On the banks of the Sansretour River, in the underwater ruins of the Valley of the Nine.
"Clack, clack! Clack, clack! Clack, clack!"
Staring at the spike trap that rose and fell, and at Tomb Robber A, who lay on the ground being battered again and again after death, Victor carefully observed and recorded the pattern.
Before long, he bravely walked into the trap. "Left first... forward... then right... small hop... stop for three seconds... long jump..." His steps were steady as he murmured the pattern from memory. In just a few minutes, the witcher smoothly passed through the trap corridor.
Keira smiled as she clapped and cheered. Then she raised both hands and blinked to Victor's side.
"I could have carried you over, actually!"
"I know. With this successful experience, I'll consider giving you a chance to show off next time."
Holding a torch, they continued forward. After turning several corners, the two arrived at a spacious circular platform.
"There's actually a question I'm very curious about. What exactly determines a mage's combat strength? Why are some people as weak as that fool Albert, while others are as troublesome as Azar? Exactly how many fully armed soldiers can an ordinary sorcerer fight alone?"
Keira rolled her eyes at Victor. "Why are you asking that?"
"Is that a mage's secret?"
She raised her right hand, which glimmered with a blue radiance. "It's not really much of a secret. It's simply the difference between whether someone is good at fighting or not, and that difference depends on the strength of their magical affinity. It relates to how quickly they can convert the scattered energy around them into offensive and defensive spells. Just like now..."
The moment she finished speaking, the circular platform was suddenly sealed off by a white light barrier. Then two red-and-black-spotted magical panthers sprang out of thin air and pounced toward the sorceress and the witcher.
With a snap of her fingers, the two red-and-black-spotted magical panthers were seized in midair by Keira's Mage's Grip.
"To use magic for attack, knowledge and magical power are both indispensable. Academy-trained mages need time to prepare before they can transform magic into killing power. As for people who possess only magical affinity but cannot control it, they are like children swinging iron hammers, more likely to smash their own feet.
"With enough time to set things up and harmonize the magical power supply, any mage might be able to cast a barrier like this and prepare lethal weapons. But to be honest, battle mages as formidable as me are not common on this continent. This is an innate talent."
The sorceress waved and fired two bolts of lightning, forcefully dissolving the magical panthers. Then another bolt of thunder shot out, striking a certain weak point in the light barrier. The platform seal shattered with a crash.
The witcher looked around. He could see the corpses of Tomb Robber B and Tomb Robber C, torn apart by the magical panthers. From the footprints extending across the ground ahead, only two people had managed to escape the sealed barrier in time.
It had still been the right choice to bring the sorceress. If he had dealt with this sort of magical panther himself, he probably could only have hacked at it by force, or perhaps the Yrden Sign might have been useful, but it would never have been as effortless as Keira made it look.
Next, the two continued onward. The path became rugged and difficult to travel. Many places had split apart because of earthquakes, forming uneven drops that required climbing and leaping across.
When they passed through a crossbow mechanism, the witcher used his extraordinary five senses to find the release mechanism, and discovered that Tomb Robber D had taken his eternal rest here.
After undoing a few simple puzzle locks, they finally arrived at a hall. Looking in from the entrance, they could see quite a few inactive portals inside. At the center was a gigantic, fat statue around eight feet tall, a granite gargoyle with twin horns on its head and wings on its back. At its feet lay the crushed corpse of the last tomb robber, Tomb Robber E.
The scene could not have been a clearer warning. Once someone walked in, the statue would definitely start moving. And considering the traits of gargoyles, Victor turned to Keira. "It's been hard on you, walking for so long. Could we rest for a little while? I'd like to make every possible preparation for this big fellow."
The sorceress raised an eyebrow and coldly waved for the witcher to do as he pleased.
Victor snickered inwardly. If she could solve it easily, Keira would definitely have stepped forward and started the fight directly. But clearly, there was no shortcut with this kind of gargoyle. Even she had no good method, and could only bombard it with spells.
So although the sorceress had just been arrogant and boastful about her strength, she now tacitly approved of his battle preparations. Presumably, she was also accumulating magical power and considering countermeasures.
Gargoyles made of granite or marble possessed terrifying strength and could withstand tremendous damage, making them extremely troublesome guardians. Their monstrous power was enough that even someone wearing heavy armor would spit blood after taking a blow from one of their stone fists.
Nor were people outside a gargoyle's melee range safe. They could not only throw stones with precise aim for ranged attacks, but even more absurdly, as magical constructs, they could teleport and blink.
When an opponent attacked, the gargoyle might vanish and appear elsewhere, such as behind its opponent to throw a punch, or above the opponent's head before smashing down. Judging from Tomb Robber E's cause of death, he seemed to have been crushed by the gargoyle's weight...
Victor went to a corner, set up a cauldron, and boiled sword oil. Fortunately, he had collected puffball mushrooms along the way, and by cooking them together with dog tallow, he could refine Construct Oil.
Victor considered his attack methods. With the gargoyle's weight, the Aard shockwave would be useless. Yrden could slow it, but it could blink. Against stone, Igni's fire and Axii's mind control were also ineffective. So he could only protect himself with Quen, then slowly help it trim its toenails?
He glanced at Keira. With the sorceress helping, this method was stupid, but it should be workable.
...
"Attention, at ease, left turn, right turn, forward march..."
Under the blazing sun, in the square of Corion Manor, sweat poured down the simple yet sly faces of the guards. Following the girl's crisp and forceful commands, they performed formation movements without the slightest slack.
Before her eyes, the thirty-six guards hired by Corion Manor had been divided into six groups, and training was in full swing.
"This training has not only improved my physical fitness and tempered my hardworking spirit, it has also strengthened our awareness of teamwork," said Oreo, the bowl-cut, scar-faced captain of the first squad.
"We have thirty-six guards in total, divided into tactical squads of six. Following the Bell Town art of war personally passed down by Victor, we are guiding the guards through formation movements, the three major marching steps, housekeeping, and other training content," introduced Angoulême, the general commandant of this training session. "To better help new members keep up with training and grow strong, we have adopted a competitive method based on results, where the top three squads receive bonuses, and the bottom three squads receive lashes. This fully mobilizes their enthusiasm, with the goal of producing results in the shortest possible time."
According to the observations of logistics butler Alfie, during this seven-day short-term training course, Lady Angoulême was using militarized management to strengthen the group's sense of crisis, improve teamwork, and lay a solid foundation for the estate's future guard work.
Seeing how she mixed kingly dominance with both reward and punishment, bringing all those sturdy mercenaries to heel until they obeyed every command as if they were extensions of her own limbs, the butler sighed with emotion. As expected of that man's sister, her training methods were quite unique.
After confirming that Angoulême did not need his help, Alfie then walked to the recruitment office on the outskirts of the estate for an inspection. A clerk brought the six peasant women they were preparing to hire before the butler, letting him make the final confirmation.
They would be responsible for cleaning the mansion, in other words, they would be housekeepers. It must be emphasized that they all wore clothes while working.
And as an experienced butler, Alfie saw at a glance that among the six peasant women before him, one was unique. Although she wore old clothes and had rubbed dust on her face as concealment, no matter how he looked at her, she did not seem like a peasant woman. Her facial features were clear and defined, and her emerald eyes were pure and misty.
Calling her aside alone, Alfie asked seriously, "You do not look like a village woman from around here. Tell me, where are you from? What is your name?"
...
Several months earlier. Spring. The courtyard of Kaer Morhen.
The sword in his hand moved in smooth, perfect circles. Amid the rotating impacts of three windmills, he responded with ease. It was now Eskel's teaching time.
"Apprentice, you must remember that we study swordsmanship so that even in the unfavorable situation of one against three, we can still find an opportunity to turn the tables and kill the opponent in battle."
Amazed, Leo could not help asking, "You're incredible, Eskel. Then what's the maximum number of fully armed soldiers we can defeat at once?"
"Don't learn from Geralt or Victor. The two of them are respectively the worst examples for witchers and witcher apprentices!"
Passing through the high-speed pincer attack of the windmills, Eskel removed the blindfold covering his eyes. His disfigured face was gentle and calm. "Never learn from them. Witchers are not knights. Fighting many at once is impressive, but if you have a choice, always maintain a one-on-one situation. Better still, make it many against one in your favor.
"Always listen to the voice of reason. Do not choose the wrong opponent. Do not let yourself fall into a desperate situation where you have no choice but to fight. The difference brought by improved swordsmanship is limited. Correct judgment is what lets you live longer.
"In specific environments, combined with bombs and Signs, a witcher can cause astonishing slaughter and fight one against ten, or even one against twenty. But so what? Not only does that violate our rules, more importantly, no one will pay us for it!"
...
"You want to know The Witcher's Rules?
"Hahahaha, if this were a novel, that sort of thing would definitely be placed in the related works section, because it's for reference only!"
, A certain witcher who wished to remain anonymous
...
Late that night, the moon was bright and the stars were few, on the wilderness at the foot of Mount Gorgon in the Duchy of Toussaint.
Thinking back to Eskel's professional education several months ago, and to the winding scars that spread across his face, Leo shook his head with a bitter smile and sighed.
Precisely because he had violated that professional education, he was now at the end of his road.
He did not feel wronged at all. After all, he had gone against Eskel's guidance and chosen dozens of fully armed villains as his enemies, one of whom was even a mage. His death had been destined from the beginning.
Although Leo had used the anti-magic metal bomb Victor gave him to unexpectedly kill that mage, the difference in numbers quickly exhausted his potions and bombs, and he himself had been pushed step by step into a dead end.
His journey ending here did not leave Leo with regrets. He had already taken many contracts and helped many people. In any case, very few witchers died peacefully in their own beds.
He even felt that he had been very lucky to meet Eskel, Victor, and Vesemir, and to become a witcher with their help.
The former had given him professional education, the latter had given him new recruit training, and Victor was the benefactor who had made the super Grass Draught. According to what Vesemir had said during the new recruit training process, very few witchers could be like him, quickly grasping Sign casting immediately after mutation, with outstanding physical coordination and no defects to be found.
A successfully mutated person like him, in the early days when more senior witchers were still alive, would definitely have been like the White Wolf, passively subjected to a subsequent series of additional potions to see whether stronger abilities could be mutated. Fortunately, only these people remained at Kaer Morhen now.
As for sharp-tongued Lambert and silent Geralt, to tell the truth, Leo was not very familiar with the two of them. But at this moment, when he was nearing death while carrying out his path, he also blessed them and wished their journeys would be long.
"Heh heh heh, how lucky. In the end, it was our Eighth Squad that caught you, you cruel, filthy, damned mutant freak. You killed so many of our people. Don't be afraid, you won't die quickly. We'll treat you well with branding irons and bamboo spikes!"
A vicious voice sounded. In the moonlight, more than ten figures appeared indistinctly. Four of them held crossbows. Knowing that in such an open place there was no longer any room to escape, the witcher picked up his steel sword and charged toward the villains.
Leo cut down three people and deflected one crossbow bolt. His Quen shield blocked another, but in the end, one bolt struck his shoulder, and another struck his lower abdomen. He fell to the ground.
"Good shooting! Spotted Dog, Toad, I'm proud of you. Wait to collect your money. The Professor will be very happy too!" The bearded leader was complacent. He licked his lips and walked toward the witcher. "You're finished, you dog bastard. Even Melitele can't save you now! Soon enough, you'll be crying as you tell us the whereabouts of that stinking bitch!"
Propping up his upper body, Leo drew a dissecting knife and prepared to kill himself. But at that moment, a strange black mist suddenly rose across the field.
Under the moonlight, the black mist drifted and swayed, faintly threaded with blood. It enveloped the villains. Seeing the scene of blood-threaded black mist, the witcher's eyes abruptly widened. Could it be the very kind of creature Vesemir and Eskel had both solemnly warned him about!?
Several whooshing sounds rang out. Three fierce bandits in succession were dragged down by their ankles and pulled into the black mist. Then came screams so miserable that they barely seemed human, echoing along with the sounds of bodies being squeezed, crack, crack, bones being crushed, crunch, crunch, and blood being freshly pressed out, splash, splash.
The remaining people instantly fell into panic. They roared and slashed continuously at the black mist, but it was all useless. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, another six people were seized by some force, dragged down, and pulled into the black mist.
This time, the number of people doubled, and the screams became twice as shrill. The sounds of squeezing, crushing, and wringing dry grew even clearer. In an instant, the few still alive all collapsed...
They fled in utter panic, wishing their parents had given them two more legs.
The weakened Leo's hand could no longer support him as he watched their ending. He could only lie on his back and look at the bright moon in the sky, listening to the wails and pleas for mercy that kept coming to his ears.
They shouted Melitele's name. They shouted Lebioda's name. They cried out the glory of the Eternal Fire. They prayed to every god they could think of for salvation. Then they all died cleanly, and everything returned to silence.
The autumn wind blew past, carrying the smell of blood through the air. Clack, clack, clack, clack, footsteps sounded. A man walked to Leo's side, blocking out the moon.
Although he was backlit, the witcher's eyes could still clearly make out the other man's outline. For an instant, he almost thought the newcomer was Victor, because the clothes he wore were very similar to the Van Helsing set Victor had once shown him.
An all-black high-collared coat, tailored close to the body, with exquisite buttons fastened meticulously, a fitted genuine leather belt, and studded shoulder pads, utterly domineering.
After his eyes adjusted to the light, Leo saw the other man clearly. He was a middle-aged man filled with mature charm. His face was pale and his features sharply sculpted. His nasolabial folds were deep, and his hawk-like eyes were sharp as lightning. There was faint stubble along his jaw, and his hair was combed back without a single strand out of place.
The witcher suddenly remembered where he had once seen him.
A few days ago, when he had parted with Sasha at the Cockatrice Inn, the middle-aged man had been sitting nearby drinking crayfish chowder. Because his appearance was so distinctive, the witcher had remained cautious. But in the end, the middle-aged man had not made any move at all. Unexpectedly, several days later, he had appeared here.
And if there were no surprises, this middle-aged man was undoubtedly...
"Witcher, sacrificing your life for a woman you haven't known long, do you think it was worth it?" He stood above him, his tone plain, neither arrogant nor warm.
The question struck straight at his heart. Leo's breathing gradually weakened. "Whether it was worth it or not doesn't matter. I've already done it."
Hearing the witcher's answer, the middle-aged man's lips curved slightly.
"Well said. Tell me, what is your name?"
...
//Check out my P@tre0n for 30 extra chapters //[email protected]/Razeil0810