A brand-new panel unfolded before his eyes.
[Follower: Reinald
Gender: Male
Race: Witcher
Level: 1
Talent: Miasmal Body
Experience: 0 / 1000
Health: 2200 / 2200
Mana: 2500 / 2500
Inventory: None
Skill Set: Wolf School Techniques, Advanced Wolf School Swordsmanship, Advanced Wolf School Signs, Advanced Forging, Advanced Tailoring, Advanced Occult Studies, Advanced Herbalism, Advanced General Knowledge, Advanced Alchemy, Intermediate Horsemanship, Intermediate Crossbow Mastery, Basic Gwent Skills
Quest: None]
Compared to the panels of trolls, dragons, giants, or higher vampires, a witcher's stats might seem humble—but witchers were never about raw power. Their strength came from deep knowledge and honed technique, triumphing over monsters far stronger than themselves.
What mattered here wasn't Reinald's base stats, but the rare talent shaped by his unique ordeal.
[Sharing follower talent…]
[Shared Talent: Miasmal Body]
Miasmal Body: The bearer of this talent is immune to all bacterial and viral diseases and has complete resistance to all toxins.
Lann's gaze sharpened. Did this mean… he could push his potion tolerance even further?
The true potential of this talent could be explored later.
Under the tense watch of the other witchers, Reinald's body was suddenly flooded with a vitality far greater than spring itself. When he inhaled his first breath, he still teetered at the edge of death. But as he exhaled, it was as if he had expelled death from his very being.
His wounds and afflictions vanished in a single breath, and even the weariness etched into his face from centuries of torment lifted, replaced by renewed vigor.
"Yennefer," Lann barked sharply, never relaxing for a second. "Now! Release the seal!"
A torrent of magic surged into Reinald's body. At that very instant, the sorceress abruptly withdrew her spell.
A second later, a thick, blood-red mist erupted from Reinald's body, rolling out in waves. It seeped from every pore of his skin. In that moment, it felt as if the screams of countless voices—men, women, the elderly, children—echoed in the ears of all present.
Then, the Red Miasmal finally revealed its true form.
It stood three meters tall. Its upper body was vaguely humanoid, while its lower half was a swirling, shapeless mist. Its few patches of skin were rugged and dry like cracked bark, and its body bristled with jagged spikes glowing with a bloody gleam.
The moment it emerged, it let out a shriek and charged for the exit. For a heartbeat, the witchers, still basking in the joy of Reinald's recovery, were too stunned to react.
Fortunately, in the very next second, a burst of violet energy clung to the creature's body, sharply reducing its speed and locking it in place like a magical cage.
Lann's Yrden Sign lasted far longer than any expected, and its effect was unnaturally powerful.
Vesemir, Geralt, Lambert, Eskel, and Chappelle—currently in Geralt's form—all drew their longswords at once. This time, they had no reason to hold back.
"Wait!" a raspy voice called out.
The sudden removal of the wraith left Reinald dazed on the ground. But his eyes, now filled with murderous intent, were locked onto the creature.
He felt something pressed into his left hand—a potion flask. Looking up, he saw Lann, who gave him an encouraging smile.
Reinald threw his head back and drank the potion in one go. In an instant, clarity returned to his mind.
Without missing a beat, he activated a Quen shield with a tap of his left hand, then shaped a distant Aard Sign with practiced precision.
"Let me… I need to settle the score for these centuries of torment!"
The others stepped back. Geralt returned the Lady of the Lake's sword to Lann, who then passed it to Reinald.
"Have fun with it," Lann said with a grin.
...
The Red Miasmal's end was nothing short of tragic.
Three hundred years ago, even after falling victim to possession, Reinald had managed to seal the wraith away through sheer magical knowledge and formidable willpower.
Now, with a body restored to its prime by the Follower system, he could wield his full strength with abandon.
The evil spirit, born from the dying hatred of countless plague victims, never got the chance to ravage the living world. It vanished, howling, in the very place where it had first emerged.
And with that, Reinald himself brought a fitting end to the vow he had upheld for nearly three centuries.
Chappelle's original request was now fulfilled.
But he had one final request to make.
The Devil's Pit remained saturated with disease and infection—a desolate, lifeless land. Anyone who approached risked contamination.
So, he asked Lann to 'purify' the place.
At the entrance of the mine, Lann raised his left hand, formed a Sign, and took a deep breath.
[Igni Sign – Pyromaniac – Magic Burst]!
Blazing flames erupted from his palm, as though a tireless dragon had taken residence within him. Wave after wave of searing heat, imbued with cleansing magic, surged into the plague-ridden tunnel, reducing the evil that once dwelled there to nothing but ash.
Chappelle's melted visage reformed, shifting from Geralt's face back into the visage of the Eternal Fire's High Priest.
His expression was cold, yet his eyes held a trace of sorrow. He dropped to his knees, hands clasped before his chest.
"Flame, ignite us. Shield us from evil. Flame, never extinguished, guide us even in death.
Eternal Fire, we pray to you.
Eternal Fire, we place our faith in you.
Eternal Fire…"
The witchers stepped back as the rising heat made their faces flush.
Reinald watched Chappelle with interest. His centuries of suffering had been deeply tied to the Eternal Fire—one might even say he had a score to settle.
Who would've thought the Eternal Fire's throne had been usurped by a shapeshifter? Reinald felt a strange and quiet satisfaction.
But soon his attention was drawn to Lann, whose flames had reached a level intense enough to ignite an entire village—perhaps even a town—and they hadn't stopped yet.
Before long, the rocks around the mine burst into wild, rootless fire. Even materials that shouldn't burn began to blaze. Amid booming explosions and collapsing structures, tremors rumbled from deep underground.
Chappelle closed his eyes, a faint shimmer of tears visible.
"I accept this sin. From now on, I shall cleanse the name of the flame.
Brothers and sisters, let us pray together—
Flame that protects the world, burn away filth;
Flame that protects the world, warm our path;
Flame that reveals evil, and scatters it into smoke…"
Reinald leaned over and nudged Vesemir with his elbow.
"Old one, what's the deal with that cub wearing the lion crest? That Sign of his—wasn't that a bit… over the top? And why do I feel so drawn to him the moment I met him?"
Vesemir chuckled.
"Lann's got that effect on people. Everyone ends up liking him… And truth be told, a lot has happened over the last two hundred years. Let's take it slow…"
...
"What?! The witcher order was rebuilt? And now there are six different schools again?!"
Novigrad, Temple Isle, guest hall of the Eternal Fire.
Having been cut off from the world for centuries, Reinald gasped repeatedly as the others brought him up to speed on all that had transpired.
Vesemir nodded, smiling.
Lambert grabbed the jug on the table and filled every cup, glancing curiously at Reinald.
"Why does your medallion look so different from ours? And that armor you had—it doesn't match any of ours. Honestly, I almost didn't recognize you as one of the Wolf School."
Modern witcher medallions were sculpted in full relief, but Reinald's pendant was just a flat metal disc, coin-sized, engraved with a wolf's head in bas-relief.
Basically, the difference between 3D and 2D.
"Back in our day," Reinald said patiently, "we forged our own medallions after passing the Trial of the Mountain. They weren't handed to us by mentors like yours are."
Despite appearing like a man in his thirties, Reinald carried himself with a gentleness that surpassed even white-haired Vesemir—a serenity honed over centuries.
"I forged this armor myself," Reinald said. "Back then, the brothers were always handing me bits of gear and scrap—somehow I'd turn it all into something useful…"
"That's incredible!" Eskel exclaimed. "That armor of yours really is tough. We hacked away at it from all sides—four of us—and it still didn't break, even after centuries without maintenance!"
Reinald couldn't help but crack a smile. "You lot didn't hold back either. Were you not the least bit worried about killing me by mistake?"
His talent for smithing was indeed remarkable. The armor he had crafted combined several long-lost techniques with his own alchemical enhancements, especially attuned to witcher Signs.
"I spent years on it," Reinald continued. "Kept in touch by letter with the stationed armorers, alchemists, and mages of the time. I even traveled across nearly the entire North to gather what I needed. My original plan was to bring the design back to the school as a template for future Wolf School armor—but…" He trailed off, shaking his head.
Vesemir let out a long sigh, sorrow clouding his features.
"If only you hadn't been trapped here… That armor could've made a real difference for the School of the Wolf."
"Maybe we wouldn't have been so helpless during the uprising…"
He was referring to the tragedy that had nearly wiped out Kaer Morhen.
Reinald fell silent for a moment. Then, with a deep sigh, he gently patted Vesemir's shoulder.
"You were Barmin's apprentice, weren't you? He was a dear friend of mine—and you've done him proud."
"It couldn't have been easy, all these years…"
While the witchers on one side exchanged memories of the past, Lann pulled Chappelle aside.
They each filled their cups. The Duke of Cintra now faced the High Priest of the Eternal Fire—his expression solemn.
"There will be an uprising in Redania soon. Strictly speaking… perhaps it will be more of a rebellion."
Lann's first sentence made Chappelle's face change dramatically.
"I need your help, Chappelle."
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