The next day at noon, Lannor sat on the bed with a vacant stare.

A soft, expensive fur blanket covered him from the waist down, leaving only his sharply defined upper body exposed. Across from the bed stood the ornate dressing table Margarita had brought from Aretuza.

The sorceress sat on a cushioned stool with her bare back toward him. From Lannor’s angle, everything below her waist looked like a perfectly ripe peach resting atop fine wool.

Their eyes met in the mirror.

“You’re awake. How do you feel?”

The mature, alluring voice carried an unmistakable note of amusement.

Lannor struggled to keep his expression composed. It had nothing to do with strength or power, merely the shallow pride of a young man who had only recently graduated from adolescence.

That was Mentos’ assessment, before Lannor promptly shoved it back into silence.

“Last night wasn’t fair. You used magic.”

“Hey. I’m a sorceress. Of course I can use magic in bed.”

The smile tugging at Margarita’s lips deepened in the mirror.

“Or are you saying a succubus would have done better?”

Lannor pressed his lips together.

Damn it. Acting calm back then had consequences. She had clearly remembered the part about the succubus.

So last night, Margarita had apparently decided to measure herself against that standard. No wonder he still felt tired.

In sheer stamina, sorceresses were more terrifying than any brute Lannor had ever faced.

Once the teasing subsided, Margarita resumed applying her makeup while leisurely enjoying the sight of the man who had recently terrified Temeria’s entire administrative center looking distinctly uncomfortable.

Lannor shook his head. He had no intention of continuing that topic.

Once all the Space Marine procedures were complete, she could throw all the magic she wanted at him.

“Rita, how far has your project for cultivating human tissue on crystals progressed?”

“You’ve become interested in that?” One elegant eyebrow arched upward. Genuine surprise flickered across her face.

“Though I suppose it makes sense. Berengar hasn’t stopped talking about your talent for alchemy these past few days. What is it? Curious to see the frontier of alchemy?”

Lannor climbed out of bed and began dressing.

“Exactly. I want to see how far mana-based alchemy can go.”

In truth, merely seeing it was never his goal.

He intended to master it.

More than that, he intended to lead it.

The project was the cornerstone of his future plan to cultivate Astartes implants independently. If he could not drive it forward, then all his later ambitions might as well be abandoned now.

“You’ve only been away from Aretuza for a month. The Crystal Cultivation Technique has barely advanced during that time. The project is led by my mentor, Tissaia. My own field isn’t alchemy, so I don’t know every detail. However…”

Margarita turned slightly on the stool and looked over her shoulder at him.

Even standing behind her, Lannor could still glimpse the graceful curves outlined from the front.

“Research like that requires mana. A witcher’s mana reserves are… difficult to discuss.”

She chose her words carefully.

From a sorcerer’s perspective, “difficult to discuss” was charitable. Most would simply say witchers had almost none.

A novice sorcerer might not survive half a second against a witcher in combat, but in terms of raw mana, the reserves of three or four ordinary witchers combined still would not compare.

And anyone allowed to participate in a project under the famous former rectoress, Tissaia de Vries, would at minimum be among Aretuza’s most talented students.

Lannor picked up the discarded gown from the floor and draped it across Margarita’s shoulders.

“My mana is a little different from most witchers’.”

“Oh?”

Curiosity brightened her eyes. She raised a hand and rested it atop his where it lay upon her shoulder.

The Bear Head Necklace hanging around Lannor’s neck rattled faintly before falling silent again.

“Mmm. That’s actually quite a lot.”

Her eyes widened slightly.

“You can probably cast three or four witcher signs in succession. That’s already comparable to a beginner apprentice who has only recently sensed Chaos. Can witchers continue increasing their mana reserves? That’s fascinating.”

Lannor remained calm beneath her surprise.

“My mana might be enough to get me through the door. But research depends primarily on knowledge and talent. In both areas, I’m confident.”

“I believe you.”

Margarita nodded softly.

“I’ll arrange for you to visit the project. Tissaia probably won’t object. In fact, unless your demands become outrageous, she’d likely encourage you to make more of them. She wants to tie you to Aretuza. You’ve noticed that, haven’t you?”

They were both adults. Desire, affection, and self-interest inevitably tangled together within human relationships.

Neither of them seemed troubled discussing such matters openly.

“I’ve noticed. She did hand Aretuza’s finest student over to me, after all.”

“Hey!”

Margarita slapped the back of his hand resting on her shoulder.

* * *

By the time Lannor and Margarita finally emerged from the room, afternoon had arrived.

Berengar sat in the tavern as usual, leisurely drinking.

When he spotted them, he smacked his lips.

“Tsk, tsk. You really spent the entire day in there.”

“A glass of rye vodka for this honorable gentleman. My treat!”

He waved toward the barkeep while looking at Lannor with the same expression one might reserve for a legendary warrior.

For a witcher who longed for an ordinary life, involvement with sorceresses was something he neither dared nor desired.

Lannor and Margarita sat down naturally.

Both ordered food to compensate for the fact that their stomachs had received nothing all day.

“Berengar, Rita and I need to go to Aretuza to handle a few things. Keep the dagger as a research sample.”

Lannor placed the ornate Dragonbone Dagger on the table. Berengar promptly tucked it into his coat.

“Aretuza…” The old witcher clicked his tongue. “That muddy pit called Velen. Fine. I’ll wait here until you return.”

The previous day, Lannor had already explained that his agreement with the Lady of the Lake would continue, and that more journeys into other worlds lay ahead.

One reason Margarita wanted him back at Aretuza was the crystal cultivation project.

The other was to search through the academy’s accumulated knowledge and determine whether the being known as the Lady of the Lake could truly be trusted.

Lannor already trusted her.

Margarita, however, believed a healthy measure of caution remained necessary.

There was also a third reason.

She wanted Merigold kept very, very far away.

Margarita knew that news of Lannor’s reappearance in Dark Water had likely spent the entire day on the desks of Temeria’s intelligence analysts.

Foltest had seen through her interest in Lannor, which was why he had recruited her to eliminate Merigold’s teleportation beacon.

But he certainly would not want her to become the only woman capable of influencing Lannor.

Which meant that, by now, Merigold was probably already aboard a ship heading from Vizima.

Lannor rode Pope once more, the horse he had not seen in quite some time, alongside Margarita along one of Velen’s dirt roads.

Only a single sword hung across his back now, the sword of the Lady of the Lake. The Bear School steel sword had suffered nothing worse than a small nick, but in a prolonged clash of steel, a flaw that small could become fatal. He had left it behind in Dark Water under Berengar’s care for repair.

“The Lady of the Lake won’t be angry that you replaced Arondight’s scabbard so casually, will she?”

Margarita swayed gently with her horse’s gait, amusement dancing in her voice.

When the Lady of the Lake had bestowed the magnificent longsword upon him, it had come with an equally splendid scabbard, wood adorned with gold fittings and set with tiny pearls.

Yet the moment they departed the little fishing village of Auridon, the ornate scabbard had vanished from Lannor’s back, replaced by a plain wooden one wrapped in fish skin.

The craftsmanship was meticulous, every corner carefully finished, but its value was surely less than a tenth of the original.

“The Lady embodies the Five Knightly Virtues. She’s not that petty.”

Wind swept through Velen’s fields, stirring Lannor’s silver hair like a banner.

“And besides…”

A smile touched his lips.

“A friend gave me this scabbard. That makes it worth more than gold or silver.”

When Lannor had arrived carrying only a single sword, the villagers had assumed he had fallen on hard times. They knew they could not forge a worthy blade for him, but that did not stop them from trying to help.

So they had rushed about in a frenzy, pooling whatever they could. Despite Lannor’s attempts to stop them, they insisted on making him a new scabbard, just as they once had.

The fish skin had come from Bernie’s latest catch. Mrs. Donna had stitched it together. Old Aaron had provided a piece of excellent hardwood. The village blacksmith had spent three hours rushing the fittings.

None of those things were worth much by Velen’s standards.

But every piece had passed through the hands of Lannor’s friends in Auridon.

When they presented the finished scabbard to him, he had not hesitated for even a heartbeat. Off came the Lady of the Lake’s ornate gift. Arondight slid into the humble scabbard as though the gold and pearls had been nothing more than roadside pebbles.

Perhaps, to him, they were.

Certainly they weighed less than sincere gratitude.

Margarita had spent half a day in that dilapidated fishing village watching the witcher who had slaughtered Count Stessa’s household laugh and speak with a group of Velen fishermen.

When the villagers had gathered to see him off, she found her gaze lingering on him a little longer than before.

The two of them continued across Velen’s treacherous lands.

Times had changed.

Once, Lannor had needed to carefully divide packs of drowners to survive. Now he could carve his way through the heavily guarded estate of a count.

And this time he traveled beside the rectoress of Aretuza herself.

For most travelers, Velen remained a place where every journey was a wager against death.

For them, it had become merely inconvenient.

When they arrived in Gors Velen once more, Margarita led him through the city without the slightest obstacle and into Aretuza itself.

“Welcome, Witcher. Welcome back to Aretuza.”

Tissaia, former Rectoress of Aretuza and still one of the academy’s pillars, stood waiting for them beyond the great bridge leading into the palace.

Though she had lived at least four or five centuries, the arch-sorceress remained immaculate. Every fold of her attire sat in perfect symmetry, and her beautiful face carried its usual severe precision.

“How honored I feel, mentor.”

Margarita stepped forward with a teasing smile.

“I never received this kind of welcome after returning from a trip.”

“That is because I said ‘welcome, Witcher,’ not ‘welcome, our current rectoress who leaves without permission.’”

Tissaia did not even glance sideways at her student.

Lannor bowed politely to the grand sorceress, and she returned the gesture with equal elegance.

Even while returning the greeting, she continued chastising Margarita.

“Thanks to you, the entire North now knows you and Merigold have had a falling out, enough that others regard you as a neutral party. They may not yet know the true cause as clearly as Foltest does, but they will eventually.”

At that, Tissaia’s eyes drifted briefly toward the silver-haired, cat-eyed source of the dispute.

For the first time, her expression slipped.

Only for an instant.

She had already seen magical recordings of Lannor. Even so, the reality was different.

If the reports of his accomplishments were even remotely accurate, then the witcher standing before her was dangerously attractive, not merely in appearance, but in potential.

“Enough, Rita. Don’t leave our guest standing at the door. It’s discourteous.”

Hands folded before her waist, Tissaia turned and led them through Aretuza’s long, magnificent corridors toward the upper levels of the academy.

The unusual trio attracted attention everywhere they passed.

Two breathtaking rectoresses.

One witcher whose reputation had recently exploded across the Continent.

A witcher who, according to rumor, possessed a particularly vigorous appetite for certain pleasures.

The apprentices of Aretuza lived disciplined, repetitive lives. Faced with such material, their imaginations worked overtime.

The jokes and scandalous stories they invented on the spot were nearly enough to overwhelm Lannor’s enhanced hearing.

By the time they reached the rectoress’s office, he had finally managed to smooth the expression from his face.

Once inside, Tissaia naturally claimed the rectoress’s chair behind the desk while Margarita immediately sprawled across a long cashmere chaise lounge.

“Please, sit.”

Tissaia gestured toward the guest chair opposite her desk.

“Rita has already explained your intentions to me, but I still find them… somewhat abrupt.”

She folded her hands neatly.

“To be honest, Aretuza’s original investment in you was rather modest. We hoped to gain a deterrent, perhaps establish a long-term partnership with an exceptionally capable warrior.”

Her gaze settled on him.

“Then came Vizima.”

The office grew quiet.

“Everything after that exceeded our expectations. Not merely exceeded them. It surpassed them by an enormous margin.”

From the chaise lounge, Margarita lazily raised a hand.

“Tissaia! Are you implying I lack deterrence? I could pin Merigold and Philippa to the floor at the same time.”

Lannor’s mouth twitched.

Why could she never leave Triss alone?

“Yes, our esteemed rectoress can apparently defeat two renowned sorceresses at once. Very impressive.”

Tissaia’s tone remained perfectly flat.

“But even if you were twice as powerful, you still couldn’t influence the price of dimeritium across the entire Continent.”

That shut Margarita up immediately.

Lannor listened, puzzled. Since returning, he had not paid attention to any broader developments.

Adjusting one slightly uneven puffed sleeve, Tissaia offered a brief explanation.

“Since your little accomplishment half a month ago, dimeritium orders from Kovir have been rising daily. Guard detachments across every kingdom are purchasing emergency stockpiles. The market has become highly unstable.”

She continued calmly.

“Large numbers of rogue sorcerers have been recruited. Some have entered military service. Others have been hired as sparring partners and instructors.”

Then her eyes met his.

Measured. Rational. Certain.

Like a scholar presenting an undeniable law of nature.

“Lannor.”

“You dealt with Stessa.”

Her voice never rose.

“You terrified them.”

“Dimeritium becoming highly sought after on the market will affect sorcerers?”

Lannor’s brow furrowed slightly.

After absorbing fragments of the Emperor’s Children’s memories and surviving the nest of intrigue surrounding Arya’s royal capital, he had become far more sensitive to seemingly ordinary developments like market fluctuations.

Major upheavals often began with something small enough for most people to ignore.

Tissaia answered calmly.

“Although dimeritium is exceptionally effective at suppressing Chaos magic, its impact on sorcerers has, so far… developed in a favorable direction.”

She folded her hands neatly atop the desk.

“Kings have begun to realize how terrifying an assassin wielding arcane power can be. At the same time, they have also begun to value magic itself. Many sorcerers have profited from this shift. The collective influence of our profession has increased, and magical research is receiving greater attention.”

“The mining and trade of dimeritium, a substance often called a sorcerer’s bane, have expanded dramatically. Yet the interests of spellcasters have improved as well.”

Lannor considered the information for a moment.

There were too few data points.

Any conclusion now would be little more than guesswork.

He simply nodded.

“Then let’s hope dimeritium continues not causing trouble.”

With that matter set aside, Tissaia studied him from head to toe.

“You wish to join my Crystal Cultivation Project. Before anything else, you should understand that this project explores the very frontier of alchemy.”

Her voice remained even.

“I cannot allow someone into it simply because he is good at killing things.”

Lannor had expected this.

Reaching into his alchemy satchel, he produced two potion bottles and placed them on the desk.

Entering an academic project without results to show would be pointless.

“Original formula. Improved formula.”

The two bottles rested side by side.

Perfectly symmetrical.

“The effect is accelerated stamina recovery. The original causes muscle spasms as a side effect. The improved version eliminates those spasms, but the potion’s inherent toxicity erupts all at once instead of building gradually.”

That was his research result.

Tissaia glanced toward Margarita, who remained sprawled lazily across the chaise lounge.

Without even lifting her head, the sorceress raised a hand.

“Don’t look at me, teacher. He completed the modification before I arrived. Only Merigold and Keira were there, and you know exactly how strong they are in alchemy.”

Tissaia did know.

Neither woman had excelled in the discipline during their academy years.

Witcher potions came from a complicated inheritance refined across generations. Neither Triss nor Keira possessed the knowledge required to make such modifications.

Tissaia picked up the original potion first and removed the stopper.

She inhaled lightly.

A thoughtful look settled across her features as she examined the scent.

Then she returned it to its original position and picked up Lannor’s version.

Before smelling it, she asked casually,

“How much time did you spend designing the modification pathway?”

“I memorized the original formula and the alchemical fundamentals.”

Tissaia nodded.

That was standard practice among witchers and other practical alchemists.

Many craftsmen spent entire lifetimes relying on a single inherited recipe without understanding any broader theoretical framework.

Then Lannor continued.

“The improved version was the first one I made. I brewed the original afterward by following the formula exactly.”

“Hss… cough.”

Tissaia accidentally inhaled too sharply.

Thin black lines briefly surfaced beneath her skin.

A ring on her finger flashed once.

The discoloration vanished immediately.

Lannor’s eyes lingered on the ring.

Some sort of anti-toxin enchantment.

Recovering her composure, Tissaia returned the potion to its place, restoring the perfect symmetry of the arrangement.

“You are telling me…”

For the first time, genuine disbelief crept into her voice.

“That your very first practical attempt with this potion naturally produced both a refined formula and an optimized brewing process?”

“You don’t believe me?”

Lannor asked.

Tissaia shook her head.

“No. I know you are not someone who exaggerates.”

Her fingers tapped lightly against the desk.

“But that is extraordinarily abnormal.”

A pause.

Then she continued.

“If your description of your talent is accurate, then our project may genuinely need exactly that kind of insight and inspiration.”

She rose from her chair.

“Come with me.”

As Lannor passed the chaise lounge, he glanced toward Margarita.

“Coming?”

The rectoress rolled onto her side.

The luxurious fabric stretched taut across the generous curve of her hips.

“No.”

She waved lazily.

“I think I’ll continue resting.”

Lannor shrugged and abandoned any further attempt to motivate her.

Tissaia led him through Aretuza’s halls and toward the section containing the alchemy classrooms he had once rented.

Eventually she stopped before a door and pushed it open.

The moment he stepped inside, he saw enormous crystals resting beneath hemispherical glass domes in carefully dimmed light.

Veins crawled across their surfaces.

Muscle fibers twitched and writhed.

The sight was wet, unsettling, almost grotesque.

Exactly the sort of thing common folk imagined when they spoke of witches.

The platforms supporting the crystals were crossed with long strips of cloth embroidered with glowing runes.

The Bear Medallion hanging from Lannor’s neck immediately began vibrating and humming.

He slowly surveyed the room.

Nothing about it resembled the immaculate biological laboratories of his former world.

Tissaia herself was meticulous, perhaps obsessively so, but she could not compete with facilities refined through centuries of scientific development and countless lives spent perfecting procedure.

In short, it was precisely what Lannor had expected.

A magical workshop pretending to be a laboratory.

“This is my workstation.”

Tissaia indicated a desk stacked with neatly organized papers.

“Research records and developmental notes are prepared here.”

Then she guided him toward three tall copper pillars arranged in a triangle.

“This is a Scrying Glass station.”

She rested a hand against one of the pillars.

“Researchers involved in this project are scattered throughout the Northern Kingdoms. Most sorcerers dislike travel and changing residences. It makes them feel unsafe.”

“So we distribute individual research objectives, then periodically consolidate results through the Scrying Glass network.”

Lannor raised an eyebrow.

Remote work.

A remarkably modern solution.

Magic truly could produce achievements centuries ahead of their time in certain fields.

“Who are the researchers?”

he asked with interest.

Tissaia’s expression softened slightly.

“No one famous.”

She sounded almost disappointed by that fact.

“They are talented people. Intelligent people.”

“But current sorcerous culture rewards court politics and influence. Those who bury themselves in research are often looked down upon.”

Her gaze shifted back to him.

“If you can prove your talent, I will introduce them to you later.”

A faint smile appeared on Lannor’s face.

Now they were finally reaching the important part.

Tiny blue lights emerged from Tissaia’s fingertips like drifting fireflies.

With a wave of her hand, they assembled themselves into glowing lines of text suspended in the air.

A potion formula.

“Stammelford’s Philtre.”

Tissaia spoke as the formula hovered between them.

“Created by the renowned sorcerer Herbert Stammelford. It significantly increases mana potency. It should theoretically improve witcher Signs as well.”

“The drawback is tissue damage caused by toxicity.”

“We normally pair it with Anti-Toxin Amulets, but even then users often require supplements and recovery treatments afterward.”

The glowing formula floated silently in the dim laboratory.

Tissaia spread her hands slightly.

Two possible futures.

“Now.”

Her eyes locked onto his.

“Improve it, Lannor.”

“Demonstrate your talent.”

“Or take this formula and leave the Crystal Cultivation Project.”

Across from her, the witcher’s smile never wavered.

Calm.

Certain.

He removed his studded leather gloves and flexed his fingers, allowing them greater sensitivity.

“Then…”

His eyes settled upon the floating formula.

“I’ll begin.”

Whether Tissaia’s attitude stemmed from a desire to strengthen ties with Lannor or from trust in Margarita’s recommendation, the treatment she gave him during this “entry test” was already remarkably generous.

The very idea of connecting a witcher famed for martial prowess with the deepest reaches of sorcerous alchemical research bordered on absurdity.

Yet Tissaia not only brought him into the laboratory, she also handed over a valuable potion formula regardless of the outcome.

Even if Lannor failed the test, that formula alone would have made the trip worthwhile.

As for Lannor himself, he approached the examination with complete confidence.

The formula Tissaia provided stretched across an entire page, a clear demonstration of the potion’s complexity and the difficulty of its manufacture.

Yet after a single glance, he stopped looking altogether and walked straight out of the Crystal Cultivation Laboratory toward a neighboring alchemy classroom.

“The ingredients have already been prepared?” he asked.

“They have. I instructed several apprentices to deliver them before we arrived.”

Tissaia was mildly surprised by his memory, but eidetic recall was hardly unheard of among sorcerers, so she remained composed.

Truthfully, she hoped he would pass.

His admission would bind him more tightly to Aretuza.

Still, even if he could not immediately improve the formula, she hoped he could at least brew a successful batch of Stammelford’s Philtre.

Even if it took him several days.

Pulling strings only went so far. A candidate still needed some basic competence.

Once she had arranged the necessary supplies, Tissaia left to attend to her own work.

In her estimation, someone with modest alchemical talent would need roughly two days to produce a finished potion.

Two hours later, however, the former rectoress of Aretuza stood staring at a glass vial on her desk.

Within it swirled an oily liquid saturated with Chaos magic.

“Wow.”

The astonished voice belonged not to Tissaia, but to the beauty lounging across the office chaise.

“You really did it… first attempt and already an improvement?”

Lannor ignored Margarita’s enthusiastic support and instead explained his reasoning to the person actually in charge.

“Stammelford’s Philtre was originally designed for sorcerers. Mana infusion during the brewing process is unavoidable.”

He tapped the bottle lightly.

“Since I had to periodically replenish my own mana during production, I chose that limitation as my direction for improvement.”

“The modified version produces its effects and toxicity in stages depending on dosage. A small sip grants a mild enhancement while generating toxicity so minor it can be ignored. It becomes more of a reserve potion than a battlefield potion.”

Tissaia sat behind her desk.

She did not even bother uncorking the bottle.

Instead, her eyes moved suspiciously between Margarita, Lannor, and the potion itself.

“If I hadn’t chosen this formula on a whim during our walk here, I would assume you’d used that face of yours to recruit an assistant somewhere in the academy.”

Her tone carried equal parts admiration and frustration.

“This is almost identical to the modification I developed a hundred and thirty years ago.”

Lannor clicked his tongue.

“Then I wasted my effort.”

A trace of disappointment flashed across his face.

“I thought you wouldn’t have explored toxicity reduction as a direction.”

Tissaia shook her head.

“I understand your frustration. Talented people hate discovering they’ve arrived second.”

She folded her hands.

“But this oversight is mine. You had no way of knowing what improvements had been developed over centuries of refinement. Some overlap was inevitable.”

“At the same time, you’ve proven that your alchemical talent is exceptional. Margarita was not exaggerating.”

Lannor smiled modestly.

The Emperor’s Children’s gifts in matters of gene-lore remained astonishing.

Every time he practiced alchemy, countless ideas seemed to bloom inside his mind.

Mentos captured every one of them, recording and organizing them for the future, waiting for the day his knowledge base became broad enough to test them properly.

And he knew this was only the beginning.

The deeper his studies grew and the more practical experiments he conducted, the more inspiration would emerge.

His gene-seed was a vast treasure vault.

The problem was not a lack of riches.

The problem was how quickly he could carry them out.

If it were gold, I could carry all of it.

You absolutely could not.

Lannor silently insulted Mentos for the thousandth time, suppressed the Biological Intelligence Core’s immediate rebuttal, and shook Tissaia’s hand.

“Welcome to the Crystal Cultivation Research Team, Lannor.”

“The honor is mine, Lady Tissaia.”

Just like that, he was in.

“I’ll prepare a reading list and a summary of the project’s current progress. You’ll need to convert that alchemical talent into genuine research capability as quickly as possible.”

Aretuza’s library.

Aretuza’s classrooms.

One by one, privileges normally reserved for the academy’s own people were being opened to a witcher.

As she reached the end of her instructions, a hint of amusement appeared on Tissaia’s face.

“It’s fortunate you’re a witcher, and fortunate that sorceresses have difficulty conceiving.”

Her eyes drifted toward him.

“Otherwise, with a face like yours, I would never allow you into a classroom so casually. Most of the apprentices have very little resistance to strong, worldly men. Quite a few of them already know a charm or two, along with various charisma unguents.”

The smile on Lannor’s face stiffened.

He had only just discovered that sorceresses apparently made indecent jokes regardless of age or rank.

The remark immediately provoked a response from the other rectoress.

“I can hear you, Tissaia!”

Margarita slapped the side of the cashmere chaise.

“You don’t need to worry. I’ll keep an eye on this adolescent witcher. None of his hormones are going to be wasted on those apprentices.”

“Excellent.”

Tissaia calmly pulled out a sheet of parchment and began writing.

Line after line of bewildering titles appeared beneath her quill.

This, apparently, was the reading list she considered essential for Lannor.

The project documentation would come later, once properly organized.

A short while afterward, Margarita and Lannor left the office together.

“Looks like I’ll be staying here for a while.”

Lannor nodded politely to passing sorceress apprentices as they walked.

“Am I staying in the same place as before?”

The young women they passed stared openly.

A handsome, broad-shouldered man wandering the halls of Aretuza was unusual enough.

A handsome, broad-shouldered man with Lannor’s reputation was something else entirely.

Curiosity flickered in their eyes.

Something warmer followed.

Their gazes lingered on his retreating figure until they watched Margarita escort him all the way to the rectoress’s private chambers.

“The first-floor rooms of Loxia Palace are for visitors and honored guests.”

Margarita pushed open the door.

“You don’t belong in either category.”

She glanced back over her shoulder, a triumphant smile curling across her lips.

“You’re staying here. With me keeping watch, those little harpies won’t be getting so much as a taste of you.”

The days that followed in Aretuza left Lannor with an odd sense of familiarity, as though he had somehow returned to school.

He attended lectures. When the pace outran him, he buried himself in the library until he found the answers. When books were not enough, he sought out Margarita for proper instruction.

Thanks to Mentos’ perfect recall, knowledge never slipped through his fingers. What he learned stayed learned.

That simple advantage, a method of study without regression or forgetting, made his growth far more frightening than that of naturally gifted sorcerers.

He did not follow Tissaia’s reading list in any strict order.

In truth, he was using his own eyes as a scanning device.

Everything he could read, he read.

Everything his brain could endure, he fed into Mentos.

The Biological Intelligence Core had remarked more than once that this was the proper use of an educational machine designed for children.

Aretuza suited Mentos perfectly.

Practice verified knowledge. Knowledge guided practice.

Within an environment built for learning, Mentos elevated Lannor’s educational efficiency to the standard expected of an ordinary citizen of the Commonwealth of Man.

The gaps left by his witcher training rapidly shrank.

Knowledge of curses, ritual afflictions, magical abnormalities, all the subjects neglected during his upbringing gradually fell into place.

At this point, the only major deficiency separating him from a properly trained witcher was monster lore.

Sorcerers cared about monster materials.

At most, they might study ecological habits.

Weaknesses, hidden behaviors, hunting methods, those rarely interested them.

As a result, books covering such subjects were scarce.

Lannor found that acceptable.

He had already accepted the Lady of the Lake’s contract.

For a span of time that even a deity had called “not short,” most of his adventures would likely unfold in other worlds.

A lack of local monster knowledge was not an urgent concern.

The sorceress apprentices had been far less restrained during his first days at Aretuza.

They winked during lectures.

They tugged open collars.

They flashed smiles loaded with invitation.

Lannor did not feel flattered.

He felt disrespected.

The girls knew nothing about what he had accomplished.

They simply saw a handsome witcher walk into the rectoress’s chambers and emerge the next day with access to classrooms and libraries.

In their eyes, he was merely the rectoress’s favored lover, a pretty man enjoying privileges he had earned in bed rather than through merit.

There was no affection in their behavior.

Not even genuine desire.

Only mockery.

That changed the moment they witnessed him learn.

The transformation came quickly.

A few lectures were enough.

A few demonstrations of his frightening comprehension.

A few occasions where he grasped concepts faster than the people teaching them.

After that, the apprentices learned how to sit quietly.

The ability to learn was one of the most important abilities a person could possess.

When someone displayed a capacity for learning that seemed almost unnatural, respect followed whether people liked him or not.

Lannor gained that respect.

In fact, he gained something more.

Distance.

No one lifted skirts at him anymore.

No one loosened collars.

No one batted their eyelashes across the classroom.

Inside lectures and libraries, he carried an air that felt more intimidating than either rectoress.

Outside those places, however, the opposite happened.

The apprentices grew even more enthusiastic.

Sometimes it seemed Margarita herself struggled to keep them under control.

Lannor categorized the phenomenon as respect for strength combined with simple admiration of excellence.

The witcher’s greatest gain during those days was not social standing.

It was knowledge.

As he studied and devoured books, a complete conceptual framework for mana-based alchemy gradually took shape inside his mind.

He now understood the broad structure of the discipline.

The foundation was there.

All that remained was filling it with discoveries and experience.

Once that happened, further advancement would be limited only by effort.

And inside his gene-seed rested an ocean of Stellar Age gene-lore and forgotten biological discoveries.

His task was simple.

Recreate those achievements through the methods of mana alchemy.

“The bottleneck in the Crystal Cultivation Project is obviously internal organs.”

Lannor closed the book in his hands.

Muscle tissue.

Skin.

Both had already been successfully cultivated and applied.

Margarita’s legs served as living proof.

Smooth skin.

Perfect contours.

Not even a scar remained to hint at the horrific injury she had suffered.

The technology itself was already mature.

“But internal organs, eyes, and other specialized structures remain impossible.”

His fingers tapped the cover of the book.

Cells: The Microscopic Manifestation of Growth and Development.

Written by an instructor from Ban Ard.

Much of it resembled biology textbooks from his former world.

Yet despite their growing understanding, sorcerers still had not recognized a crucial truth.

Highly differentiated cells sacrificed regenerative potential.