Renfri's words seemed to carry a deeper meaning.
John spent the night out in the wild.
He really missed the tents from the HP world.
"I thought I could fish out a magical creature or two… looks like that's not happening."
Still unwilling to give up, John wandered around the forest again, but found nothing.
Only a few squirrels scurried up and down the trees with nuts in their mouths.
John raised a hand and caught one that dropped from a branch.
He poked its puffed cheek with a finger, and the nut popped out.
Setting the squirrel back down, he walked over to Bolo.
The massive bear pelt still lay on Bolo's back. He didn't lack for money now, but carrying it around was cumbersome.
"Might as well have it made into a cloak."
With that thought, John slung the bear pelt over the saddle and rode toward the town.
Though he could make one himself, he figured he could spend that time finding a place to sell the ring instead.
There was a tailor in the town—he had noticed one at the marketplace when he left yesterday.
"Once the cloak's done, I'll leave," John murmured.
He hadn't encountered any magical creatures in the town to complete his trial, so he was ready to head for the next place.
As he re-entered the town, John sensed something off.
He looked up—the round tower still stood where it had before, but the marketplace carried an uneasy air.
He found the tailor's shop; the owner was a still-charming woman.
When she saw the bear pelt, her eyes lit up.
John paid her two gold coins to have it done quickly.
The shopkeeper nodded eagerly—business like this hadn't come her way in a long time.
Leaving the tailor's, John set out to sell a ring.
He'd grown used to spending galleons, so his habits tended toward generosity.
That left him a little short of cash after all his recent expenses.
Emily still owed him a hefty sum, but the payment wasn't due yet.
He couldn't find a place to sell the ring..
But he did run into an old acquaintance first.
Hardly an "acquaintance," really.
They'd met only once.. back at the tavern yesterday.
Renfri's men.
A burly, bald brute blocked John's path, gripping a nasty-looking two-handed blade.
Six others stood behind him, each armed with different weapons, all glaring at John with predatory eyes.
"So you've come," the bald man growled, fixing John with a hard stare. "The lesser evil, witcher."
It happened to be the day of the town festival, but no one from that direction dared come near.
John thought it over and, not wanting trouble, said, "If I told you I'm just passing through… would you believe me?"
He truly hadn't planned to meddle here—neither side was innocent.
He had no idea why both the sorcerer and Renfri had decided to rope him in.
One thing was certain: the murderous aura radiating from these seven men said enough about the blood on their hands.
They glared at him like hungry wolves. One of them raised a crossbow and took aim at John.
As long as John refused to choose, that bolt would be loosed straight at him.
John sighed. What was this supposed to be—a forced choice?
"So what exactly are you planning to do?" he asked, genuinely curious about Renfri's intentions.
The men exchanged looks. At last, the bald brute spoke bluntly. "If that sorcerer doesn't come out, we'll slaughter everyone in this town."
"So he came out, then?" John looked at them as if they were fools.
That look made the bald man's face darken with anger.
"Renfri is still negotiating with him," he said.
To John, their tactics were laughably crude.
Such methods might work against saints—but against a man like that sorcerer, they were utterly useless.
John focused his hearing and caught the sound of shouting in the distance.
"Even if you kill everyone here—hell, even if you wipe out every village around—I still won't come out, and I sure as hell won't let you in!"
It was the sorcerer's voice.
Faced with Renfri's threat, the sorcerer chose the most cold-blooded response—
a stark contrast to the noble, righteous image he'd projected yesterday in front of John.
"Hey, what are you daydreaming about?"
A rough voice snapped him back. John glanced at the seven men watching him warily.
For all their insults toward a witcher, they were clearly on edge.
A single look from John was enough to make the man holding the crossbow tense up.
The bolt shot through the air!
But just before it could reach him, John raised his hand and froze it mid-flight.
"What's this?"
His gaze fixed on the shaft; there was something different about the arrowhead.
It carried a faint, unnatural aura—clearly designed to target sorcerers.
Its function reminded John a little of his own crafted mana loops.
"A weapon made specifically for dealing with mages?" he murmured.
The men didn't wait for his answer—they were already charging at him.
"Let me see your strength!"
The bald brute roared as he charged in, swinging his heavy blade.
"Ah, for fuck's sake.." John glanced up at him—his Sign flashed—and the man froze mid-stride, stiff as a board, then toppled over like a felled log.
The others surged forward. John drew his silver sword.
With a flick of his wrist, the Aard-like telekinetic blast seized one attacker and hurled him aside.
His blade met an incoming strike, twisted, and sheared the opponent's weapon clean in half.
Pivoting on his heel, John kicked into a raised oak shield, sending its wielder staggering.
In the same breath, he leapt, driving the silver sword straight through the shield and the man behind it.
A sweep of silver light carved through the air—and in the span of a single breath, seven foes were reduced to one.
The last man, the one with the crossbow, threw it aside and charged with a sword.
John didn't even bother to look at him; he merely raised his left hand, and the man was flung backward, slamming into a wall.
John was just about to sheath his blade when the sound of hurried footsteps reached him.
"Yadani!"
A sharp cry rang out behind him, and John turned his head to look.
Renfri saw John fling her own men aside.
She had a hostage—Marijka, the girl who had guided John to town the day before.
"You've made your choice." Her eyes burned with a mix of anger and hurt as she stared at him.
"I'll kill everyone here until Stregobor comes down!"
Like a lioness robbed of her cubs, she pressed the edge of her blade to Marijka's skin, the steel glinting coldly.
John raised his left hand.
Renfri sneered. "Magic doesn't work on me."
"Doesn't work?" John tilted his head slightly. "You sure about that?"
Renfri shoved Marijka aside and lunged at John with lightning speed.
Her sword strikes were sharp and deadly, the kind of precision honed through countless battles.
John tried a telekinetic blast, only to find that it slid off her harmlessly.
That surprised him.
He was reminded of Hagrid—how a giant's skin could shrug off spells.
Could Renfri be part giant?
John shifted tactics. He snapped his fingers.
The door behind Renfri exploded into splinters—yet she herself stood unharmed.
"Figures," John muttered.
He twisted aside to evade another slash, bringing up his sword to block.
Catching Renfri's sword arm with his left hand, he wrenched hard—only to find she didn't let go.
"You'll have to kill me if you want me to stop!" Renfri snarled, yanking a short blade from her belt with her free hand and stabbing toward him.
John stepped back just in time to dodge the strike.
Renfri's fury made her attacks brutal and relentless.
After a brief pause, John silently drew a wand with his left hand.
Renfri shifted her stance—long sword in her right, short blade in her left—crossing them in a guard position.
At the sight of the wand, a flicker of doubt crossed her face.
But she quickly pressed forward again.
John sized her up: her swordsmanship had to be nearing Level 6.
Wielding two blades, Renfri moved with seamless coordination—left hand darting quick and sharp, right hand heavy and forceful.
Yet despite her relentless offense and tight defense, Renfri still couldn't break through John's blade work.
After a flurry of clashes, the wand in John's left hand darted out like a viper, silently piercing her right hand.
Hot on its heels came a seamless, unrelenting storm of silver-sword strikes.
Deep cuts opened across Renfri's body—the worst on her arm and thigh. Blood sprayed as her footing faltered.
She staggered back again and again, her grip slipping on the sword in her injured right hand.
With sheer force, John's silver blade swept through her guard, shearing her longsword in two and sending the broken piece spinning away, before the tip of his blade came to rest against her throat.
Knowing she had lost, Renfri drew a deep breath and said softly, almost pleading, "Could you… give me a hug?"
"No." John's sword flashed.
Renfri crumpled to the ground.
John stood over her fallen form, sword planted in the earth, watching as blood soaked her clothes.
"I really was just passing through…" he muttered, sounding genuinely weary.
Did no one ever believe him?
For a moment, he even felt Harry seemed like a wise man by comparison.
Only then did the townsfolk begin to emerge slowly from the market square, their eyes wide as they took in the bloody aftermath of the fight.
Stregobor came striding over, his eyes alight as they fixed on Renfri's fallen body.
"Marijka! Marijka!" he shouted.
When the girl stepped out from the crowd, he said excitedly, "Fetch me a cart! I need to bring her back to the tower for dissection!"
He looked at her the way a mad scientist would look at a specimen—eyes gleaming with fanaticism, human life meaning nothing to him.
John lifted his sword and tapped the flat of the blade against the sorcerer's shoulder.
Only then did Stregobor seem to remember the witcher standing right there.
His gaze fell on the blood-stained edge of the silver sword, and for an instant a flicker of fear crossed his eyes.
"You're out of your mind. Her mutation would have spread to others—that's why they followed her," he snapped, assuming John was opposing his plan. Then, with a bitter edge in his voice, he added, "You've fallen for her tricks, haven't you?"
"I'd advise you not to touch her," John said evenly, noticing the growing crowd around them.
But Stregobor seemed to draw courage from the gathering townsfolk.
His tone turned mocking and sharp: "Witcher, you've killed a person in the streets of Blaviken. You've taken justice into your own hands and shown contempt for the law!"
Spurred on by his words, the onlookers began to grow agitated, shouting angrily at John, hurling curses and insults his way.
A man from the crowd shouted, "Bastard!"
The innkeeper barked, "You're a monster!"
A woman in beige yelled, "It's your fault she's like this!"
A long-haired man sneered, "Come on then, you butcher."
One by one, they hurled insults at John, giving Stregobor the illusion of complete control.
He stepped closer to John, his voice smooth and infuriating: "You've made a choice—you'll never know if it was right or wrong."
That smile of his was unbearably smug.
The crowd, already stirred, picked up stones and began hurling them at John. One landed at his feet.
Then more stones came flying.
Suddenly, a rock shot straight at John.
Before it could hit him, it stopped midair.
"I don't care.. really, and.."
John's face remained calm as he slowly sheathed his sword.
He walked toward the smug sorcerer, leaned close, and whispered into his ear: "Who made you think I'd swallow my anger?"
The sorcerer, who had been all smiles a moment ago, suddenly froze.
John sheathed his sword, merely to make drawing his wand easier.
"And one more thing…"
White light flickered along the wand.
John grinned, his voice a low whisper, like a demon speaking.
"Who told you I'm just a witcher?"
Moral blackmail? To the King of Knockturn Ally? Pfft!
He swung the wand.
________
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