Rain began to fall from the sky, and within just a few minutes, the fine, even droplets soaked them through. Wet clothes and the biting autumn wind combined into a chill that cut to the bone.
After quickly estimating the remaining distance, Victor stopped hesitating. His pace slowed for just a moment as he pulled out Tawny Owl, Blizzard, and Thunderbolt from his herbal satchel and drank them down. He could not let the doppler reach Glory Gate. Once it hit the crowd there, he was bound to lose it.
As she ran, the doppler heard his footsteps pause behind her. She glanced back just in time to see the witcher putting away his bottles and surging after her far faster than before.
She knew how dramatically potions could boost combat ability, and in panic she sped up. But that choice went directly against Victor's own teachings buried in Angoulême's memories. Before long, every breath she dragged in sounded like a bellows being torn open—a sure sign of complete exhaustion.
Realizing she would never reach Glory Gate before he caught her, she veered toward the roadside and slammed through a door with a bang, rushing into an abandoned house in search of another exit.
But when the witcher apprentice chased her inside, she was already in the corner, bracing herself against the wall and gasping for breath, her eyes full of frustration and fury. Her luck had failed her. The old house was dilapidated, but its basic structure still held. There was no other way out.
"Pleasure to see you again, mimic," the witcher said coldly.
The doppler hated being called that. But then again, Victor did not exactly like it right now either—not after it had copied Angoulême and deliberately provoked her.
The doppler's breathing was loud and heavy.
"Please let me go," she finally managed, speaking in Angoulême's voice. "You can let me go, can't you, witcher?"
"Doppler," Victor said, "the moment you kept stealing again and again, you should have known the merchants would never let it go, and that today was inevitable.
"And now it's too late for talk like that. After you mimicked Angoulême, I can't let you walk away. Don't force this. Her memories must have shown you what I intended—I was planning to hire you.
"I don't want to kill you, and I don't want to hand you over to the authorities, but you will accept employment, keep my secrets, and stop abusing your transformations. I will make sure of that."
She swallowed, still wearing Angoulême's face. "And if I refuse?"
"I would rather not do this, but I can't allow my secrets to remain in the hands of someone who isn't a friend... no... don't do that. You'll regret it!"
It was the third warning Victor had given that day, and like the first two, it accomplished nothing.
Ignoring him completely, the doppler's body began to swell, broaden, and grow taller. The golden curls straightened, lengthened backward, and finally became a ponytail.
The bright Van Helsing outfit dulled and changed back into ordinary studded leather armor. The lean, sharp face became slightly more angular, and four faint scars appeared across it.
A sword hilt rose over the right shoulder. The herbal satchel slung across its body looked identical to his own.
"Don't come any closer," said the other witcher apprentice, lifting his chin with a smile. "Don't come any closer, Victor. I'll never sell my freedom. Not any more than you would."
A deep, smoldering rage rose in Victor.
Right. Just as plain and unremarkable as I am, he thought. This bastard doesn't look impressive at all.
The boy's hand moved toward his sword. This makes no sense. My mouth looks fine. My nose is fairly sharp too. So why is it that once you add the eyes, the whole thing just turns painfully average?
The doppler and Victor both touched their hilts at the same moment.
Both swords left their scabbards at the same instant.
Light and quick as cats, the two witchers chose exactly the same opening attack: a turning side-cut meant to take the other's head. Their steel crashed together in a spray of sparks.
Feet shifted sideways, blades whirled, and with sharp hissing sounds cutting through the air, both of them traced flower after flower with their swords. Clang, clang, clang, clang.
By the time Angoulême reached the doorway, she arrived just in time to see their hilts slam together before they both stepped back two paces and resumed the standoff in the exact same Ox Guard stance.
"You can't beat me," the doppler roared. "Because I became you, Victor."
"You've made a terrible mistake, mimic," the witcher replied in a low voice. "Drop the sword. Turn into anyone else at all. I don't care who. Just don't turn into me. Otherwise, you're going to regret it. I promise you that."
"I am you," the doppler repeated. "You can't beat me. You can't defeat me, because I am you!"
"You have no idea what it means to become me, mimic. Stop this now, before it's too late."
The doppler suddenly swayed, lowering the hand that held the sword.
Its breathing turned ragged. Its pupils widened. Its nostrils flared. Saliva dripped from the corner of its mouth. Its arms and legs shook out of control.
"Don't go near him! He's dangerous!" the girl shouted from behind, trying to stop Victor from stepping forward.
Victor knew exactly what Angoulême was sensing now. It was the same malice he himself felt every time he wanted to kill—radiating outward from the doppler and filling the entire ruined house.
Outside, the rain intensified. Thunder exploded overhead.
The doppler's body began to writhe again, but this time its shape did not change. It still looked like the witcher Victor. Only the dull armor changed into a black Van Helsing outfit—the style Victor normally wore.
The double-breasted front gleamed. The herbal satchel remained slung across the body. The steel sword shifted to the waist. A compact crossbow appeared mounted on the right forearm.
Then the ponytail came loose on its own. With its eyes closed, it spread the fingers of its left hand and swept the golden hair back from its forehead. The slicked-back style formed naturally.
Then it opened its eyes.
Victor's hand trembled slightly as he gripped the Sword of Prometheus tighter without meaning to.
This makes no sense. The mouth is still my mouth. The nose is still my nose. So why does adding those eyes suddenly make him look absurdly handsome?
Damn it, he's got a true scarlet nine-tomoe Rinnegan...
What the hell! Why does the Witcher world have a nine-tomoe Rinnegan? This makes no sense! And what's with that slicked-back hair? What is that supposed to imply?
Victor was so stunned by the absurdity before him that he almost forgot to complain. There were too many ridiculous elements piled into this one form.
The downpour came crashing down in full force. All of the doppler's previous desperation had vanished. The nine-tomoe rings spun in its eyes as it smiled, drew the steel sword from its waist, took a high guard, and advanced step by step toward the Phantom Troupe blocking the doorway.
"Hey, mimic, what exactly are you playing at?" Victor called out cautiously.
He had a vague suspicion about the doppler's current state, and he very much hoped he was wrong.
It did not answer. But its eyes and posture conveyed a single thought clearly enough.
Steel rang.
Questions were pointless. Victor raised his blade and caught the heavy downward strike. The blow had already gathered momentum, and it forced him back several steps, making him yield the doorway.
Stepping out of the abandoned house, the doppler strode into the howling wind and rain. It looked imposing—terrifying, even—but after crossing blades with it, Victor actually felt calmer. The unknown had fallen away.
Those Rinnegan eyes really were just decoration. If it could actually use powers like Amaterasu or Tsukuyomi, there would be no need to carve a path with a sword. It could have blown apart half of Novigrad with a single Shinra Tensei and nobody would have been surprised.
Which meant that despite the slight changes in appearance, a fake was still a fake. It was still only a copy of him. It had not gained powers beyond the laws of this world, and it definitely had not become immune to silver's ability to disrupt mimicry.
Left, right, left, right. Forward, back, forward, back. Victor and the doppler crossed blades through the rain on the street like dancers.
The longer they fought, the more certain Victor became. The creature had copied the aura of a king, but not the strength of one. Its swordsmanship was a little better than before, but its physical power had not increased. It could not overwhelm him.
So once Angoulême entered the fight, they quickly forced it onto the defensive—until the doppler suddenly disengaged, pointed its sword at the girl with its right hand, and thrust its left into the herbal satchel.
Victor knew that pose all too well.
The secret art of the School of the Wolf—Exploding Sword.
His eyes widened. He did not believe the doppler could imitate the Endless Herbal Satchel, but he dared not gamble on it. Faster than thought, he tackled Angoulême straight into the moat to drag her outside the blast radius.
Then, from the water, he could only watch helplessly as the doppler on the bank failed to produce any bomb at all.
Free of the Phantom Troupe's entanglement, it smiled, turned, and ran for Glory Gate without a backward glance.
Victor released Angoulême and left her to swim for herself. He scrambled back onto the bank and gave chase again almost at once.
He had to keep chasing. And he had a very bad feeling.
Because the way the doppler had looked at him just now was wrong. There had been no hesitation in that gaze, no confusion, no uncertainty.
Only pure hunger for slaughter.
And if that was really the case, then it was not running away now.
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