Bilbo gasped: "Five hundred years? That's... that's nearly five times the lifespan of a hobbit!"
"Second, strength. With proper training, an experienced witcher can overcome a regular armed force of several hundred men."
"Their swordsmanship is superb; the speed with which they draw and swing their swords is so fast that ordinary people cannot see it."
"Moreover, some of them also know how to cast spells."
At that moment, Gandalf's glass froze in mid-air.
"Third, arrogance and disaster. There have been failures within the witcher community as well."
"Because of their long lives and immense power, they became arrogant and indifferent. Some even killed each other in pursuit of wealth, ultimately leading to catastrophe."
Bilbo opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but didn't know where to begin.
Nearby, a storm was brewing in Gandalf's mind. A witcher? Nearly five hundred years? Masterful swordsmanship? And the ability to cast spells?
The description they give is completely unlike the legendary Monster Hunters...
This clearly refers to the Númenóreans, blessed by the Valar, and in particular, Númenóreans of royal blood!
Gandalf once again carefully examined Karl's height and confirmed that it indeed matched the characteristics of a Númenórean. Though compared to the kings of past ages, this height was still somewhat insufficient. But considering that the bloodline might have been diluted, or that this individual had intermarried with other peoples over generations...
Gandalf was even more intrigued by Karl's calm yet dangerous demeanour. This was not an act; it was the aura that came from battle and being tempered by blood and fire. If this man truly was a descendant of Númenor, even if his bloodline was not pure...
Gandalf's thoughts raced as he planned the expedition, the adventure to the Lonely Mountain to reclaim the dwarves' homeland. The company needed a burglar, and he had set his sights on the hobbit Bilbo. What if they added another Númenórean? A warrior capable of living five hundred years, possessing extraordinary swordsmanship, and even knowing magic? This would significantly increase the chances of success, and Thorin's company needed such strength. The evil dragon Smaug lurked deep within the Lonely Mountain, and there might even be orcs there...
But the question was, was this man telling the truth? Or was he just a wandering adventurer who liked to boast? The bloodline of the Númenóreans in Middle-earth was already very rare. True descendants mostly lived among Gondor or the Dúnedain of the North, so how could they appear in the Shire, the distant homeland of the hobbits?
Gandalf was about to test the waters when Bilbo spoke again: "Mr. Karl, you said a witcher knows magic..."
"What kind of magic is that? Like that grey wizard's fireworks?" He pointed toward Gandalf.
Gandalf's face twitched, but he suppressed his thoughts and continued to listen attentively.
Karl smiled and said: "No, not the kind of magic that's shown on display. Witcher spells are more practical."
"For example, setting the enemy on fire to disorient them, or creating a shockwave to push enemies back."
As he spoke, his gaze seemed to inadvertently drift toward Gandalf, a barely perceptible smile flickering in his eyes.
"Of course, the most common skill is swordsmanship, and every witcher eventually becomes a master of fencing."
"At the same time, we also need to learn how to make various sword oils, potions, and bombs to deal with different monsters."
"Monsters... There are very few monsters in the Shire, at most wolves and wild boars. Did you encounter many on your travels?" Bilbo murmured, his eyes full of curiosity.
"Well, some are just beasts, while others are creatures corrupted by darkness," Karl remarked casually.
"And some... are things from outside, things that should not exist."
He spoke the last words quietly, but Gandalf frowned. Outside this world? Things that should not exist?
It sounds like he's not talking about trolls, giants, or orcs. Could this man have come into contact with...? No, that's impossible; those beings were long ago banished or are in a slumbering state.
Bilbo's eyes lit up as he listened to Karl's description of a witcher. Hobbits naturally love peace and quiet, but beneath that calm lies a curiosity for distant lands and adventures. He hesitated for a moment, unconsciously stroking the edge of his clothing, before finally mustering the courage to ask.
"Mr. Karl, you said every witcher is a master of swordsmanship... what about yourself?"
His tone was uncertain, but at the same time, there was a childlike curiosity. This hobbit, who had lived a peaceful life in the Shire, had never truly witnessed outstanding martial arts. At best, he had heard legends of elves and men only in old tales.
Karl nodded. He fully understood what Bilbo was thinking; he just wanted to see for himself. This was perfectly normal; most ordinary people, upon hearing a description of something unusual, would want to see it with their own eyes.
He continued: "Not exactly. Since you're curious, I'll show you."
With that, Karl walked toward the long table next to Gandalf. Gandalf pretended to be engrossed in examining the fruit platter on the table, but his gaze was fixed on the interaction between them.
Karl glanced at the wizard who had "heard nothing," a barely noticeable smile playing on his lips. He turned to Bilbo and gestured toward a plate of apples on the table. He picked up an apple, weighed it in his hand, and then casually tossed it to Bilbo.
"Do me a favour, throw the apple at me later," Karl said.
Bilbo clumsily caught the flying apple; the fruit seemed unusually small in his hand. He looked at the apple, then at Karl, a flicker of excitement in his eyes: "Alright, leave it to me!"
At this moment, Gandalf finally interjected, saying: "At the very last moment."
He turned around, a feigned look of confusion on his face, his pale eyebrows raised high.
"Oh, sir, are you going to put on a show for everyone?"
His gaze lingered for a moment on the pair of swords behind Karl's back, then quickly averted, as if it were just a casual question.
Bilbo laughed: "Wizard, Mr. Karl is a master of swordsmanship!"
Gandalf raised an eyebrow upon hearing Bilbo's speech, a hint of indignation flickering in his expression.
"Good heavens, Mr. Bilbo, you have a terrible memory."
"I come here every year for the Summer Solstice festival to set off fireworks, but you don't even remember my name."
This was only partly true; Bilbo didn't actually remember the wizard's name. In the Shire, wizards were mysterious figures, and hobbits called them "Mr. Wizard." They preferred to just avoid them; who would want to learn their names?
Bilbo froze, thought it over carefully, and realised that he indeed hadn't asked, or rather, hadn't remembered. He somewhat awkwardly scratched his head: "Well... I..."