In the brightly lit room, the dim glass screens on the walls had only a few images left, still tirelessly monitoring various parts of the manor.
Hearing Victor's declaration of death, Albert raised his head and stared at the scar on his face and his golden side-parted hair. His expression shifted from green to red, and finally turned into a bloodless pallor.
Slowly standing up, the mage said to the young man walking into the room, "I... must thank you, Victor. If not for the insult you just threw at me, I almost would have run away. Just a little more... and I would have lost the honor of a mage. Before you, a lowly witcher, I would have chosen to tuck my tail between my legs and flee!"
He twisted his neck. "But now, there will be no accidents. Before my magic, there will be no accidents! By magic itself, I will make you die a miserable death. I promise..."
Slash!
While Albert was speaking, Victor casually approached to a suitable distance. Then, before the mage could finish, he abruptly stepped forward, his steel sword slicing through the air like a streak of white silk, sweeping upward from below.
Clang!
Unfortunately, what he struck was only a mirror image. Albert's body shattered like glass, falling to the ground piece by piece.
Having seen this trick before from Happen the eunuch, Victor did not panic. He calmly turned and looked around. Sure enough, the mage was standing not far away, one hand on a mechanism set into the wall.
A mocking smile hung on his face. "Tell me, apprentice, who gave you the courage to swing your sword at me?"
Victor blinked and said nothing. It felt as though this question had a standard answer, but he could not recall it for the moment.
Then the mage's movement as he pulled the mechanism was almost simultaneous with the young man's step-and-slash.
And so, just as Victor was about to cut Albert down, a huge black shadow pounced at him from the side. It possessed overwhelming monstrous strength, matching agility, and outstanding motor coordination.
A heavy punch slammed into Victor's leather armor and sent him flying. He rolled across the ground.
Silently rising, the young man shook his numb arm. As expected, the black shadow that had saved the mage was Bowman. Although he had predicted this long ago, actually encountering it still made him feel regret.
The village chief's smiling face was no longer simple and honest. His complexion was pale and stiff, but his torso and limbs had grown even thicker.
In the world of biohazards, transmigrators might come and go like flowing water, but the Tyrant stood firm as iron. The young man could only sigh over how fortunate he was, to enjoy a cross-world experience in the witcher world.
"You should be proud!" Albert raised his chin and cast a spell to summon the fallen Apocalypse back into his hand. "To be honest, when you dealt with the Lickers just now and came to the door, my heart was truly filled with fear. If you had not looked down on me and said those insulting words, I would never have made up my mind to face you.
"Did you not say that not even Melitele could protect me? Come on then! I am standing right here without moving. Come over here and kill me!"
Hearing what the mage said, Victor truly wanted to retort with a few sarcastic remarks. The problem was that he had to start rolling, because Mr. Bowman had absolutely no awareness that when bosses were talking, underlings should stand by obediently at the side.
The spiked club he swung relentlessly was fast and heavy. One hit would lower Victor's mobility, and after several hits, he would ascend straight to the afterlife. Victor could only dodge with all his might.
For the young man, compared with the ice giant, which was a similar type of opponent, the Tyrant's attacks certainly could not compare in strength. However, its greater speed and moderate size made it even harder to deal with.
Albert did not join the battle. After putting away the fifth volume of the Apocalypse, he focused on observing the battle between Victor and Bowman.
The Tyrant was the trump card the mage had kept hidden from Azar and the Professor. It retained a slight amount of intelligence, allowing it to distinguish friend from foe without needing an additional implant device.
In the battle unfolding before him, the Tyrant held the absolute advantage. The witcher apprentice, rolling again and again, could only make a dying struggle by throwing a few throwing knives at Albert, which were then easily blocked by the protective spell called magical armor.
The mage was satisfied with the results he observed. If it was this successful in a one-on-one battle, then needless to say, in the future, on the battlefield, large numbers of warriors like this would be able to produce extraordinary results.
The feeling that everything was under control made Albert smug. "Hehe! As expected, directly evolving warriors through mutation is the future. Bowman has never undergone any martial training, yet relying purely on talent and a giant weapon, he can already force you into a state where you cannot fight back. Victor, you are already obsolete!"
After saying that, the mage began fantasizing. After killing the apprentice, he would head south, use this craft as a stepping stone, enter the service of the Emperor of Nilfgaard, and obtain the rewards that would follow.
He did not care at all that Victor had suddenly charged toward him. Leaving aside the fact that if the young man continued on this route, he would first have to take a blow from the spiked club, the magical armor protecting him would also ensure that ordinary blades could not break through his defenses.
There was a world of difference between mages and witchers, and an apprentice was even less worth mentioning.
This thought brought utter disaster upon Mage Albert. With his own eyes, he saw Victor twist his body in the narrowest possible margin and dodge the spiked club. Then, at close range, Victor threw one sphere at him and one at Bowman.
Bombs!?
Albert had never expected Victor to actually carry this kind of weapon on him. He had no choice but to reinforce his magical armor with all his strength, and then a thunderclap exploded beside his ear.
Boom!
Amid the boundless smoke and dust, the mage felt no impact, but his magical armor was melting away like ice and snow. Panicked, he tried to open a portal, but his magic did not answer his call either.
These phenomena made Albert think of a terrifying possibility that filled him with dread, a dimeritium bomb!?
And Victor was standing right in front of him, the corners of his mouth raised in a smile that made Albert's heart go cold.
He hoped the Tyrant could come over and stop the other man. That way, perhaps he would still have a chance to escape. But in the corner of his eye, Bowman was kneeling on the ground, his upper body thrown backward and blasted beyond recognition.
This was the ending of the first-generation Tyrant. Perhaps its attacks were more threatening than those of an ice giant, but there was one decisive difference between it and the giant. It had no armor, much less ice armor. So before Grapeshot, Bowman could not withstand a single blow.
In hundreds of years, countless witchers had never mutated to the point of being impervious to blades and spears, let alone regrowing severed limbs. A Tyrant that had not been infected with the T-virus had no soul, strong and powerful, but dead after one blast.
What followed was like an eagle snatching a chick. Albert's resistance was meaningless. Victor twisted and bent him into submission on the floor, then took out dimeritium shackles and cuffed him.
The cold grip of the dimeritium interfered with the flow of magic through the mage's body, making him feel unbearably uncomfortable.
"Damn bastard, let me go! Do you know what you are doing? You actually dared to use dimeritium bombs, and you are even using these shackles against a mage. You will become the public enemy of all mages, aaah!"
The enraged Albert's curses were cut off by a shrill scream, because Victor's short sword had directly pierced through his palm and nailed it deep into the floor.
"My lord, times have changed!" Victor's tone was calm. "Do not say anything useless. You are about to die. Not even Melitele can save you. But before you die, I have some questions, and I hope you will answer them for me."
Albert was sweating like rain from the pain and constantly sucking in cold breaths, but he still barked stubbornly, "Son-of-a-bitch bastard, unless you promise to let me go, do not even dream of making me answer any of your questions. I swear it on the dignity of a mage!"
"Hehe!" Victor chuckled. "It does not matter. We have plenty of time to communicate slowly before dawn. There are many kinds of death. The death that belongs to you can be swift and painless, or it can be especially slow and especially painful!"
Reaching out to grip the short sword, the young man gently turned the hilt. "When I was a guest of the Novigrad underworld, quite a few scenes left a deep impression on me. Now I will share them with you. Never overestimate your own endurance, especially when it comes to things like dignity... Trust me, very soon, you will tell me everything I want to know, and only beg me to grant you death."
Some time passed. When the short sword pierced from the back of Albert's head through his forehead, his face twisted, then froze in a grotesque expression.
Sitting on the sofa, Victor felt strangely subtle. Because after killing that bastard, no strange phenomenon occurred. Corion did not appear, and his spirit remained calm and serene. What happened to the promised reunion between brothers, the grand and magnificent fusion?
Sitting quietly in doubt and contemplation, Victor suddenly burst into laughter a moment later. He had overthought it. A perfect unity was supposed to be silent and seamless. Corion had never disappeared in the first place, so naturally there was no such thing as appearing.
Having understood that pointless tangle, Victor began cleaning up the site. A mage's home always had treasures worth looting.
Albert's mansion had indeed stockpiled quite a lot of wealth and alchemical materials. The materials in particular were a massive harvest. Just by thinking about the experiments he had been conducting, one could know which materials he had stockpiled most.
And beyond the tangible gains, the intangible ones were the true focus. Sure enough, after eliminating that piece of trash, Corion's spirit improved considerably. The most obvious difference was that, from now on, he could listen to the Voice of Alchemy.
The function was that as long as the young man had made something himself, he could listen to its voice. This would make the repeated use and upgrading of Void traits possible. In addition, every alchemical item could now have three traits added to it.
Inside the alchemy laboratory, the cages were stained with blood. There was no telling how many people had once died here.
After recovering the five lost volumes of hypotheses from Albert, Victor did not rule out the possibility that copies had been made, or that someone had memorized them. If he could commit Azuray's experimental records entirely to memory, then others naturally could as well.
So next, the young man would have to keep struggling until all knowledge that should not have appeared returned to dust. And that required great strength. When he noticed the great cauldron in the center of the laboratory, still containing more than half a vat of medicinal liquid, all of it the Grass Draught, a decision was established in his mind.
Using the five volumes of Hypotheses on the Trial of the Grasses as kindling, he piled wood on top and lit it with Blazing Strike. Then, facing the gradually warming cauldron, Victor inserted the stirring rod.
Through the stirring rod tightly gripped in his hand, he transmitted into the cauldron his anger toward human experimentation and the joy of his first killing. This was an act of alchemy from the heart. Victor wanted to refine for himself a perfect Grass Draught.
After this alchemy ended, he would no longer be an apprentice, but a mature, unbelievable alchemist.
Although he had seemed to eliminate the mage easily today, the psychological tricks he had played throughout the process were not few at all. More importantly, Albert was an arrogant idiot!
If he wanted to kill someone next time, what if that person was not an idiot?
Then I, Corion, need greater strength! I will cut open their throats with my sword. I will make the finest Grass Draught!
Grandmother once said, "When you truly desire something, the whole world will unite to help you!"
In this alchemy, with the great cauldron as its center, an unbelievable Wheel of Truth opened with a roar. It rapidly extended and expanded, radiating outward ring after ring. And its patterns were not merely flat. They also spread upward.
When the cylinder completely enveloped the hill where the manor stood, a pillar of light connected heaven and earth. Divine, wondrous words circled it. If one drew even slightly closer, one could hear what seemed like celestial music drifting from within.
All the villagers of Sapopan were startled awake and ran outside one after another to witness this once-in-a-lifetime marvel. Unfortunately, no one could enter the pillar of light.
And deep within the core, the young man's hands were still stirring mechanically, but his eyes were blank. He was trapped in a wondrous mental state, perhaps one that could also be categorized as self-hypnosis.
He was in a desolate snowy plain. A bone-piercing northern wind howled, and ice sealed all things in extinction.
Victor did not know why he was here, but he knew he had to go north. So he began moving forward.
As he walked, his hands and feet split from the cold. Drops of blood fell from wounds everywhere, but he had no intention of stopping. He had a feeling that he could not miss this opportunity. Perhaps this was a once-in-a-lifetime pilgrimage for a seeker of the Way!
So he walked, and walked.
After who knew how long, he suddenly understood his destination, and he also understood why he had appeared here.
Because that wondrous sight in the middle of the snowy plain was definitely something that fellow had set up. Philosophically speaking, it was also something he himself had set up. The creation before his eyes had an official name, the Frozen Throne.
An unscientific tower of ice, an icy path winding around the tower, surrounding ice fangs crossing one another, twisting and spiraling upward. At the summit, where layer upon layer of chains intersected, was ten-thousand-year ice frozen for eternity. Victor knew that Corion was waiting inside the ice.
He chanted softly, "When Victor stepped forward, the throne rose before Corion. The Frozen Throne welcomes its true master."
Facing the whistling cold wind, the young man walked onto the path. Bone-piercing cold climbed from his spine to the back of his head. Along the way, a deep voice echoed.
"Power is not what should be feared. What should be feared is the one who wields power!"
As expected of you, chuuni lines with no clear meaning!
"I am the frozen heart of the Scourge!"
All right, all right. I will inform you once I finish building the legion.
"My brother, on the day you were born, the very forests of Kaer Morhen whispered the name, Victor!" (TN: WoW WotLK cinematic reference)
No, they did not. Could you stop making things up?
Putting aside the temperature setting being too low, and the embarrassingly chuuni whispers, the scenery throughout the whole process was still quite impressive. So Victor quickly reached the top of the Frozen Throne.
Before him, inside the ice prison frozen for ten thousand years, a wisp of shadow was sealed. Victor did not hesitate. He drew Blazing Strike and thrust it deep into the ice.
Flames burned.
Crash!
The ice prison shattered, the shadow vanished, and a stone mask fell from within.
Then they divided the work.
Victor picked up the mask.
Corion sat upon the throne.
They closed their eyes.
Put on the mask.
"Now, we become one!" (TN: WC3 ending cinematic reference)
Victor Corion opened his eyes.
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