“I have no national feeling for Temeria, my lord count.”

Lannor kept the honorifics intact, which made a fine contrast with the way he had one hand clamped over the count’s face and was dragging him along like a dead dog.

“So whether you truly spent yourself for this country, endured disgrace for its sake, suffered in noble silence and all that, I do not care in the least.”

The count’s pampered body thrashed with all its strength. His twisting feet tore loose the neat stones of the expensive cobbled path and sent them scattering, but none of it slowed Lannor by so much as a breath.

Through the gaps between Lannor’s fingers, Stessa’s eyes seemed to recognize where this road led. Count Stessa began to shriek.

“What are you doing? Where are you taking me? Fuck you, mutant filth, you… nghaa!”

His scream broke under the sudden tightening of the hand over his face.

“Where?”

Lannor asked it back.

The road had reached its end. The estate gate loomed before him, four meters high, solid timber banded in iron, ten centimeters thick.

On ordinary days, opening it took two warriors pushing with all their strength.

Now Lannor lifted the inner bar, pressed the count’s head against the iron-bound timber, and said, “Truth is, I thought what you said made sense. A man ought to honor a contract. So in this game…”

“You are about to step out of bounds.”

Seen through Lannor’s fingers, Stessa’s eyes bulged as if they meant to burst from their sockets.

“No! You cannot do this! I have not crossed, I have not… agh!”

Lannor pushed the gate open with one hand. The hinges groaned, and the human scream rose above the sound, sharp enough to scrape bone.

He could feel the roughly spherical structure under his palm trembling at the edge of fracture, much like Count Stessa’s mind.

The gate opened by slow inches. The scream climbed with it.

At last, when the gap revealed a thin blade of lamplight from outside, Lannor gave the verdict without a change in expression.

“Now you are officially out of bounds.”

“Son of a bitch.”

The arm clamped over Stessa’s face drew back a little. Then, after the briefest gathering of force, Lannor drove the man’s head into the gate.

Thud.

It felt like a ripe melon smashed against stone.

The richly dressed body hung in Lannor’s grip, twitching only with the last scraps of nerve signal.

With that mess still braced in one hand, Lannor pushed the estate gate open.

Beyond it, nearly a hundred constables stood with torches raised, staring at the witcher who had walked out of the famous estate.

The constabulary commander felt certain he would have to go before Melitele tomorrow and offer a prayer.

From the moment he saw fire rising from Stessa’s estate, his heart had been hammering as if it meant to leap out of his ribs.

Who in Vizima did not know the count and the king were at each other’s throats?

But who could have imagined they would start fighting inside the city?

The shadow of political conflict hung over every commoner’s head. The commander was not quite a commoner, not with several hundred constables under his hand, but compared to the man inside that estate, he was only a bigger insect under their boot.

He had begged his way through lord after lord until the news finally reached the ears of the Mayor of Vizima. Then came the order, written on a slip of paper and stamped with a personal seal: proceed at once, investigate the cause of the fire, and calm the situation.

The commander had stared at that slip and wrung every drop of political wisdom from his life trying to read the veins beneath it.

But if he had possessed that sort of talent, he would hardly have spent his years rotting in the post of constabulary commander.

Caution first. He took fewer than a hundred men and set off for Stessa’s estate.

In his mind, anyone bold enough to move against the count had to be His Majesty the king. Who else in all Temeria had the bloodline, the law of succession, and the strength?

The mayor was the king’s man. If he had ordered the commander to “calm the situation,” then most likely the count had already been dealt with.

He was only there to clean the floor afterward.

Bring too many men, and the attackers might think he had come to reinforce the count. Being killed on the spot would be mercy. If things went badly, even his family’s noble standing might be dragged into it.

So fewer men was better. Enough to clean properly, not enough to look like a rescue party. Nearly a hundred was just right.

The deputy commander of the constabulary was one of the count’s men, and before setting out, the commander had already stripped him of his post and taken only his own trusted people.

So although he had accepted plenty of the count’s favors in ordinary times, the larger matter had clearly been decided. Naturally, he would stand on the side of justice, which was to say, the side that won.

The commander silently praised his own excellent judgment.

Then he reached the estate gate and discovered that the scene was not quite what he had imagined.

Normally, anyone with even a little battlefield sense would know at a glance how hard Count Stessa’s estate would be to storm. An assault would require a force of at least a thousand.

But when the commander arrived, all he heard from inside the estate were screams, cries, and bursts of fire.

Where were the attackers?

Outside the estate, there was not the smallest trace of resistance.

If Count Stessa were so easy to deal with, what right had he ever had to stand against the king?

The commander was not the only one confused. His men were no better.

“C, commander!”

The commander was still hesitating, unsure whether he should go up and call at the gate, since the screams inside had already fallen into dead silence. Whatever had happened, it seemed finished.

Behind him, one of his men tugged at the edge of his plate armor.

The commander turned back in irritation, then followed the man’s tight, frightened stare down to the ground.

His eyes went wide. He jerked his foot up as if bitten.

The motion made a wet splash.

Blood had risen high enough to cover the soles of his boots.

Blood seeping from beneath the estate gate.

His movement drew the attention of the men behind him. They saw the blood underfoot.

The estate stood in the brightest part of the trade quarter, but the constables felt as if they had been set down in the Temple Quarter at midnight.

Shadow seemed to be eating the light. In that darkness, some monster, seen or unseen, was already starving.

The formation began to stir and fray.

The sight before them fit none of their common sense.

Then, amid that strained unrest, the estate gate gave a dull thud.

It swung open.

A tall, powerful figure stepped out alone, dragging something in one hand.

A man?

“You came for him?”

The figure with glowing eyes walked calmly toward the constables, boots splashing through the blood.

With a toss of his hand, the thing in rich clothing rolled like a sack of rotten mud to the constabulary commander’s feet.

One lifeless eye, squeezed half out of its socket, stared straight up at him.

“You here to clean the floor,” the man asked, tilting his head, “or to reinforce him?”

Then the hand that had thrown the corpse reached for the hilt on his back.

The commander stared down for a long moment before he realized this was the all-powerful Count Stessa.

Instinct snapped through him. His hand went for his sword, and he was about to order his men forward.

Before his fingers touched the hilt, four hands seized his arms from both sides and pinned them tight.

Two of his men leaned close, stammering into his ears in the voices of frightened children.

“C, commander! He is alone... alone!”

On any ordinary day, those words would have been followed by, “No need to fear. We take him together.”

Today, even a fool knew that was not what the soldier meant.

The commander looked at the two soldiers beside him. He tried to pull his arms free, but they did not move.

He glanced back. Nearly a hundred soldiers stared at him with resistance and raw, helpless fear in their eyes.

All of it, every face, every clenched jaw, every pale knuckle, was because of the one man standing opposite them.

Each of them knew what kind of place that estate was. They knew how heavily it was guarded, how much steel and trained muscle stood inside its walls.

And because of that, the man who had killed his way out of it was more terrifying than a living dragon.

The men inside that estate, all together, could have butchered seven or eight dragons without breathing hard.

The commander was now certain that even if his men had to knock him senseless on the spot, they would not let him say anything mad here.

Nearly a hundred men behind him still wanted to see tomorrow’s sun.

Lannor slowly lowered the hand that had gone toward his sword. He had read the situation well enough.

These were pawns pushed forward in the confusion to see what had happened.

In the night and torchlight, the witcher turned his head slightly and looked to one side.

The commander, facing him, followed his gaze.

A red-haired beauty in tight leather was walking toward them from the distance. Her face was grave, her fingers clenched tight at her sides.

When she was still more than twenty meters from the two opposing sides, Triss raised her voice and declared her identity.

“I am the royal advisor, Triss Merigold! I will take charge of tonight’s incident!”

She did not say whose order she had come under, only who she was.

Royal advisors usually held the power to execute orders and offer counsel, rarely to issue commands on their own. On any ordinary day, the commander would have noticed that flaw at once and pressed her on it.

Now, with the situation far beyond anything he had expected, he accepted her command as naturally as taking breath.

Once he accepted command from her, the largest blame would no longer fall on his head.

“Thank the gods, my lady, thank the gods! We blind flies have finally found someone with sense!”

This time the commander shook free of his men’s grip with ease, stepped forward, and bowed deeply to the royal advisor.

The sorceress ignored him, giving only a slight nod. Then she looked at the blood spilling from the estate, swallowed hard, and walked straight to Lannor.

“You… you killed Count Stessa…”

“He is dead. There.”

Lannor tipped his chin slightly toward the count’s corpse.

Compared with the unease plain on Triss’s face, Lannor was calm.

After all, he had just smashed that noble lord’s head into an oval.

Triss pressed her lips together until she confirmed that the ruined face truly belonged to the count who had once held such monstrous power. Even then, disbelief crawled over her features.

A man who could cough twice and make Temeria shake had died like this?

She rose from beside the corpse, drew a deep breath, and ordered the commander, “No one enters. You will also make certain no one else enters. Preserve the scene. Is that understood?”

“As you command!”

The commander received the order as if it were a Scroll of Dispel. Relief broke through his voice as he answered loudly.

Then he ordered his nearly hundred men to spread out around the estate walls in a loose cordon.

It was not much use in practice, but the attitude was proper enough.

Once the constabulary had been dismissed, Triss took Lannor by the hand and hurried him away. From the outside, it looked like she wanted a quiet place to discuss secrets.

In truth…

“I will open a portal, to the same place outside Vizima where you arrived last time. Leave, Lannor. Not Aretuza, not anywhere in Temeria. Leave Temeria entirely!”

Triss gripped his hand. The tingling thrill of touching him rolled through her like rising water, but a situation that might cost heads could drown any desire.

“I thought you truly came under orders.”

Lannor asked without changing expression.

“Orders? One of the greatest nobles in this country, second only to the king in weight, was visited in one night by a lone witcher and slaughtered like a dog. Who could have expected that? Who has the nerve to issue orders while the king is away? I will tell you the truth, the court is in complete chaos!”

“Then from the sound of it, you took too great a risk coming here, Triss.”

“Yes. I think so too.”

Triss turned sharply and looked at Lannor’s calm face. Anger rose in her from some place she had not meant to touch.

“For you, for a witcher I have known less than a week, I have involved myself in Stessa’s sudden death without orders, without a clear situation, without any safety at all!”

“I am a sorceress. My magic gives me standing. I could have watched all this coldly from the side. None of it needed to touch me. Whether Foltest wins everything or Stessa takes the throne, they would still need a royal advisor!”

“But now… now…”

She stopped. Her anger tightened, then cracked.

“I am sorry, Lannor. I know why I came. My own conscience drove me here. I hate slavery. I could not stand aside and watch. But when I see you, I still cannot stop myself from taking some of that anger out on you. Even knowing that, even knowing I should not blame you if I lose everything over this, I cannot stop.”

Facing Triss’s anger, Lannor pressed his lips together and nodded.

“Your position and power were hard won. I understand that kind of feeling… mm!”

He had not finished when Triss’s beautiful, furious eyes were suddenly close enough to fill his sight.

As if she meant to bite him hard enough to hurt, her lips pressed against his.

Perhaps because of her anger, Triss was far stronger than usual. She was the one who pulled Lannor’s head tight, and she was the one who shoved it away.

“Hah. Since you understand, then get out of Vizima. Leave Temeria, you walking disaster!”

Lannor was still tasting the fierce sweetness of his first kiss when Triss pushed him away.

She spread both hands, and a portal opened in the air.

Beyond it lay Dark Water.

“Before you go, tell me, Lannor. Did you find the children?”

Triss maintained the portal spell as she asked, her voice stern.

At that, Lannor’s expression sobered.

“They are in the estate cellar, along with a witcher who was dragged into this. I did not bring them out on the spot. You can take them into royal custody.”

When she heard the children had not yet been sent south, Triss lowered her head and let out a breath.

But after hearing his suggestion, she gave a bitter smile.

“I have already taken an enormous risk tonight. Do you have any idea how much trouble you have caused? Those children, and that witcher, may…”

“Just do it, Triss.”

Before Triss could lay out her worries, Lannor cut her off with an easy voice.

The sorceress stared at him, uncertain and suspicious, as he turned toward the portal.

“Wait. Do you know something?”

“A deduction.” Lannor’s back raised one finger. “A reasonable deduction, based on the present facts.”

Before the sorceress could demand what that cryptic answer meant, Lannor asked one more question.

“After something like this, when will Foltest return?”

“Probably… by portal. Tomorrow noon.”

“Faster than expected, but not a bad thing. When the king returns, you can tell him directly that we are friends, Triss.”

Triss was utterly lost, but there was no time left to ask. She could only watch Lannor step through the portal.

That night, no one in Vizima slept.

Temeria’s political heart had been struck by a tidal wave because of Lannor’s slaughter the night before.

But across Lake Vizima, in Dark Water, the greatest news of the day was still, “How did the fellow who set out for Vizima yesterday noon suddenly turn up in the village by nightfall?”

The villagers did not yet know what he had done last night. They did not know what kind of storm those deeds would bring upon the kingdom in the days to come.

For common folk, this world’s flow of information was still medieval to the bone.

Magic was a luxury.

Lannor had not fled Temeria overnight as Triss had told him to.

Truth be told, after meeting so many sorceresses, he had been left deeply impressed by the political ambition of those peerless women, and by their political… dullness.

History had been the subject that interested Lannor most.

When Stessa told him last night that once he died, his subordinates would hunt Lannor to claim the legitimacy of leading his organization, Lannor’s first thought had been Toyotomi Hideyoshi’s campaign against Akechi Mitsuhide.

It was not that Lannor was obsessed with foreign history. Once one had read enough of one’s own country’s history, foreign history always carried a freshness born of a different angle.

So whenever Lannor grew tired of studying history, he would dig up some interesting period from another country’s past for amusement.

During Japan’s Sengoku period, when Oda Nobunaga was only a few steps from ending the chaos, his retainer Akechi Mitsuhide struck at his lord’s residence and killed both Oda Nobunaga and his eldest son.

The vast Oda clan fell into chaos in an instant, and everyone understood the same thing at once.

Whoever punished Akechi Mitsuhide would gain the most legitimate claim to inherit the Oda clan.

Toyotomi Hideyoshi carried out that punishment, and later, at the Kiyosu Conference where power was redistributed, he successfully inherited a large piece of the Oda clan’s legacy.

It became one of the ladders by which he climbed to the summit of power.

Stessa’s argument had indeed resembled that situation.

If Lannor had still been nothing more than a university student reading for interest, Stessa might have frightened him easily.

After all, there was historical precedent.

But within the memories carried by the Gene-seed, the Emperor’s Children were all-rounders, warriors who could cut down bolt rounds with swords and also take part in planetary governance.

Practice and knowledge, joined with Mentos’s projections, made Stessa’s argument look crude enough to be a joke.

The time required to find the flaw in its logic was zero point five three seconds.

The premise that allowed the Oda clan to strike at Akechi Mitsuhide was that Oda Nobunaga had already become the great demon pressing down on the whole Sengoku world.

Before his death, his forces had beaten his enemies into a miserable, suffocating state.

Because of that, after he died, his retainers, who had been attacking on multiple fronts, could disengage from the battlefields where they stood with little difficulty and turn back against Akechi Mitsuhide.

But Stessa’s subordinates?

Were their circumstances better than Oda Nobunaga’s retainers?

Temeria was currently a stable kingdom. If those people could still live comfortably under Foltest’s pressure, then something was wrong with the kingdom.

Once Count Stessa, their highest banner, was gone, the Nilfgaardian faction would undoubtedly split into several pieces.

Foltest would laugh himself sick.

His enemy’s strength would be scattered, but not so thoroughly that it could no longer be suppressed.

Could there be anything more ideal?

Would he stand by and watch those splintered Nilfgaardian factions recombine by chasing down one witcher?

Unless he was a fool, impossible.

Whether judging by the enemy’s objective capacity or their subjective calculations, Lannor did not think he was in any real danger.

At worst, there would be bounties and assassinations. But again, did he look like a man afraid of assassins?

Without relying on luck or chance, Lannor had seen through the predicament of the Nilfgaardian faction Stessa had commanded by using his own learning.

So now, he was sitting at a table in the village tavern with Arya, leisurely sharing a stewed fish.

“So when you said I had to stay alone for a few days, you meant less than two?”

Arya pinched her nose and forced down a bottle of Coldbane potion Lannor had given her before taking up her fork and starting on the fish.

Lannor raised his brows slightly. Now that his wish had been fulfilled, he felt light from head to toe.

After one night, even his expression looked fresher, brighter, younger.

As if he had not yet come to this cruel world.

“How was I supposed to know that bastard had not strengthened his defenses at all? A single estate, against what I am now…”

Lannor shrugged helplessly.

“Without any famous knight or warrior inside, it was not much of a problem.”

“That much is true.” Arya deadpanned. “Who would believe there is a witcher who can cut his way from upstairs to downstairs and kill two hundred men in a single night? Even a butcher would need three or four days to kill two hundred pigs, and his knife hand would need half a month to recover. Even knightly novels do not go that far these days.”

“You read knightly novels? What sort of plots are fashionable in them now?”

“The hero usually beds two hundred noble ladies.”

“…Read less of that, Arya. I mean it for your own good.”

As they spoke, Lannor’s eyes suddenly shifted toward the tavern wall, though his mouth kept answering Arya.

“Keep eating, or go back to the room. Someone is here.”

The little girl trusted Lannor’s fighting strength even more than he did. Hearing that, she did not even lift her head and kept picking at the fish.

“Guest? Enemy?”

“Ninety-nine percent guest. I am mainly worried you might not be used to him. He is a king, after all.”

“Ha! I have seen more kings than you have!”

Arya had far more spirit when bickering with Lannor than when she needed to be cautious.

Lannor curled his lip. Yes, she had seen one, and he was about to see one.

Without a sound, the faint bustle outside the tavern died away.

The first through the door were several powerfully built warriors in full armor. On the breastplates of their plate harness, the white lily of Temeria was clean and clear.

The moment they entered, their wary, startled eyes locked onto Lannor.

Not one of them dared move his gaze from the sword on Lannor’s back, not even for a second.

“That will do, gentlemen. Judging by the record, even with shields in hand, you would not live ten seconds before him.”

A deep middle-aged voice came from the doorway. From the sound of it, the speaker was still walking in without the slightest pause.

Rounding the corner, the lord of Temeria strode straight toward Lannor.

He was a handsome, upright middle-aged man, dressed in something between court attire and leather armor. The outer layer was ornate and intricate, yet through the gaps one could see cured leather and mail. His gloves and boots were made for fighting.

Upon the chainmail coif rested a noble crown.

The man did not slow his pace. He seemed perfectly at ease in a peasant tavern.

Ignoring the looks on his guards’ faces, looks that suggested their hearts were trying to leap out of their chests, he walked right up to Lannor’s table.

Then he swung a leg over and sat beside Arya, sharing the long bench with the little girl.

“I hope my face does not give you the urge to hammer it with your fist, witcher.”

Arya had spoken lightly before, but now she shrank into herself as if her skin no longer fit.

Lannor first smiled at the little girl, then turned to answer.

“My anger and killing intent were emptied yesterday. Though your face does resemble that dog-bred bastard’s.”

“Blood will do that. It disgusts me sometimes too, but there it is.”

Foltest looked the smiling witcher up and down.

“Good. You look unexpectedly calm.”

“My actions gave you the wrong impression? Made you think I was a reckless brute?”

Lannor smiled as he asked the king.

Foltest shook his head without avoiding the question.

“You did not take Merigold’s advice and flee Temeria without stopping. That alone proves you are dangerously clever. But hot blood can still cloud the head. After all, you smashed my cousin’s skull for the sake of a few peasant children. That says enough.”

“Bring us something to drink, Roche. My throat’s drying out.”

Foltest called without looking back. Behind him, a man in his twenties or thirties turned naturally toward the tavern counter. A moment later he set two cups of Kaedwen Black Ale before Foltest and Lannor.

The man kept his jaw tight and his eyes narrowed. A ragged cloth cap sat on his head, and there was nothing remarkable about his face. What set him apart from the rest was that when he came close to Lannor, no unusual emotion crossed him.

Whether that came from excellent self-control or from a heart broad enough to make light of everything, it was a fine quality either way.

Not everyone could stand before a creature that had slaughtered more than two hundred elite warriors alone and keep his legs from trembling.

After serving the drinks, Roche returned to his place without a word.

“He is a fine warrior, isn’t he?”

Foltest took a deep swallow, then nodded toward Roche behind him and smiled at Lannor.

“Son of a whore. Rolled in the gutters, fought like a dog, then I dug him out and raised him into what he is now. For that alone, I had my cousin’s corpse burned on the spot. He did not deserve to lie in state under Melitele’s gaze.”

Lannor nodded lightly.

A king who could discover and cultivate a young man born into such misery had more than an eye for talent. He also had eyes that could look down into the mud where common folk lived.

His stance on the slave trade case needed no asking.

“Have you settled the children?”

Compared with a lump of dead meat, Lannor cared more about the living.

Foltest had handled the matter first after burning his cousin’s corpse.

“They will be cared for, then contact will be made with their families so they can return home.”

“I suppose you will not merely send them home. They are useful weapons against Stessa’s reputation.”

“Of course I need them to deal with what remains of Stessa’s reputation. At the same time, the more famous those children become, the safer they are. That is a victory for both sides.”

Across the table, the two men clinked cups with a mutual understanding.

“Now, let us speak of you.”

Foltest set down his ale and snapped his fingers behind him. Roche again stepped forward, this time carrying a heavy-looking pouch to the table.

“Five thousand orens, along with the plate fittings you removed in Vizima and that good horse of yours. Payment for cutting through a slave-trading chain. Personally, I would also like to reward you for smashing my cousin’s head, but that would provoke his remnants too fiercely. Regrettable.”

Arya, sitting at the table, swiftly wrapped both arms around the pouch Roche handed over.

It was heavy. Arya was delighted.

Heavy enough to make even Wolf’s Blood smile.

“That is already a great deal. I heard the bounty for lifting the princess’s curse was only three thousand orens.”

Lannor nodded. The impulse to do good came from his own conscience, but if good work also brought a satisfying reward afterward, why complain?

Seeing Lannor accept the money, Foltest nodded.

“You asked about the children, but not about Merigold?”

“She is a royal advisor who protected royal interests during the incident. I have no reason to worry about her.”

Lannor’s noncommittal answer made Foltest shake his head despite himself.

“I was not talking about safety. You should have seen her today. Full of fire.”

Foltest gave a low laugh.

“This is likely the closest she has ever stood to the thing called power. Officials and nobles who are usually polite and distant crowded her with questions about last night, circling again and again toward her miraculous friend, which is to say, you. Before today, she had no idea those dignitaries possessed such vast reach.”

“That kind of reach normally never shows itself before a sorceress. But now, because of you, they not only displayed those complicated domains to my advisor with open hands, they could hardly wait for Merigold to reach into their spheres of power and take something. Because she has a friend like you, everything she sees has suddenly grown friendly.”

“Power and wealth are aphrodisiac elixirs, Lannor. I will wager that if you appeared before Merigold now, neither of you would leave the bed for a week.”

Lannor pressed his lips to his cup.

Damn. Feudal kings had seen things.

Could such a thing really go on for a week?

Were sorceresses monsters?

Lannor, whose true self was still merely a young man, felt the tips of his ears grow warm.

But after the dirty joke, Foltest’s tone turned grave.

“A warrior who can force his way into the best-guarded estate of the highest order and kill one of the kingdom’s top power-holders. Your appearance has shaken Temeria’s upper ranks beyond imagination, Lannor.”

“Do you know what they call you?”

As Foltest’s voice grew serious, Lannor’s relaxed expression quieted as well.

“They call you the Hunter Lord.”

The king’s voice was low, as if speaking of a figure from some distant tale.

The little girl sitting beside the king could not help letting out a soft “Wow.”

Everyone at the table turned to stare at her. Arya quickly covered her mouth.

“The Hunter Lord…” Lannor clicked his tongue. “That title is far too childish. Too much like something from a knightly novel.”

Lannor’s dislike did not change the king’s attitude.

“The style of the name does not matter. What matters is their attitude toward you.”

“Some fear you because you kill nobles without restraint. Others think they can use your hand to remove their enemies. When a means that breaks the rules of the game first appears, it is natural that everyone tries to seize it, use it, or twist it. But as king, I cannot allow the situation to keep worsening.”

Lannor could imagine how Vizima’s great men now regarded him.

Fear and shock were there, of course, but before the benefits he might bring, what were those worth?

There would always be those who wanted to use him. After all, he was strong, but he could not know everything.

Fabricate a few crimes against one’s rivals, vile enough to anger men and gods alike, then let the rumor leak into the streets. Could he really investigate every detail?

And a warrior strong beyond common sense would bring deterrence, yes, but also the stink of blood.

Society needed the threat of blood to keep order, but not too much of it.

That was what Foltest could not accept.

Lannor nodded in understanding.

“I solved a problem for you, and you paid me. I will assume our relationship is, for the moment… acceptable?”

The witcher looked at the king in question.

Foltest nodded openly.

“Mutual benefit. We may call each other friends, Lannor. Everyone wants to be friends with a hero who saved slaves, especially when that hero looks as if he stepped out of a story.”

“I will take that as praise. So what can I do to end this disorder?”

“Simple.”

Foltest pointed toward Vizima.

“I hope you will not appear in Vizima again. If you need my help, you may pass word through Merigold. But you yourself should truly stay away from Vizima.”

Vizima was Temeria’s political heart. For dignitaries and officials, staying far from the political center was as good as cutting oneself off from power.

Most of those who wanted to use Lannor, and most of their enemies, were gathered in that city.

As long as Lannor kept away from it, the trouble would immediately shrink by seventy percent.

“No problem. Vizima does not look like a place suited for a witcher’s trade anyway. Work like lifting a princess’s curse probably appears once every few centuries.”

Lannor agreed without concern.

Foltest departed Dark Water with his guards at his back. Roche rode close behind the king, and only after the village had faded well into the distance did he spur forward slightly and lower his voice.

“Your Majesty, the witchers’ strength is still a danger.”

Earlier that day, the characteristics of witchers had already become required reading among Temeria’s nobility.

Stessa had stood second only to the king within the kingdom, yet even the estate and defenses of such a man had proved as full of holes as a sieve before a witcher.

No one had cared much about witchers before. Partly because of their low standing, partly because no one had imagined they could become something like this once they truly acted in earnest.

No one could ignore a force capable of killing Count Stessa by brute force.

Even across the entire Continent, the man had counted among the great nobles.

Roche himself had never disliked witchers. He too had crawled out of filth and poverty. For Lannor, who had hacked his way through Stessa’s estate for the sake of a group of children, he even felt respect.

But in the end, he was still a patriot ruthless enough to put reason before sentiment.

Emotionally, no one disliked a hero who stood against power.

Rationally, he could not accept a man this dangerous walking freely inside Temeria.

Foltest, however, did not share his subordinate’s concern.

Even though he was king, even though every piece of information and every broader view before him pointed toward the danger of an uncontrollable warrior, he merely rode on in silence for a while, speaking his thoughts without turning back.

“The times are changing, Roche. Especially quickly of late.”

“Before today, nobody on this Continent knew that a man with basic magic, paired with the skill and physique of a top warrior, could single-handedly slaughter his way through a great noble’s fortress-estate. Because no one had ever done it.”

“The sorcerers who wield magic prefer wrestling for power in court. Druids and priests stay far from worldly affairs. Witchers cling to neutrality and rarely even enter towns.”

“You read the reports too, Roche. Before Lannor, there were only two famous examples of witchers slaughtering humans. Geralt of Rivia, called the Butcher of Blaviken… gods, what a gentle age that was. He killed seven thugs in a marketplace and earned the title butcher. The witcher we shared ale with today cut down more than two hundred men in a single night.”

“The other was called the Cat of Iello. His record was wiping out a small village. Funny thing is, both of them once tried to earn the bounty on Yada’s curse. One died, the other got paid.”

Roche listened in silence.

He had always understood his place. He possessed intelligence, but not enough to rival men who shaped kingdoms. He was suited to execution more than strategy.

Foltest was a wise and formidable king. When the king made decisions, Roche did not interrupt.

“The times have always been changing, Roche. They simply change too slowly, sometimes even stumbling backward, so people without access to wider information fail to notice.”

Foltest continued, voice carrying across the lakeside wind.

“Humans have only stood upon this Continent for a little over five hundred years. We discovered Chaos magic here, and from that moment the world split between those who wielded magic and those who did not.”

“For more than five centuries, those two groups have struggled, compromised, and finally shaped the order we have today. Kings and sorcerers.”

“People think history settled there, that the balance stabilized. But for kings, for those who truly influence the workings of nations, compromise, conflict, struggle, and change have never ceased.”

“Can you believe it, Roche?”

Foltest turned to glance at his loyal warrior.

“Just four years ago, when Geralt came to break Yada’s curse, that was the first time I had ever seen a witcher. I even had to ask Triss what sort of creatures they were.”

“But now, only four years later, a witcher has done something like this in Vizima… The flow of the age is like the waters of the Pontar.”

After lingering in thought for a while, Foltest turned back to Roche.

“I need you to urgently procure a batch of dimeritium and equip the palace guards with it. Also find a few rogue sorcerers and drill the soldiers against magic. At minimum, my men should know how to deal with fireballs, lightning, and hypnosis.”

“Your Majesty, the Trade Ministry has already placed dimeritium onto the military procurement list as an emergency measure. Is it not redundant to send me as well?”

The king shook his head.

“The Trade Ministry is the Trade Ministry. What I need now is not large-scale stockpiling. They are useful for business deals, but you understand better than anyone how a warrior gets urgently needed equipment.”

“Understood. I’ll handle it immediately once we return.”

Roche offered no further objections.

While riding, Foltest narrowed his eyes at the rippling waters of Lake Vizima beneath the breeze.

“Move quickly, Roche. Before long, every piece of dimeritium on the market will cost far more than it does today.”

The speed of dimeritium’s rise in price would depend entirely on how quickly the tale of the Hunter Lord spread.

Lannor watched the royal procession disappear into the distance.

He led Pope down to the shore of Lake Vizima, intending to give the mare a proper cleaning. The black mare with white-snow hooves occasionally nudged her head against his chest.

Arya remained upstairs in the tavern room, preparing to reattach the plate components Foltest had returned onto the Superior Ursine Armor.

It was assembly work more than smithing. No blacksmith’s skill was needed.

Inside Pope’s saddlebags, every missing or damaged item had already been replaced with expensive new ones.

Lannor found himself admiring the thoroughness of Foltest’s chamberlain.

He drew water from the lake and poured it over Pope’s body.

“So... why exactly did Foltest bring you here too?”

As he scrubbed the mare’s mane with a brush, Lannor spoke without turning his head.

On a lakeside stone nearby sat Berengar, bandages wrapped around his arms, stomach, and thighs. He lazily swallowed mouthfuls of Swallow potion.

Lannor had given it to him. Berengar’s own supply had likely been confiscated by Foltest.

Hearing the question, Berengar answered with a dry joke.

“Maybe because he couldn’t find my parents. I’m a few hundred years old, after all.”

Watching Lannor stiffen awkwardly while brushing the horse, Berengar sneered faintly before continuing.

“Fine, fine... More likely that bastard now thinks every witcher can fight like you. Who would dare let you into a city anymore?”

“Tell me honestly, little Bear Cub. What exactly did your school add into your mutations to create something like... you?”

When he spoke the word witcher, even Berengar’s tone carried uncertainty.

Lannor remained silent. Berengar assumed he simply did not wish to discuss the Bear School’s secret formulas, or perhaps the pain of mutation itself. He chuckled without much concern.

After a stretch of silence, Lannor asked flatly:

“So the money you earned doing labor in Vizima is gone?”

“Obviously.” Surprisingly, Berengar sounded utterly unconcerned. “When I picked up my sword again for those children, I never expected to survive anyway. Being able to sit here now, breathing lake wind under the sun, is enough for me.”

“I transported those children. Even if I didn’t know, the guilt is still mine. Losing some coin to wash that filth off my conscience is a bargain. I’m a witcher. As long as I stay out of the wilderness, I can live centuries. Strong as any young man. Money lost is money lost.”

The ease in Berengar’s voice was completely different from the first time Lannor had pinned him against a wall.

Back then, the man had been filled with bitterness toward being a witcher.

Perhaps being willing to die for something noble had changed him.

Lannor watched him with a faint smile, then spoke as if casually.

“If you’re looking for another place to earn coin... would you be interested in taking employment under me?”

“Your hireling?”

Berengar tipped back the last mouthful of Swallow from the alchemical vial and looked at Lannor strangely.

“I don’t doubt you’re rich now, but… didn’t you already refuse to fight beside me once?”

There was no sharpness in his tone when he said it.

He admitted to himself that he was a witcher who wanted to run from battle.

Since he could accept that truth himself, he could naturally accept others seeing it too.

“My answer hasn’t changed. I won’t fight alongside you. But my hireling arrangement isn’t a mercenary contract.”

That finally drew a flicker of interest from Berengar.

“How so?”

“Teach me how to be a witcher, Berengar.”

“Kh… cough, cough!”

There was still Swallow caught in the back of Berengar’s throat. The moment he heard that sentence, he inhaled wrong and nearly choked himself.

Teach you?

Teach you what exactly? How to pick the angle that hurts less when several crossbow bolts are aimed at your chest?

“So… uh…” Berengar tried very hard to make his words sound polite. “Is there actually anything left for you to learn as a witcher?”

Lannor, on the other hand, answered with complete calm.

“More potion formulae. Rare alchemical bomb recipes. Knowledge about curses and magic. Knowledge about monsters… Berengar, didn’t the School of the Wolf preserve the most complete body of witcher knowledge?”

Once Lannor clarified what he meant, Berengar finally understood.

In his eyes, Lannor was probably the sort of witcher whose training had been specialized entirely toward combat.

That was the only explanation for someone so young, certainly no older than forty, possessing this kind of fighting ability.

“The Bear School’s knowledge reserves have fallen that far?”

Curious now, Berengar pressed further. Lannor answered with fragments Bordon had once mentioned.