The next afternoon, the light was gray-white. Mist drifting from the Pontar River shrouded the sky over La Valette Barony. The air was damp, carrying the briny stink of fish and waterweed.

The Sea Scorpion’s Enigma members, the elven lady Aveline and Kantila of Zerrikania, left the Baron’s Castle under the escort of an officer.

Their hair was wet, clearly washed not long ago. The sour reek of long unwashed bodies had been swept away. The heavy shackles on their feet had been removed, and their filthy, greasy prison clothes had been changed for clean, tidy garments.

They looked entirely renewed.

“You two little whores got lucky. The young master woke in time, and the lord doesn’t mean to bother with you anymore.” Officer Dillon shoved the two women from behind, his mouth full of filth. “Now take your things and get out. Leave the barony within three days. Go wherever you like, but remember not to come back. Otherwise what waits for you won’t be the dungeon, but two coffins.”

“Did you eat dung for lunch? Your mouth stinks worse than shit.” The black-haired Witcher walked out from behind a nearby tower, dark-gold pupils flashing with a fierce light. His fingers cracked one after another. “Now take those disgusting claws away from the two ladies. They’re no longer prisoners for you to torture and humiliate. Touch them again, and I swear you’ll be a pile of rotten meat.”

The officer’s face turned blue and red at once, like a mouthful of food had lodged in his throat. He bared his teeth, but the thought of that ghostly, terrifying experience last time made his face change again, and he swallowed the anger alive. He did not dare answer with half a word.

Across from him, the unruly Zerrikanian woman saw this and suddenly stuck her tongue out at him, then made a vicious throat-slitting gesture.

……

“Aveline, Kantila, how does freedom feel?”

Roy watched the officer return to the castle, smiling cheerfully as he walked shoulder to shoulder beside the two women.

“Knew you wouldn’t abandon us. You’ve got honor!” Kantila hooked an arm around the Witcher’s shoulder with fiery enthusiasm, pressing her full body against him. “You caught the real culprit and cleared our names, didn’t you? The baroness even gave us a large compensation.”

Roy nodded. He understood well enough that the so-called true culprit was only the Devil Hym he had fabricated to settle the matter. Master Mirror’s affair was far too bizarre and would never convince the old baron.

The Sea Scorpion’s Enigma probably would not believe such a story either.

“Right, where’s Frozz?” Roy looked around and confirmed that only the two women were present. Frozz the Jester, the last member of The Sea Scorpion’s Enigma, was nowhere to be seen.

“Frozz…” Kantila suddenly lowered her head, and the smile vanished from her face.

A trace of grief crossed Aveline’s eyes. She said nothing.

Only then did the Witcher notice the three linen sacks placed behind the women. His nose twitched.

One corpse sack smelled burnt.

Another gave off a heavy scent of flowers.

The last carried the faint rot of a fresh corpse.

“What’s in them?”

“Frozz’s body.” Kantila sighed heavily. “Last night, when the castle servants told us the true culprit had been caught, Frozz hanged himself.”

“You’re sure it was suicide?” Roy’s expression turned ugly. “Not someone in the castle killing him?”

Aveline shook her head and recalled, “Truth is, he stopped wanting to live long ago. He just didn’t want to die with a false charge on his back. Now that the truth has come out, he went to join Corin.”

The Witcher was stunned. The man he had risked everything for, challenged Master Mirror to save, had killed himself?

“So these two sacks hold Corin and Amos?”

Corin the Fire Breather had also been a member of The Sea Scorpion’s Enigma, but long ago the baron had sentenced him to burning. The Witcher had seen his charred corpse displayed in the square.

And Amos had been buried by that adulterous pair in the flowerbed.

“Yes. We asked for the bodies. Once we leave the city, we’ll bury them together. It’s the last little thing we can do for three old friends.”

The mood grew heavy for a time.

Roy looked at the lifeless linen sacks on the ground. He could faintly make out the warped outlines of the bodies within.

He felt a sliver of pity for Frozz, and a vague anger.

After watching his lover die unjustly, had the man never thought of taking revenge on Baron La Valette, who gave that cruel order?

He would rather end his own life than live on, gather strength, and avenge his lover. No doubt, that was the act of a coward.

Then the Witcher mocked himself with a shake of his head. What right did he have to laugh at this poor man?

Frozz the Jester, a lowly circus performer. What strength could he rely on to take revenge against a noble with power enough to cover the sky?

As one of the countless commoners of Temeria, though treated like grass by the nobles of the realm, those who dared rise and fight with their lives were few in the end.

And those who did resist almost always became bandits and outlaws in the wilds.

……

“This way…” The elven lady led ahead, while the Witcher carried one sack and followed behind with Kantila.

“This isn’t the direction of the tavern. Where are we going?” the Witcher asked curiously.

Aveline did not turn back. She brushed back the short black hair mussed by the wind near her ear and answered beside the point, “Roy, though Frozz is dead, we’ll remember the kindness you showed in running about for The Sea Scorpion’s Enigma and clearing our names. One day, I’ll repay you.”

“I’ll say it again. Friends don’t need repayment. Wait, why one day?”

The Witcher’s lips moved, but the Zerrikanian girl beside him suddenly drew close and linked her arm through his.

“Aveline is right. Dragon’s children repay all debts. You saved me from that sunless dungeon. I owe you a life… Roy, I’m willing to become your left and right hand, to swing my sharp scimitar for you. Of course, I can do many other things too. I promise you’ll be satisfied.”

As she spoke, the Zerrikanian girl suddenly licked her red lips in provocation, stretched out both hands before the Witcher, and turned in a circle, showing the fit, panther-like body beneath her bronze skin. With her high nose, deep-set eyes, full lips, and mysterious tattoos along her cheekbones, she gave off a wild, exotic beauty.

“Though your body isn’t as strong as a child of the Dragon’s, your face is handsome.”

She spoke to the Witcher in all seriousness.

“Roy…” Aveline explained, “Kantila’s homeland lies far east of the Blue Mountains. Her people are fierce in battle and highly skilled in fighting arts. Loyal, reliable, and without exaggeration, every Zerrikanian is an excellent mercenary. Many great merchants and government officials hope to hire a Zerrikanian bodyguard.”

“And?”

“Don’t rush. The most important point is that Zerrikanian customs are simple and honest. Since you saved Kantila’s life, she is willing to become your mercenary without pay, to repay that debt.”

“Aveline missed one point. A daughter of the Dragon is unmatched not only on the battlefield, but elsewhere too.” Kantila thrust out her strong chest confidently, selling herself.

“Er, are we sure this is a bodyguard and hired blade, not a bed-warming concubine?”

Were all Zerrikanian women this bold?

Roy muttered inwardly and avoided Kantila’s highly aggressive gaze. He thought of Borch Three Jackdaws, who had once crossed paths with Geralt. That human-shaped Legendary Golden Dragon always had a pair of Zerrikanian sisters at his side.

The two sisters were not only formidable fighters, certain Skills of theirs were also quite practiced. They had even held a thoroughly enjoyable four-person bathtub sparring match with their master Three Jackdaws and the experienced White Wolf.

“Sorry, Kantila. Witchers don’t need bodyguards or followers…” Roy took a deep breath. He truly could not imagine hiding behind a woman while fighting Drowners and Rotfiends in the wild. What kind of man would that make him?

He shook his head.

“Does the Witcher despise Kantila? Think I’ll become a burden and drag you down?” To prove herself, the Zerrikanian woman undid the buttons of her blouse, revealing a stretch of smooth skin. Only then did Roy discover that below her delicate collarbone crawled a hideous centipede-like scar. Farther down, along the edge of a rounded curve, a green scorpion was tattooed, vivid as life, looking both sensual and dangerous.

“This scar was left when I hunted a venomous scorpion in Zerrikania. That scorpion was bigger than a water buffalo and stronger than a grown man, but I killed it alone, and this tattoo represents my merit. Besides, in recent years while wandering with the troupe, I’ve killed thugs with foul intentions and cunning beasts. Give me a scimitar and a bow or crossbow, and I am absolutely a qualified warrior.”

“Kantila, I’ve never questioned your ability. You’re an excellent warrior, no doubt about it… er, button your clothes first.” Roy turned his head away and said solemnly, “In my eyes, you two are friends who can sit by the fire drinking and talking. But a mercenary and an employer are superior and subordinate. That’s unequal, and unsuitable.”

“I don’t mind what kind of relationship it is.” Kantila suddenly looped her muscular arm around Roy’s. “As far as I know, Witchers often fight dangerous creatures. That’s exactly what I want, to hunt more Monsters, earn more honors, and tattoo beautiful marks on my body. What could be more meaningful?”

As the Zerrikanian girl spoke, her gray pupils seemed to glow.

“But you have better roads ahead. Hear my suggestion, will you?” The Witcher calmly pulled his arm free from the Zerrikanian girl’s hold. He had no wish for a woman to come along and steal his XP.

“Didn’t the baroness compensate you with a sum of money? Why not use that money to rebuild The Sea Scorpion’s Enigma troupe?”

“It’s too late…” Aveline pressed her red lips together, a trace of reluctance on her lovely face. “The members are dead or scattered. Only the two of us remain. We can’t even put together a complete performance. Kantila and I have discussed it. After burying Frozz and the others, we’ll each go our separate ways.”

“Kantila has no other reliable acquaintances in the Northern Kingdoms. If you’re willing to take her in, nothing could be better.”

“That’s something I’ll have to discuss with Letho and the others.” Roy pondered. “But Aveline, you’ve had years of friendship. Why separate so suddenly?”

“My companions won’t mind two more people in the party. Giving you a lift to Novigrad is no problem. The Free City’s trade is extremely developed. Once you’re there, work will not be lacking. And in the next few years… I expect there won’t be too much trouble. Life and entertainment are much richer there than in the barony.”

“Sorry, Roy. I have other plans.” Aveline looked at the sky and sighed, her gaze growing firm. “I’m going home.”

“Home?”

“Aveline comes from the Valley of Flowers and the Blue Mountains, what northerners call the edge of the world,” Kantila explained for her sister. “She should have mentioned it to you.”

Hearing the familiar yet distant place-name, the Witcher rubbed his temples as memories rolled through his mind.

The Valley of Flowers, Dol Blathanna, lay beneath the Blue Mountains, east of Kagen village in Lower Posada, Roy’s homeland.

Centuries ago, the Valley of Flowers had belonged to the elves. After humans landed and occupied it, they turned it into the eastern border of the Kingdom of Aedirn and drove the native Aen Seidhe elves into the Blue Mountains.

Even today, however, the elves often came down from the mountains to make trouble in human fields, steal their farming methods, and seek a way to reclaim the land.

Because of this, humans and elves had struggled for years in the Valley of Flowers, and as the Northern Wars drew nearer, the struggle only intensified.

Speaking of the Valley of Flowers, one person had to be mentioned: Francesca Findabair, the elven sorceress and future queen of the elves.

She was also currently one of the masterminds behind the elven forces in the Valley of Flowers.

……

“Why do you suddenly want to go back?” Roy asked. “Because of Frozz and Corin?”

The elven lady remained silent and suddenly stopped. Her eyes turned straight ahead.

Only then did the Witcher realize they had entered a narrow alley.

Following Aveline’s gaze, he looked over. When his eyes swept the wall at the deepest part of the alley, his dark-gold pupils abruptly narrowed into diamonds.

Four uninvited guests had appeared on the wall.

They crouched steadily atop the man-high wall. The leader was an elf. A faint, almost imperceptible streak of deep blue ran through his black hair. His features were sharp and defined, his eyes large and bright, and he had a pair of pointed ears. He wore tight green padded armor, and a slender longsword hung at his waist.

Roy pressed down on his lightly trembling medallion and quietly tensed his body.

Scry told him all four were elves from the mountains, the most typical kind of ancient race, pure-blooded Aen Seidhe.

“Findabair, I’m sorry. We came late.” The leading Aen Seidhe jumped down from the wall, his eyes moving over the elven lady with concern. “Good. You’re unharmed.”

“After leaving Bretanna for so many years, everyone is still willing to accept me? I…” Aveline’s voice caught. Her eyes reddened, tears glinting in them.

“What young soul has never rebelled? If a few years are enough to see a mistake through to its rotten root, it is not too late.” The elf comforted her. “Everyone still believes in you. The Summit of the Mountains is willing to receive a child who has lost her way and found it again.” The elf stepped closer to Aveline. “The Blue Mountains and the Valley of Flowers will always be your home. We will always be your brothers and sisters.”

……

“Roy, Kantila, let me introduce you.” Aveline’s hand passed over the elves before her one by one. After a moment’s recollection, the strangeness in her eyes quickly faded. “They are my brothers and sisters from the edge of the world, companions I grew up with…”

The edge of the world usually meant the Blue Mountains, which stretched down the eastern side of the entire Northern Realms.

“This is Seil.”

Aveline pointed to the elf who had just spoken with her.

Over a loose green satin shirt he wore a short green vest, with close-fitting wool leggings tucked into riding boots.

The Witcher’s thoughts stirred. He remembered seeing a similar style of dress somewhere.

“This is Vasili…” Aveline pointed to a middle-aged elven woman with long lashes and skin of unusual pallor.

Many circles of leather straps hung around her neck, strung with golden birch strips. In her hand she carried a birch staff carved with intricate patterns.

A faint thread of magic flowed between her slender fingertips and the birch staff. Without question, she was an elven sorcerer.

“This is Toruviel…” An elven girl, petite and holding an old lute, with a somewhat defiant expression. Her hair was black as ink and fell over her shoulders, with two thin braids tied near her temples. She dressed like a bard, though at her waist there was an extra strip of brightly colored cloth hanging down to her knees.

“And this is Kensafa…” A male elf who was holding Vyrt’s and Turnip’s vegetables in both hands and greedily eating them. His face was cold and foul, like a debt collector nursing a belly full of resentment.

After hearing Aveline’s introductions, Roy nodded in greeting to the four, though his gaze subconsciously studied the surroundings.

He was thinking through tactics.

The elves of the Blue Mountains had fought humans for years over ownership of the Valley of Flowers, and they had never been particularly friendly toward humans. If conflict broke out in such a narrow alley, he would be at a severe disadvantage.

He also noticed that all four unfamiliar elves were thin, with sallow faces, as if malnourished. Their physiques were not much better than ordinary humans. But they were experienced, faintly forming a battle array, and each bore, to greater or lesser degree, battlefield Skills such as One-Handed Sword Mastery or bow specialization. Clearly, they often took part in combat.

The other side was also observing the Witcher and Kantila.

The elven girl holding the lute was the first who could not restrain her curiosity. “Sister Findabair… cough, cough… I know this Zerrikanian girl. Kantila, yes? Seems she suffered with you. But who is he?”

“Roy. One of my best friends,” Aveline said.

“You never told everyone we had to bring an ape-man along.” The elven girl stared at the Witcher, then a flicker of doubt suddenly crossed her bright black eyes. “No. He looks familiar…”

“Familiar how?” asked the cold-faced elven man, biting off a large mouthful of carrot.

“His ears. The shape of his face. Look carefully!”

The elven girl plucked the lute strings in a disorderly way, then tried calling to the Witcher, “Que glosse? Quel’ en pavienn ell’ ea?”

“Nell’ ea.” Roy immediately answered in fluent Elder Speech. “T’en pavienn Aen Seidhe.”

“I knew it, friends, see…” Toruviel turned to the gluttonous elf. “This ape-man speaks the mother tongue! Cough, cough. He’s Aen Seidhe! No wonder I didn’t smell the stink most humans carry.”

“Ape-man? Is that how pure-blooded Aen Seidhe see humans?” The Witcher found the description a little amusing. He could already clearly sense the elven girl’s attitude softening, because of that shared thread of elven blood.

“Roy, was it? You don’t look old, but your body’s strong enough. Better than most of the sickly men in the mountains. Home needs vigorous young men like you. Come back to the Blue Mountains with us.”

“Enough, Toruviel. Don’t be absurd.” Seil’s gaze swept over the Witcher’s dark-gold pupils and the medallion at his neck. “This gentleman cannot possibly come with us. Can’t you see? He is a Witcher who cast off his identity as a Son of the Hill and chose the road of mutation instead. You expect a Witcher to stand with us against humans?”

“A Witcher. A human lapdog who works for coin?” Toruviel immediately pouted. Remembering something unpleasant, she lost all interest in Roy.

“Please don’t say that…” Aveline hastily explained. “I owe Roy my life. He got me out of the dungeon. Otherwise I wouldn’t have lived long enough to wait for you.”

“A Witcher saved an Aen Seidhe…” The four elves exchanged astonished looks.

Seil paused, then bowed to the Witcher. “Friend Roy, I apologize for my offensive words just now. You saved Findabair. That makes you a friend of the Sons of the Hill. You are welcome to visit the edge of the world, Dol Blathanna. You need only give my name to our kin. But this time, we are pressed for time…”

Seil turned to Aveline. “Lord Filavandrel is still waiting for you on the summit. If there is nothing else, we should set out.”

The elven lady nodded. She turned to face the Witcher and her Zerrikanian companion, her eyes complicated, as though preparing some solemn farewell ritual.

“Not so fast, all of you.” The Witcher suddenly interrupted. “I’m curious. How did you contact Aveline from the Valley of Flowers, thousands of miles away?”

For the past month, The Sea Scorpion’s Enigma had been under strict guard by the barony’s soldiers. By rights, they had no chance at all to contact the elves of the Valley of Flowers.

“I’ll explain for Findabair.” Seil stepped forward. “She carved her name on the pyre in the square, in our mother tongue. One of our people happened to see the mark and sent word back to the Blue Mountains.”

“Your people?”

“You don’t think all elves are holed up in the mountains, do you?” Seil smiled confidently. “There are Aen Seidhe brothers and sisters all over the world, and there will be more and more.”

“So you mean to take Aveline back to Bretanna?” Roy’s questioning tone carried dissatisfaction, displeasure, and opposition.

“That’s right. Is there a problem, Witcher?” Toruviel seemed unable to bear the Witcher’s dawdling attitude. She said impatiently, “And I spoke well of you just now. Are you trying to stop a Son of the Hill from returning to her homeland?”

“Toruviel, patience. So, Master Roy, what is your advice? Findabair should not go back?”

“You’re right.” The Witcher swept his eyes over the four elves and took a step forward. “Returning to Dol Blathanna is absolutely not the right choice.”

“Why do you say that? You must give me an explanation, Roy.” Aveline asked, looking at the Witcher, her lovely face drawn tight.

Roy took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and weighed his words for a moment, arranging his thoughts.

By now, he finally understood why Seil’s clothing gave him such a strange sense of familiarity.

The green color all over the Aen Seidhe was clearly the color of the infamous organization that would later be known as the Scoia’tael. They, too, had been exploited, oppressed, and driven into the Blue Mountains by the humans of Aedirn. Compared with the true Scoia’tael, they lacked only the squirrel-pelt adornments.

But it also reminded the Witcher that Dol Blathanna was one of the Scoia’tael’s strongholds.

If Aveline followed them back, there was no doubt she might join the Scoia’tael later. When the southern empire sounded its horn northward, she would inevitably shed blood on the battlefield beside her kin.

And what end did most Scoia’tael meet in the Northern Wars?

Because of the bargain between Francesca and the Nilfgaardian emperor Emhyr, the Scoia’tael, who had originally resisted the brutal exploitation of nonhumans, changed their methods. Countless elves and dwarves formed commando bands, attacked the armies of the Northern Kingdoms, and even swung their blades without mercy at human civilians.

But in the end, they were betrayed by the very queen they had served and handed over to Emhyr. Emhyr then bound most of the Scoia’tael officers and delivered them to the Northern Kingdoms to secure a truce.

The Scoia’tael were pitiful, and hateful.

In the end, not even a third of them would survive until Francesca reclaimed the Valley of Flowers and established a living territory for the elves.

He did not want to watch an old friend leap into a pit of fire, but these matters of the future could not be spoken aloud.

“Look at them. So thin there’s no oil or color left in their faces.” The Witcher chose another way to say it. “If I’m not wrong, your four friends live hard lives in Dol Blathanna. At the very least, they don’t have enough food to fill their bellies.”

The four elves suddenly fell silent.

Kensafa, who had been greedily chewing vegetables, opened his mouth and stopped chewing.

The Witcher was right. The environment of the Blue Mountains was not kind to elves. Food was scarce. Most Aen Seidhe could not eat their fill, and they had no human talent for farming.

Roy continued.

“The Valley of Flowers is firmly occupied by humans. The elves can only hide in the Blue Mountains. But grain does not grow on high ridges, and your proud elven king Filavandrel refuses to trade with humans for food. If Aveline goes back, she’ll certainly go hungry and have to face the torment of the harsh mountain environment. If illness comes…”

The Witcher spoke at length, doing his utmost to paint a bleak future before Aveline. “Elves live long lives. You will survive for a long time in endless loneliness, watching your kin dwindle, grow weaker, and suffer more and more.”

“In the end, only some young elves with ancient eyes and utter despair will remain, and sick, haggard women like Toruviel.”

“Cough, cough!” Toruviel, named by the Witcher, coughed at an ill-timed moment, then held her breath until her face flushed red.

“Lady, for the sake of that shared thread of Bloodline, let me give you a warning.” Roy said sincerely. “Your breath is full of the scent of tuberculosis. If you don’t get treated soon, you won’t live long, and you’ll infect more of your companions.”

“Not only that. Besides tuberculosis, in the starving Blue Mountains, anemia and scurvy may see you buried as well.”

Roy spoke with conviction. “So, Aveline, I advise you to think carefully again. In a human city, your life may not match that of wealthy merchants or those in power, but having enough to eat and seeing a healer will be no problem.”

“Enough, Witcher. Shut your mouth!” The elf sorceress carrying the birch staff suddenly shouted. Her staff abruptly pointed at Roy. His heart jumped, and by instinct he nearly unleashed a group Intimidate followed by a beheading stroke.

Then he suddenly remembered that these people were Aveline’s friends.

He had cut down several Scoia’tael in Mahakam, but now there was a thread of elven blood in him, and he could not yet call them enemies.

“Fine. For Aveline’s sake.”

So he stopped the counterattack and let a transparent hand cover his mouth, leaving him temporarily speechless.

“Witcher, where did you learn all this?” Seil signaled Vasili with his eyes, and only then did she release the magic with a sulky expression.

“The White Wolf Geralt, and Dandelion. They made a trip to the edge of the world, and I happened to hear them discuss that unpleasant journey.” Roy glanced at Toruviel, who was staring blankly, apparently still caught on “tuberculosis.” “That old lute in your hand was taken from Dandelion, wasn’t it?”

“It wasn’t taken! Cough… cough…” Toruviel struggled to retort. “I gave him a new lute in exchange!”

“Dandelion, eh? A truly loose-tongued bard. We should have left him hanging in the field to dry into a corpse.” Seil sighed. “Roy, your words are hard to hear. Life in the Blue Mountains is indeed poor. But it will not last too long. When His Majesty reclaims the fertile land of the Valley of Flowers, all suffering will end.”

“And you think Findabair knows nothing of these basic conditions? That such words can influence her decision? You’re thinking too simply.”

“Roy,” Aveline then spoke, looking at the Witcher with complicated eyes. “Thank you for your concern and advice. But I’m sorry. Seil spoke what was in my heart. The Valley of Flowers is my homeland. The Blue Mountains are where I grew up. I lived there for decades, so naturally I know everything about it. When I left, it was not because life was too poor. It was only because I disliked my people’s extreme attitude toward humans.”

Aveline’s soft, beautiful face flashed with determination.

“But now I have changed my mind. During the time I was locked in the dungeon, I thought for a long while and saw many things clearly.”

“Why did The Sea Scorpion’s Enigma fall to this state?” Aveline’s lovely face tightened, and swollen red rims appeared around her eyes. “We only wanted to earn an honest living, yet the baron seized us. By day, he had us bound in the square, letting the commoners of his demesne curse us, insult us, and spit on us with malice. By night, we were thrown into the dungeon, starved, and tortured by that executioner Dillon.”

“We were innocent from beginning to end. And Baron La Valette, even after he clearly understood his own mistake, only hypocritically had someone send us a sack of Oren, then drove us away like rats. He would not even leave a word of comfort or apology.”

Aveline shook her head lightly, her face full of mockery.

“Roy, I truly cannot go on living in such a deformed place. As long as human nobles exist, on this land, Aen Seidhe, Zerrikanians, other nonhuman races, and even human commoners will never gain freedom or respect.”

“Besides, Noa me kend, ias heat wouda difrrent.”

“When I thought I would die in the dungeon, the last thought in my mind was that I had to return to the Blue Mountains, to my homeland, to stand with countless kin and fight for the freedom and dignity of the Aen Seidhe.”

“Can you understand my choice?”

Roy sighed. With things said to this point, what else could he advise? Persuade a pure-blooded Aen Seidhe to turn her back on her homeland and her people?

“I understand, Aveline… sister. Take care of yourself from now on. As for Dillon the executioner, I’ll deal with him.”

“Leave the chance for revenge to me. Once things are done, Kantila will come find you tomorrow. And lastly…”

In words gentle yet firm, Aveline drew a deep breath, hurried forward, rose on tiptoe, lifted her pointed chin, and kissed him lightly.

Black-red strands brushed his cheek. A warm breath touched the corner of the Witcher’s mouth and vanished.

The elven lady gazed deeply at him with beautiful eyes, carrying a trace of longing and reluctance, as if she meant to carve herself into his heart.

“Don’t forget me.”

As the words fell, that graceful figure vanished completely with her Aen Seidhe companions, the three corpse sacks, and Kantila into the alley.

What was that, a parting gift?

Roy touched the corner of his mouth. For one instant, his expression held a faint melancholy. The elven lady who moved with such graceful dance steps had, because of his interference, stepped fully onto an unknown path of fate.

Returning to the edge of the world, soon joining the Scoia’tael, then shedding blood in the Northern Wars?

His only hope was that they would not meet again on a battlefield.

……

“Findabair, the baron gave you a sum… compensation?” Seil looked at the dense flow of pedestrians on the street after leaving the alley and spoke haltingly.

“I understand what you mean.” Aveline gathered her hair and said calmly, “The brothers and sisters in the mountains are all starving. Naturally, all that money will be donated and changed into supplies to bring back. But before that, we must bury three old friends, and then…”

Aveline glanced at Kantila. The latter’s eyes lit up, and a vicious look appeared on her face. “That beast in the dungeon entertained us for over a month. Time to repay him.”

“Handle Baron La Valette along the way?” Kensafa set down the carrot and made a throat-slitting gesture.

“Killing a noble at this point, on such a sensitive border between two kingdoms, may disrupt His Majesty’s arrangements and expose us early… Findabair, shall we settle that dog of a baron next time?” Seil looked toward the towering castle and gritted his teeth.

“It won’t be long. Not only him. All humans will repent in blood and fire, with their lives!”

The night lay cold and clear.

Outside the Witcher’s hut.

Moonlight washed over the blade, silver and hard, while two figures moved without a sound, circling, testing, striking.

Veins stood out along both hands as they gripped the Gwyhyr. Roy held the sword angled at his waist, like a plow biting into soil, the tip leveled at the hooded Witcher’s throat. His feet rooted in a steady T-stance, posture locked in Ochs, he drifted sideways with measured control.

Orin bent slightly at the waist. His left hand held the blade forward, tip aimed at his opponent’s eyes; his right reversed the grip, drawing the edge inward. His steps were light, toes barely touching the ground as he followed Roy’s rhythm.

“Bang, bang, bang!”

They crashed together.

A storm of rapid strikes, too fast for the eye to follow.

Sparks cascaded like a waterfall. Steel flashed in the moonlight, ringing again and again, dozens of collisions in the span of a breath.

Then they broke apart.

They faced each other once more across the space.

The Gwyhyr rose from Roy’s hip to the side of his face, like a bull lowering its horns, shifting with his steps, always aligned with the target, ready to charge.

But the hand that held it trembled.

Too much exertion. Roy’s chest heaved, sweat steamed from his body, soaking his collar and hair.

A bead of sweat slid down from his chin.

Drip.

Across from him, the hooded Witcher drew a rough breath, then suddenly let both swords drop, bracing himself on their hilts like a pair of canes. The easy grin he usually wore had vanished. The exchange had shattered his Quen Sign; a lock of hair at his temple was gone.

“The old makes way for the new. So the day finally comes… Witcher Roy, from this moment on, the title of Viper School swordsmanship champion belongs to you.” Orin tilted his head, narrowed his amber eyes. His expression held a trace of regret, and something sly beneath it. His steel sword tapped the air three times, as if an emperor knighting a warrior.

“What are you even doing?” the Viper School apprentice rolled his eyes, spun a neat flourish, then sheathed his blade. He sounded half amused, half irritated. “I’ve lost to you ten thousand times. Winning once by luck, what’s there to celebrate?”

“You don’t understand. I, an eighty-year-old Witcher, actually lost focus in a fight. First time in thirty years. It’s a disgrace.” Orin pulled his hood down, hiding the embarrassment and shame on his face. “If Kael hears about this, he’ll laugh himself sick.”

“Relax, I’ll keep it quiet.” Roy’s lips curved faintly as he suppressed a smile. Then he probed, “Still, your state just now… you lost focus?”

“No idea what’s wrong tonight. My eyes blurred, maybe floaters? Kept seeing some damn red wraiths. Ruined my flawless swordsmanship… barely swung a few times before my muscles started aching.” Orin rubbed his sore arm, his face turning grave as he muttered to himself. “Drank too much with that Griffin this afternoon, maybe?”

“Red wraiths. Tell me properly.” Something stirred in Roy’s mind.

“Long, trailing things,” the hooded Witcher spread his hands, moving them in a slow, undulating rhythm, mimicking something swimming through water. “Like octopus tentacles. Blood red. They kept flickering behind you, along your longsword… damned if I know what they were. Every time I saw them, bad memories flooded up, couldn’t stop it.”

As he spoke, those amber eyes shifted, suspicious, toward Roy’s dark-gold pupils.

“What are you staring at me for?”

“That phenomenon… could it be whatever’s in that castle is still clinging to you?”

“No chance. You’re just not sober yet.”

Roy brushed it off with a single line.

Red tentacles? So that was how others saw the so-called Willpower of slaughter.

But why tentacles? I’m not some damned evil god.

The thought sat strangely in his mind. He let it go for now, turning instead to the memory of the spar.

Compared to Intimidate, a mass hold every four minutes, suppression was constant, but far gentler in effect.

Within ten minutes, it barely did anything. But once the fight dragged past that mark, something began to shift.

Using Orin as reference, the signs were clear. Faster exhaustion, sweat pouring, heart racing, focus slipping.

At twenty minutes, quantity became quality. Orin’s strength and reaction dropped by at least a third, and he began losing focus in the strangest way.

Roy seized that moment, and for the first time ever, won a spar against the man who had beaten him countless times.

He did not feel like laughing.

A twenty-minute bout. More than thirty consecutive losses before he clawed back a single win.

In a real duel, he would have died a hundred times over. There would be no waiting for suppression to take hold.

“Once Willpower goes above ten… against weaker opponents, suppression should take effect much faster.” It was the only consolation he could give himself.

“Listen, give me ten minutes to rest, sober up a bit, then we go again?” Orin dropped cross-legged, preparing to enter meditation.

Roy smiled apologetically. He could not let the man easily see through his suppression-based swordplay.

“How about we change it up later? Try the hand crossbow. You said you could swat bolts out of the air.”

“Then I’ll show you how a seasoned Witcher, a veteran of the school, deals with crossbowmen.” Orin grinned, deep lines carving across his brow.

…

Ten minutes later.

After serving as a living target, the hooded Witcher leaned against the stable, staring up at the night sky. His expression turned increasingly complex, as if he were beginning to suspect that the old seizures left behind by the Trial of the Grasses decades ago were returning.

“Have I entered old age ahead of time? Hah. I should drink less.”

Roy wiped down his crossbow, thoughtful.

After several upgrades, Gabriel, under Crossbow Mastery activation, could break Orin’s Quen shield in two consecutive shots. With the homing effect of the guided bolts, even Orin’s extraordinary agility could hardly evade them.

Add in the stunning effect of Stunning Arrow, and whether Orin deflected the bolts with his Viper School silver sword or repelled them with Quen, he would fall into a 0.1-second stun.

A mere tenth of a second, yet enough to shatter his rhythm entirely, creating a bizarre deadlock.

In the yard, twenty yards apart, Roy used Gabriel to completely suppress the older Viper School Witcher, forcing him into constant defense, leaving him no chance to counter.

Of course, once the eight Stunning Arrows were spent, things would look very different. So…

Roy glanced at Orin, still lamenting to himself, and slipped back into the hut before the man could react.

……

The next morning.

Gentle sunlight gilded the statue of Clive, Father of the Sky. The deity, eyes wide with wrath, solemn and imposing, pointed unmoving toward a corner of the circular plaza, as though summoning thunder to strike down impurity.

A dense crowd of La Valette townsfolk surrounded a raised platform.

Four pyres stood upon it. One of the Sea Scorpion’s Enigma had once been bound there and burned alive. Today, another body had been added.

The corpse was in a horrific state.

A pyre thicker than a man’s thigh pierced straight through him, the blackened tip emerging from his mouth, tearing apart most of his swollen face.

His eyes bulged wide, his features twisted in unspeakable terror. Cuts from blades and bruises from blunt strikes covered his neck, arms, every patch of exposed skin. He had clearly been tortured before death.

From afar, he looked like a roasted fowl skewered on a stick.

“Oh, gods. What is happening to La Valette lately? Such dreadful incidents, one after another.” A bloated woman gasped, muttering a prayer under her breath. “Lord Clive, open your eyes, stop this wicked slaughter, protect your most devout cultists.”

Her voice was quickly swallowed by the rising clamor.

“This isn’t coincidence. Look at that death, it’s deliberate. I smell the Devil. A sacrifice ritual. The Devil will kill again, summon horrors. Run, all of you!” A foul-smelling vagrant shouted in panic.

“Shut up, idiot. This is divine punishment. Don’t you recognize him? Executioner Dillon. How many innocents did he torture? Countless souls died under his hands. He got what he deserved.”

……

“Let’s go, Kantila…”

Roy tore his gaze from the corpse and pushed his way out of the boiling crowd.

“Roy, you don’t know what he did to us this past month. He deserved it.” Kantila stared at the body with satisfaction, though a trace of regret lingered in her tone. “I only hate that he died too quickly. He should have felt more of our pain and despair.”

“I understand. You did nothing wrong. With what Dillon did, a quick death was too kind.” Roy said it, yet could not help feeling a measure of reflection.

The elven woman had changed. Only by shedding softness, by hardening herself into stone, becoming ruthless, could she survive in Dol Blathanna, where humans and elves warred without end.

“She must have gone home through the portal…”

……

Roy brought Kantila back to the Witcher’s hut.

He had introduced the woman from Zerrikania to his companions the day before. Agile, skilled with bow and horse, unburdened by the fragility or fussiness common to many women, she was easygoing, open, able to strike up a conversation with anyone.

She did not mind their sensitive identities, nor their ragged appearance.

No one objected. They would give her a ride as far as Novigrad.

Before their departure, a familiar face came calling, the witch doctor Cecile. He offered a contract to travel to Fyke Island in Velen, to perform a Night Rite before ancestral spirits.

But their relationship with the Ladies of the Wood was openly hostile. Until they were certain they could eliminate them, none of them would set foot in Velen again, nor provoke the Three Hags. They declined.

Roy did offer advice. Try Vizima. If Berengar was still there, he might take the contract.

Or contact the alchemist Kalkstein. The man with the Frankenstein’s Monster reputation, nimble hands, wild mind, formidable power, might well be interested.

Once that was settled.

That very afternoon, five Witchers, a boy, and a woman, mounted five horses, crossed the reopened White Bridge north of La Valette Castle, and passed smoothly through the mist-veiled Pontar River.

They left the Barony of La Valette. Left Temeria. Entered Redania.

A single river apart, two entirely different worlds.

Redania, a land rich in commerce and agriculture, known as the granary of the North. Wheat dominated most regions.

The Witchers had barely set foot on the far bank before the view opened, merchant wagons ahead, laden with goods, and on both sides, endless fields of green.

October. Harvest season.

When the wind stirred, the fields rippled like a golden sea, waves rolling one after another, carrying the scent of grain, clear and soothing, a fine beginning to an uncertain road.

……

“Easy, lady, have a little restraint. You’re squeezing the breath out of me.” Roy sat astride the brown horse Vyrt, one hand on the reins, the other gently stroking the smooth head of the owl-cat form of the Griffin resting in his saddlebag. “The road’s blocked ahead. Vyrt’s just walking. Relax, you won’t fall…”

“Heh… don’t play tricks, Roy.” Kantila laughed, her strong arms tightening further, pressing her full chest firmly against his back, warmth and youth unmistakable. “You’re the one who should relax. You’re stiff as a tree. And I’m holding your waist, not your neck. How could you be short of breath?”

Her laughter rang clear. “As a mercenary, I must stay close to protect my employer at all times.”

Having grown familiar with them, the Zerrikanian woman had taken to crude jokes, and seemed to enjoy watching others fluster.

Roy shook his head, helpless.

Zerrikanian women, bold as ever.

“Kantila, I told you, don’t call yourself a mercenary. That insults our friendship… right, Vyrt, Griffin?”

“Neigh—”

“Hoot—”

“Kid, stop struggling. A young man should enjoy himself.” The bald Letho rode up on a chestnut stallion, glanced at Kantila’s distinctive mohawk, and for once gave the apprentice a wink.

As far as he was concerned, so long as it wasn’t some scheming sorceress, the apprentice could do as he pleased.

“Don’t worry, Roy, we’ll keep your secret.” Orin suddenly pulled on the reins, raised his fingers in a pinching gesture. “As long as I have enough coin to drink comfortably, I won’t gossip. Otherwise, if my mouth and stomach aren’t satisfied, I might let something slip in front of Lytta Neyd. Take it from experience, a sorceress’s anger is no small thing.”

“What nonsense are you talking about?” Roy shot him a look, utterly unbothered.

“Who’s Lytta Neyd?” Kantila asked, curious.

“That’s enough.” Kael cut in, eyes on the road ahead. A long line of wagons stretched before a checkpoint, awaiting inspection.

They fell silent.

The checkpoint was built from two rows of massive logs bristling with spikes. A dozen heavily armed soldiers stood behind the barricade, armor bearing the crest of Redania, a blood-red field with a silver eagle clutching an evil spirit, wings spread wide. A small black shield with a golden cross rested upon its chest.

The soldiers were serious, disciplined, archers, shieldmen, pikemen, even a cavalryman among them. Redania’s rich wheat fed fine horses, and its knights were formidable for it.

The caravans submitted to inspection.

The Witchers were no exception.

The only annoyance was the delay. The White Bridge had been closed for a time, and goods had piled up.

Still, the journey remained uneventful.

In fact, this was already the third checkpoint they had encountered within half a day.

The location was sensitive. Two days northeast lay Tretogor, Redania’s capital. Three days northwest, the river delta where the Pontar met the sea, near the famed Oxenfurt Academy. Beyond that, not far, their destination, the Free City of Novigrad.

Borderland, crossroads of cities. Naturally, it was thick with checkpoints and patrols.

To catch spies and criminals.

And to collect taxes.

The trade route from the White Bridge to Novigrad was well established, safe, efficient, the preferred path for most caravans.

The checkpoints ensured safety, and levied taxes based on cargo value.

The rates were not high. Even after multiple levies, the cost remained acceptable.

Those who refused would have to take the wilds, where beasts, nekker packs, and roaming bandits waited.

Bad luck meant ruin, and death.

The Witchers were fortunate. They carried little of value. Their weapons were packed away by Roy and Letho. A small toll was all they paid.

……

Inspection. Travel. The first day in Redania passed quietly.

At sunset, orange light spread across the horizon. Some caravans set camp by the fields, keeping safe distance between one another.

A few pressed on through the dark, but they were the minority. Night in the wild was far more dangerous.

The Witchers chose a weathered boulder by the roadside. Horses were tied to a dead tree. Bedding was a simple layer of dry grass and ferns beneath the stone.

They built a fire.

“Whistle, whistle.” Orin called out, eyes flicking meaningfully to the empty pot above the flames.

“Orin, trying to slack off again? Tonight you hunt. Or go hungry.”

“Hah. Next time I see Lytta Neyd…”

“Enough.” Roy sighed, glancing at the others.

Flavius was instructing Karl one on one.

The boy wobbled like a roly-poly, struck again and again by the wooden sword, spinning in place, dazed and lost.

Who am I. Where am I. What am I doing.

Kael and Letho leaned nearby, offering commentary, utterly ignoring Roy’s murderous gaze.

Roy let out a long breath, took up his crossbow, and headed into the wild with the owl-cat Griffin.

In that form, it was excellent at hunting rabbits.

“Roy, take me with you.” Kantila stepped forward eagerly.

“Your wounds aren’t healed.”

“It’s fine. A child of Zerrikania can hunt even half paralyzed. Let’s see who catches more.”

……

The moon rose. Fires flickered. Smoke curled from camps.

Roy returned with two plump white rabbits, a cauliflower snake thick as a forearm, and several unassuming plants.

“See? Not worse than you.” Kantila came up behind him, lifting two brightly colored pheasants with a grin.

Roy nodded. “Help me. Tonight, we feast.”

Plucking, skinning, deboning, gutting. Long years in the wild had honed his skill.

And Orin and Letho’s laziness had done its part.

With Scry, Roy could easily find herbs and spices, fennel, clove, cardamom.

His cooking far surpassed most Witchers who cooked only to fill their bellies.

……

“Mmm.” Letho bit into a golden, crackling rabbit leg, fat dripping, spices and salt sunk deep into the meat. His eyes narrowed in satisfaction.

“Roy, roast boar tomorrow. Been too long.”

Orin took a spoon of snake stew, meat soft, melting, leaving a faint sweetness.

“So good I might swallow my tongue.”

“Not boar again. Next time, roast marmot. Chewier.” Flavius stuffed a dripping piece of chicken into the apprentice’s hand. The boy looked at his bulging stomach in despair, then forced himself to eat.

Kantila hugged half a roast chicken, eating with abandon, licking oil from her fingers like a cat. “Since leaving Zerrikania, this is the finest roast I’ve had.”

“Then eat more.”

Roy, arms crossed, watched the scene, a quiet sense of satisfaction settling in him.

When would Witchers of all six schools gather, share a grand feast?

“Kantila, what’s Zerrikania really like?” Roy sipped warm snake broth.

“Nothing like here.” She swallowed, then spoke simply. “Desert everywhere. Oases, sometimes. Giant poisonous insects. Countless dangerous, beautiful creatures. Our people worship dragons most of all. Spend their lives chasing them. Me too.”

The people of the North called the Blue Mountains the edge of the world. Few dared cross them. Fewer still reached Zerrikania.

Roy had always been curious.

“One day, I’ll see it.”

“If you’re interested, I’ll guide you.” Kantila licked her lips, eyes bright. “Take you across Zerrikania.”

“You mean it?”

“Of course. Children of the Dragon keep their word.”

……

“Oi.” Orin tossed aside a stripped pheasant bone, gnawing on a charred tail. “Watch yourselves. We’ve got an audience. Leave Zerrikania and dragons aside. Let’s talk business.”

He belched. “In a few days we’ll reach the Pontar delta. Want to visit Oxenfurt?”

“Why not?” Kael said. “One of the world’s two great centers of learning. We’ve seen the Imperial Academy. Time we saw Oxenfurt.”

“Master, I want to go.” Karl clung to Flavius’s leg, eyes shining.

“How many children dream of entering Oxenfurt,” Flavius muttered.

“Then we go.” Roy agreed. “They have medicine, herbalism, alchemy. Might be useful.”

He also had an acquaintance there. Professor Linus Pitt, who had bought a young kraken from him on the Yaruga. He wondered if the man had managed to keep the longarm octopus alive.

And Dandelion, Shani. Even Geralt had studied there.

Such a place could not be passed by.

In the early morning, Roy, seated cross-legged, opened his eyes. Within his dark-gold pupils, a brilliant prismatic shimmer of elemental light flickered and vanished.

He raised the index finger of his right hand and gave a slight curl. Moisture gathered swiftly in the air, condensing into a droplet no larger than a fingernail. It hovered, circling at his will, drifting with idle grace.

A moment later, the droplet collapsed. In its place, a small orange flame sprang into being, lively, dancing, then fading. A faint breeze followed, snuffing it out, brushing across the ground and stirring up a lump of damp clay.

Earth, water, fire, wind, the Four Elements. Four trivial tricks of magic, displayed one by one in Roy’s hand.

Since Meditation reached level six, his Elemental Affinity had deepened again. Outwardly, his control over the elements had sharpened, his Signs flowed more smoothly.

Inwardly, the change lay within the void of Meditation itself.

When he entered Meditation, beyond the kaleidoscope of Elemental Particles, Roy could now perceive four immense, hazy spheres of light, hanging in a distant sky, endlessly inhaling and exhaling Chaotic Energy.

According to Letho, those four spheres were the planes of the Four Elements, realms where Dao, Djinn, Marid, and Efreet dwelled.

The deeper one’s Meditation, the stronger one’s Elemental Affinity, the closer the connection to those planes, the clearer the perception.

It was said that true masters of magic could, through Meditation, commune with the elemental planes, employ rare techniques to capture and tame the four great Genies, and wield immense power through them.

Of course, such unfathomable arts had nothing to do with Roy. At present, he still lagged behind even a Sorcerer Apprentice, able only to rely on repeated, complete cycles of Meditation to restore stamina and magic, and to replenish his daily share of “Activation.”

A typical Witcher required decades of steady Meditation to reach level six. Letho, Orin and his brother, Flavius, they were all roughly at that level.

Roy had leapt across that long grind with Skill Points. What was there to complain about?

So long as he continued to refine Meditation and his Enhanced Elder Blood, the day would come when he could cast magic at will.

With that quiet certainty, the black-haired Witcher stretched, letting his body loosen. His gaze drifted past the horizon, where dawn traced the delicate outline of a town.

Oxenfurt, close now.

…

Under bright sunlight, a breeze swept in from the southern river delta, carrying the briny scent of the sea.

To the crisp rhythm of hooves, several travel-worn knights rode slowly along a muddy, crowded street, taking in Oxenfurt’s curious streetscape.

How to put it. A town of painted timber, vivid in color, yet far smaller than its famed reputation suggested. The streets were narrow, the buildings compact and neat, their roofs rising into sharp peaks.

More populous than an ordinary town.

Small, yet complete.

They rode on, passing dense rows of workshops, studios, stalls, and shops of every size.

Countless goods were produced and sold here, from mundane necessities to peculiar designs rarely seen elsewhere, born of the strange inspirations of Oxenfurt’s students and scholars.

Some were astonishing in function. Others were utterly useless. Yet there was never a shortage of speculative merchants or customers from across the world.

Those drawn here in turn fed fresh blood and vitality back into the town. There was no doubt, every aspect of Oxenfurt depended on the Academy.

The Academy nurtured the keenest minds in the world. Clever people, more often than not, knew how to enjoy themselves.

Beyond the dull clamor of workshops, Oxenfurt offered a riot of inns, taverns, viewing stands, booths, counters, and portable grills.

Everywhere, exquisite dishes filled the tables, rich in color, scent, and taste. Not only the ingredients, but even the seasonings, garnishes, and spices were rare in the wider world.

Only those who lived in Oxenfurt could partake of it regularly.

Knowledge sharpened the mind, and lent it a certain… romance.

The Witcher reined his horse aside, carefully avoiding a few staggering drunks weaving across the street. Bare-chested, clad only in white shorts, their young faces flushed red, they recited poetry in broken fragments. Likely students from Oxenfurt’s academy of narrative verse and poetry.

From the taverns lining the street came the clink of goblets and tankards. Through the windows, patrons raised their drinks, offering amused mockery to the students outside.

The group, lacking much taste for such arts, clicked their tongues and pressed on toward the Academy Isle.

They passed through the strolling crowd and entered a place even louder.

Peddlers, stall-keepers, and charlatans shouted their wares and services, layering chaos upon chaos.

“Groundhog, roasted groundhog! Crisp outside, tender within, one bite and you’re hooked!”

“Incense spray! Cures rotten, stinking feet, one use and you’ll smell sweeter than roses!”

“Cats! Male cats, female cats, orange cats! Pay by the minute, vent your stress stroking them, cheap, very cheap!”

“What do you mean by cheap?” Roy asked, chewing on a skewer of grilled squid tough as leather, meeting the gaze of a tabby cat.

A thin strand of Chaotic Energy coiled faintly around the kitten.

“Two coins a minute!”

“Grr—”

The Griffin tucked beneath his hood tugged at the back of his head in jealous protest. Roy sighed and urged Vyrt onward.

They passed a barber shop, an ocarina store, and a brothel named “Rosebud,” draped in dark red curtains. Little Karl craned his neck curiously toward it, and the Witcher promptly led the group away, dismounting and taking the reins as they approached a bridge and, beyond it, the Philosopher’s Gate, the main entrance to Oxenfurt Academy.

They met trouble at the gate. Two burly guards, cudgels in hand, stepped in front of them.

“Apologies,” one said, eyeing Letho’s bald head, his stature, and the beast-like pupils among them, swallowing before continuing, “outsiders must make reservations three days in advance to enter the Academy. You cannot go in now.”

“Isn’t there a visitor log?” Roy asked. “We sign our names, that not enough?”

“Apologies.”

The Witchers had not realized that the journey from White Bridge to Oxenfurt had taken three hard days. In their haste, they had neglected even basic hygiene. Men and women alike had grown disheveled, unkempt.

The veteran Witchers were worse, fierce in appearance, with rough stubble, greasy hair, and the stench of sweat clinging to them.

They were hardly more presentable than beggars sleeping in the street.

“No room for flexibility?”

“Apologies.”

“A pity,” Orin sighed.

“Perhaps we make a reservation,” Flavius suggested, glancing at his pleading disciple. “Three days’ delay should not matter?”

“No need for that.” Roy turned to the guard. “I know a teacher at Oxenfurt.”

“Who?”

“Master and lecturer in natural history, Linus Pitt. Can we enter?”

“Please wait. I will confirm.”

“Kid, since when do you know a teacher at Oxenfurt Academy?” Letho asked, arms crossed, brows raised.

“Remember when I left Cintra for a while, back on the Yaruga.”

On that journey, the Witcher had met the White Wolf and escorted Ciri out of Brokilon.

…

Five minutes later, the plump guard returned at a trot, followed by a man in a loose gray satin coat, thin as a reed.

“Master Pitt, long time no see!” Roy waved.

The man did not answer at once. He stepped close, almost nose to nose, stared for a full three seconds, then slapped his forehead. “Master Roy, is that you? Forgive my rudeness. My eyesight is not what it should be.”

Linus Pitt glanced over the group, over several Lethos.

“What brings you to Oxenfurt, Master?”

“We have long wished to see the Academy. Passing through Oxenfurt, we thought to have a look. They are all my companions.”

“Welcome, all of you!” Linus squinted, his eyes narrowed to slits by severe myopia, yet he moved among the Witchers with warmth, shaking hands one by one, unfazed by their smell. “It happens to be a rest day. Allow me to play host, and to thank Master Roy for his sound advice last time.” He cast a look at the guard.

The man hurried off at once to lead the Witchers’ horses to the stables.

Roy adjusted the hood at the back of his head, settling the Griffin more comfortably, then followed Linus Pitt through the Philosopher’s Gate, offering brief introductions of his companions.

“Master Pitt, that advice you mentioned, what was it?”

“About the Kraken, or rather, what we now call the Longarm Octopus, and its transport. When we met in Nastrog, you suggested I seek help from a sorcerer in Cidaris, Dorregaray.”

“You two must have had plenty to discuss,” the Witcher said with a faint smile.

“Just as you said, Master Roy,” Pitt replied with admiration. “Dorregaray is an extraordinary man. His understanding of wildlife and natural law is profound. We struck it off at once. We spoke through the entire night, and by morning he opened a portal to Oxenfurt for me, sending both myself and the octopus back to the Academy.”

“And your Longarm Octopus, how fares it now? Still alive?”

“You will see soon enough,” the scholar said, a hint of mystery in his tone. He caught the unguarded curiosity on their faces and lifted his chin with quiet pride. “Now then, allow me to introduce you to the great Oxenfurt Academy.”

The party strolled along the path behind the Philosopher’s Gate.

The world beyond the gate was utterly different from a town built of ordinary buildings. It was nothing like the outside, where every inch of land was fought over like coin on a gaming table.

Everything was laid out with delicate, distinctive care. It was as if they had stepped back several centuries, walking through a hidden enclave cut off from the world.

“Most of Oxenfurt Academy’s buildings still preserve the look they had under elven rule. Have you heard that part of history? Like Vizima, Oxenfurt is a city built atop elven ruins.”

Roy nodded and looked around. They had entered a broad alley paved with colored gravel. On either side stood pleasing little palaces, openwork fences, walls, hedges, canals, bridges, flowerbeds, and green parks. Only in a few places rose large, rough mansions, clearly built after the elves had left.

Everything looked clean, peaceful, and solemn.

There were none of the noisy, calculating merchants and peddlers from outside.

Students gathered in twos and threes between the alleys, reading thick books and parchment manuscripts with grave concentration. Others sat on lawns, benches, and among flowerbeds, discussing holiday assignments or playing little games of wit like “Who Is the Murderer.”

Professors of the Academy also wandered nearby, chatting earnestly or arguing with proper scholarly decorum.

“That is Professor Rinde of the Faculty of Innovative Technologies…” Linus’s withered finger pointed toward a middle-aged man with a Mediterranean hairline and deep nasolabial folds.

“Opposite him is Professor Kausk of the Faculty of Applied Archaeology…” The archaeology professor seemed to have worked day and night until all his hair had fallen out, leaving him with a bare shining scalp. His clothing was especially plain, even shabby, standing out sharply from the well-kept teachers and students around him.

Roy considered that silently.

“Walking on the lawn is Lecturer Lotte Leitman from the Seminary…” Linus paused, his face suddenly turning awkward.

Roy followed his gaze. The handsome lecturer, around forty, was staring without blinking at the curve of a female student’s waist and hips. The girl held an oil-painting board, her skin snow-white, her features delicate.

“Ahem, ahem. He is probably considering the bodily proportions for a statue of the goddess Melitele. Forget it, let’s not speak of that bastard.”

The scholar led the Witchers swiftly through maze-like hedges and alleys. They passed a tall, square building beside a canal, and a rich smell drifted over, hydrogen sulfide, alum, and quicklime mingled together.

“The alchemy department’s teaching building. They conduct a great many experiments every day, studying all manner of chemical reactions.” Linus Pitt glanced at the distinctive building. “The place is filled with foul, stinging odors. It has severely damaged the air quality of Academy Island, and may even be harming the health of teachers and students.”

The bald Letho twitched his nose and shook his head. As an expert in alchemy, he held the opposite view. “Not enough to harm one’s health.”

Then he rubbed his chin and said with interest, “Judging only from the smell of the materials, their alchemy differs greatly from our school’s. If there is a chance, I must speak with the teachers and students there.”

“They are work madmen. They almost never leave that building, so meeting them is difficult.” The scholar looked worried. “But if the masters do manage to speak with them, perhaps help me ask what exactly they are tinkering with? I have always feared that one day, with a bang, Academy Island will be blown to pieces.”

Everyone smiled and left the alchemy department behind. They passed the mansion housing the departments of medicine and herbalism, where the alley leading to the teaching building was crowded with female students in distinctive pale-green cloaks.

A little girl in the crowd, perhaps around ten, with dark-red hair cut to her ears, caught Roy’s attention. She had a slightly upturned nose and a pair of lively hazel eyes. Slim of build, she walked with her hands behind her back, humming a nursery rhyme with an easy air, the tune bright and lilting.

Shani

Age: 11

Gender: Female

Identity: First-Year Student, Oxenfurt Academy of Medicine

“Shani, only eleven… At this point in time, she is already at Oxenfurt Medical Academy. A little genius, just as expected.” Roy suddenly remembered that this world had no brutal ladder of primary, middle, and high school entrance examinations like the one before. It used an entirely different system for selecting students.

For a famous university like Oxenfurt, the first standard for admission was money. The costly tuition drove away ninety-nine out of a hundred aspiring students. Those lucky few with extraordinary talent were a different matter.

He considered whether to go over and greet this future great physician, Geralt’s close confidante.

“Who is Shani?” Kantila heard the Witcher’s mutter, her large gray eyes full of inquiry.

“Oh, I mistook her for someone else.” Roy looked away and brushed it off, setting the matter aside for now.

Nearby, Kael suddenly cut in. “Mr. Linus Pitt, I have always been curious. Which department is Oxenfurt Academy most famous for? The Nilfgaardian Imperial Academy, for instance, is best known for military theory.”

“Well…” The scholar pinched the few sparse whiskers on his chin, a trace of nostalgia passing through his eyes. “Several decades ago, the natural history department I belonged to was the most famous…”

“Then came the Faculty of Narrative Poetry and Poetics, the medical academy… In recent years…”

The scholar’s face suddenly turned unpleasant. “In recent years, the most popular faculty has been the Faculty of Espionage and Applied Sabotage.”

“A place that produces warmongers and spymasters?” Kael raised a brow.

“You have heard of it as well? It is a semi-independent faculty, established specially by our King Vizimir II.”

Linus Pitt sighed. “He has corrupted Oxenfurt Academy’s pure scholarly atmosphere with the stench of coin and power.”

Roy listened thoughtfully. As far as he knew, several years later, during the Third Northern War, everyone at Oxenfurt Academy, except the useless teachers and students of the philosophy department, would be conscripted by Radovid into the battlefield.

“It is like mixing a stinking dead rat and flies into a pot of fine stew.” The scholar cursed the air viciously, then hunched his shoulders. “Masters, you will not report me to Vizimir II, will you?”

“First, we would have to meet His Majesty, the king of Redania, buried beneath state affairs.”

……

“Medicine, alchemy, technology, poetry, the Seminary… Where next?” The party left the busiest part of the academy and continued toward a quiet, empty corner.

“Next is the finest part.” Linus Pitt’s small black eyes lit up. “I intend to take you to where I work. Aside from the longarm octopus, you will see many rare species.”

“Mr. Pitt, do you study Redanian history? In the historical archives?” the little boy asked, standing on tiptoe.

“Little girl, I do not study the history of nations, but natural history, the evolution of the natural ecosystem from the Conjunction of the Spheres to the present.” The scholar patted the boy’s head and explained patiently.

Flavius removed his sunglasses and reminded him solemnly, “Professor Pitt, Karl is a boy.”

“Oh. My apologies. Quite a handsome child.”

“Natural history. Can you be more specific?” The boy’s face reddened. He tilted his head, puzzled. “What use does that work have?”