarter portion of distilled water, pour in one ounce of prepared Nettle, two ounces of Celandine, stir evenly.”

“Heat for five minutes, until the color changes to… and there is no obvious pungent smell.”

The Witcher’s fingers were deft, his wrists steady. The grinding of herbs, the control of the flame, the timing of the heating, every part was exact. It was as though he had practiced it countless times, each movement sunk into his marrow and carved into instinct.

That was the side effect of the Template. Once something had been mastered and fixed into a Skill, it would never decay, even after decades or centuries.

Two hours later, a sheen of sweat stood on the Witcher’s brow as he handed the Alchemist a tube containing two-thirds full of liquid. Kalkstein pulled out the stopper and sniffed it. “The smell, the color, the measure, this is not merely acceptable. It already counts as excellent.”

The Alchemist gave warm praise. “Roy, I have to say, you do have some talent for alchemy. What you lack is only XP.”

The Witcher’s movements, precise as a surgeon’s knife, efficient and fluid, had left a deep impression on him.

“My teacher Letho taught me well.”

“If this were a few years earlier, before you became a Witcher, I might have considered taking you as a student…” The Alchemist shook his head. “Now, forget it.”

“From here on, I plan to teach you one Potion recipe every two or three days. Today’s is Meditation Potion.” The Alchemist said, “It sits somewhere between an ordinary Potion and a true Potion, and offers some support to the Meditation of both Witchers and Sorcerers… perhaps improving efficiency by twenty percent.”

“Miaow.”

A strange cry from the cat interrupted them. Both men turned.

At some point Sandru had crouched low upon the table, while Griffin had sprawled over Sandru’s nose like an octopus, holding onto the whiskers at either side of its mouth. Its glossy black eyes did not blink as it stared directly into the cat’s face, perfectly still.

“Grrlu…”

“Miaow… miaow…”

The big one and the little one seemed to be carrying on some secret exchange.

“Sandru has smelled the magical energy on the Vodyanoi and is showing friendliness. Leave them be. Back to Alchemy Class.”

Deep night.

In the wasteland beyond Vizima, an abandoned field.

A patch of clover suddenly stirred. Amid a soft rustling, a pair of long pointed ears emerged.

Then an adult gray rabbit hopped out. Its black bead-like eyes swept the surroundings. After confirming there was no threat nearby, it lowered its head into the clover patch and began crunching away at the pale green leaves.

Five yards off, upon a great banyan tree, an eagle-headed, lion-bodied Monster lay in silent wait. Hidden in the shadow away from the moonlight, its body blended with the trunk itself. A pair of deep, dark eyes fixed on the feeding prey.

But it did not rush to attack. It remained utterly still, waiting for its moment.

One second, two, three…

Then, at a certain instant, hooked claws tore into the bark, and the Monster suddenly beat its wings, launching from the banyan and diving down from five yards up.

Whoosh, whoosh.

A terrible shadow swept through the black night sky.

In an instant, the huge body struck the ground. The fierce rush of air flattened the clover patch, and the three hooked talons at the end of its right wing closed like an iron cage, pinning the tiny prey beneath them.

“Well done, Griffin!”

From the farther shrubs, a slender figure came running out. He gave a bright, ringing whistle, and the creature obediently lifted its claw.

Beneath it, the wretched rabbit had been frightened to the utmost. Its body was curled tight against the grass, as if it had fainted. Griffin licked all over it with a crimson tongue, yet even after regaining its freedom, it did not dare run. Fear of a top predator had been carved deep into its blood and bone. It could not resist.

“Guh… guh…”

Griffin turned its glossy black eyes toward the Witcher, full of hunger for flesh and blood. Not long before, it had eaten two field mice clean, yet its belly was nowhere near full.

“Not even half a year old and already a glutton.” Roy gave a little nod.

In the next instant, a string of wet ripping sounds burst through the night. Griffin’s scythe-like claws and sharp beak tore the prey apart with effortless ease. In less than a minute, the lively rabbit had been hacked into pieces and reduced to a heap of bones with scraps of meat still clinging to them.

Griffin stretched its neck and let out a series of satisfied coos, then sprawled in the grass and lazily licked the blood from its claws and feathers.

……

This was already the fourth day of field training, and Griffin had made clear progress in every respect. Its gliding distance in the air had grown from two yards to five. It was still far from sustained flight, but at least it no longer toppled the instant it left the ground.

Its performance as a hunter was even more striking.

Its half-year of caged life had not dulled its wildness in the least. It had perfectly inherited its parents’ predatory instinct. It needed no instruction at all, and was rapidly advancing toward the level of a first-rate hunter.

Roy had watched the whole process from the side. Griffin’s hunting methods were utterly unlike those of ordinary felines. Its body was too conspicuous, its movements too broad, to crouch in grass or brush and spring from hiding. It was closer to an eagle or a vulture, descending from the air and using the massive inertia of its body to punch through prey with tooth and claw.

Or else it would stay low to the ground, gather itself with nearly folded hind legs and a supple spine, then launch forward and hurl itself savagely at the target.

Pin it. Tear it apart.

Though Griffin was not yet half a year old, a single fierce pounce from it could kill an adult man outright. Once its body grew larger, it would become a threat even to a Witcher.

And when it reached full maturity… there was no doubt it would fight beside Roy against difficult Monsters.

“Griffin…” His hand stroked gently over Griffin’s back.

“Guh… guh…”

“You’ve had field mice and rabbit already. Tomorrow we’ll change the fare and try bigger prey, wild dogs, wild boar. What do you say?”

“Guh!”

The Spell Crystal flared with light.

The savage beast vanished. In its place, under the moonlight on the grass, there sat a plump orange cat.

……

In Kalkstein’s laboratory, a delicate crystal lamp on the ceiling cast down soft yellow light.

The Witcher tilted his head back. A high-raised hand gripped a bottle of murky liquid, and as he shook it furiously, the clear glass vessel traced a succession of afterimages in the air. The liquid inside spun and changed color at speed, white to black, black to red, throwing off rainbow-like gleams.

At last, when the Witcher abruptly stilled his hand, the liquid settled into the blue of seawater, beautiful as a work of art.

“This Potion is perfect…” Kalkstein examined the finished product, his eyes full of satisfaction. “Congratulations. You’ve met every goal.”

“That’s it? All finished? Five days, and I’ve mastered three formulas… hard to believe.” Roy thought back on those last few days, the mad rush from dawn till night, and felt oddly bereft. Then he added with gratitude, “Karl, it’s thanks to your careful guidance. Without that, I couldn’t have learned so quickly.”

This Alchemist, unimpressive in appearance and strange in temperament, never cheated when it came to fulfilling an agreement.

Throughout the whole process, he had taught with full care and effort. More often than not, a sentence or two from him went straight to the heart of the matter.

It had spared the Witcher a great deal of wasted effort.

Inside the Template, Alchemy LV1 → LV2. It had risen before Longsword Specialization or Crossbow Mastery, something Roy had never expected.

Perhaps he truly did have a bit of talent for alchemy.

“You’re diligent, gifted, and willing to work hard. Give me a blockhead instead, and not even a god could teach him.” The Alchemist smiled and rubbed the faint bristle on his chin. “The formulas I taught you aren’t especially rare anyway, common wares, no more… Meditation Potion and Virility Potion have some use. As for that last formula, you’ll likely never use it in your life.”

Meditation Potion let Roy attune himself better to the elements, cutting one full round of Meditation from five hours down to four.

Virility Potion restored a little stamina and nourishment, and also had a certain… invigorating effect. Anything tied to that sort of thing never lacked for buyers. Roy intended to try his hand at selling it once he reached the Free City of Novigrad and see whether he could make a little coin.

The last Potion cured coughs and colds. A Witcher, who was largely immune to disease, had little use for it.

……

“I’ve fulfilled my promise. The contract is formally at an end.”

“Karl…” the Witcher said. Compared with Letho, the Alchemist’s teaching style had far less pressure to it. It was easier to breathe under. “Can I still come here to see you from time to time?”

“You’re welcome to come exchange ideas whenever you like.” The Alchemist’s tone shifted, and he stroked his chin seriously. “But if you only mean to ask questions, or study further Alchemy, then you’ll need to pay a price. Equivalent exchange is the most basic principle in scientific research.”

“Understood.”

“I’ve no need of money. If you wish to keep learning, bring me some unique knowledge at the very least… or help me deal with certain troubles. But there’s no need for that at present…”

“Then I’ll look forward to our next cooperation…”

The Witcher shook the Alchemist’s hand one last time.

“Griffin, time to go.” On the worktable behind him, Griffin, still transformed into an orange cat, was sprawled atop the soft belly of the black cat Sandru, its face buried in the fur of Sandru’s stomach, paws kneading away. Sandru, meanwhile, lazily swished its tail and stroked Griffin’s round little back with one lifted paw, the two of them mewling back and forth in perfect accord.

At its master’s summons, Griffin rose reluctantly, then smacked Sandru on the head as a farewell.

“Miaow!”

“Miaow… miaow… miaow!”

The Witcher picked Griffin up by the scruff and stuffed it back into his hood. Even then, the little thing refused to stop, keeping its eyes fixed on Sandru in a lovestruck stare.

“That’s enough. Staring any longer won’t make you birth kittens… You’ve been eating too much these last few days, you’ve visibly gotten fatter.”

Before he left, the Alchemist called after him with one last warning.

“Roy, one last piece of advice from me. A Witcher can’t live without weapons and combat, but don’t spend all your time killing and fighting. And don’t waste it on women’s bellies and alcohol either. You’re this young, with this much potential, your time ought to go into more meaningful alchemical experiments.”

“Thanks for the advice. I’ll give you one in return…” Roy said. “Don’t provoke the Lady of the Lake or Princess Adda.”

“Va faill!”

Kalkstein watched the Witcher go, then took out a quill and notebook and began to write.

“20 August 1261.

When was the last time I wrote down stray thoughts, five years ago, or fifteen?