Stregobor believed John had chosen Renfri.
Renfri believed John had chosen Stregobor.
A strange turn of events.
John hadn't planned to get involved in the first place, yet somehow they both decided he had taken a side.
From Stregobor's perspective, he was acting righteously—eliminating a girl cursed by the Black Sun, preventing the dark goddess of the night from setting foot on the Continent.
He even thought of himself as a saint.
From Renfri's point of view, she had been defiled by hunters sent by Stregobor, hunted down, and driven from the kingdom that should have been hers.
Everything she did was for survival and for revenge.
But Stregobor, unmoved by the threat to the lives of the townsfolk, saw his own existence as more valuable than theirs.
So even if Renfri slaughtered everyone in the town, to him it would only prove the brutality of the Black Sun's curse—nothing more than a testament to his own "holy" sacrifice for the greater good.
Renfri, on the other hand, was willing to drag the innocent into her vendetta without hesitation.
John was certain that if Stregobor refused to come out, Renfri would indeed kill everyone.
As he had said before: villains and saints.
If the one in the tower had truly been a saint, he would have come out for the sake of a child—even for the sake of a stranger.
But what Stregobor had done—imprisoning a girl in a tower, dissecting her—none of it had anything to do with sainthood.
He was a petty man, through and through.
And Renfri was no different.
A petty man against a petty woman—each concerned only with themselves, neither sparing a shred of grief for anyone else.
Stregobor had magic.
Renfri had a body immune to magic.
Her sword could not pierce the barrier of sorcery, and magic could not harm her flesh.
The spear of one against the shield of the other.
Neither could overcome the other, neither could inflict true harm.
They were evenly matched—destined either to destroy each other together or to fight endlessly without resolution.
It was always bound to be a story without a happy ending.
They both knew it. That was why they were so desperate to seek the help of a third force.
A witcher.
A master swordsman, trained to hunt magical creatures.
That was exactly the key they needed to break the deadlock.
So both sides tried to win John over, forcing him to make a choice.
A sorcerer against a cursed woman.
There could be only one outcome: one side consumed by the other.
But John was not merely a witcher. He was also a wizard.
His way of thinking was not the same as that of ordinary witchers.
Stregobor wanted to rely on the townsfolk to pressure him.
Because witchers existed to fight monsters, and when monsters fought among themselves, it was humans who benefited.
So Stregobor intended to exploit that witcher's sense of duty—or call it his instinct to protect humanity—by turning the people against John and driving him out.
Just as, once upon a time, a witcher had cleared a kingdom of monsters, only for Stregobor to dismiss him as a fraud, cheating the witcher out of his pay and getting the king to cast him out.
Arrogance.
That was how Stregobor had always survived.
But he had forgotten something.
When facing a monster, it was best to remain humble.
Especially this monster—who had just slain another monster.
The stones hurled by the townsfolk were accompanied by curses and insults. They didn't realize that, if not for this "beast," this "creature," stepping in, they would already have been slaughtered by that supposedly "innocent" woman and her followers—all thanks to the sorcerer they so revered.
They believed only what they saw, what they heard, what they chose to believe.
Even Marijka, who had witnessed who struck first, said to John, "Leave, Yadani. You're not welcome here."
Stregobor thought he could carry on with his experiments and drive the witcher away.
But when that streak of white light flashed past him and slammed into the city wall, Stregobor realized, with chilling clarity, how gravely mistaken he had been.
Level-6 magic, coupled with a Level-6 Crushing Spell!
Even without the aid of the Silverhand or a power crystal, it still carried the force to shatter fortifications.
White light crackled along the wand, dragging behind it a streak of destructive lightning that reduced the wall to powder in moments.
The rumbling crash that followed was like the roar of an enraged dragon.
The townsfolk froze mid-throw, their stones falling from their hands as they stared in horror at the witcher they had tried to condemn with their so-called "morality."
"You… you can't possibly…" Stregobor's eyes widened in disbelief.
No one had ever told him that a witcher could wield a wand.
As a sorcerer, his pride had always led him to look down on witchers—mutants born of a mage's experiments.
Even though some witchers could use what he considered rough, paltry scraps of magic, it never changed his contempt.
Mages were proud; they built their towers and likened themselves to the seagulls that perched upon them, aloof above the common folk.
But that single streak of white light had completely shattered Stregobor's illusion—and with it, his fleeting sense of triumph.
The wand smoked faintly from the strain of channeling the Crushing Spell at such power.
John's gaze swept past Stregobor and came to rest on the townsfolk.
His voice was calm, almost kind. "Since you dared raise your hands against me, it means you have the courage to face the dangers beyond these walls, yeah?"
He smiled in a way that seemed harmless, yet his words sent a chill down every spine present.
"Take those stones of yours and use them against the man-eating monsters outside, with the same courage you just showed when you attacked a 'monster' like me."
The walls that had protected Blaviken collapsed with a thunderous crash. The town now lay bare, like a young girl stripped of her clothing, exposed to the eyes—and appetites—of those who harbored ill intent.
"And one more thing, Stregobor," John added.
John's gaze shifted back to Stregobor, and he let out a soft, almost playful chuckle.
"Heh~ I'd advise you not to… Not about stopping your dissections, but rather…"
Everyone had thought that Renfri, lying there in a pool of blood, was already dead—her small sword still clenched in her hand.
Then, all of a sudden, her fingers twitched. Her once-closed eyes snapped open.
"I never said I killed her," John remarked.
As he spoke, Stregobor—who had been standing only a heartbeat ago—collapsed forward onto his hands and knees.
With great effort, he turned his head to look back.
Renfri was drenched in thick, dark blood, like a vengeful spirit risen straight out of hell. Her neck was slightly crooked, a result of the blow John had struck earlier with the flat of his sword—a bit harder than he'd intended.
In her grip was that same little sword, still slick with fresh blood.
And in the spot where Stregobor had just been standing, there were now only a pair of severed feet.
Blood spurted from his stumps, soaking the tattered cuffs of his trousers. Renfri had sliced through his ankles in one swift motion. The triumphant expression he'd worn a moment ago crumbled into naked terror.
"You're not dead—she's not dead!!"
The mage who had, moments before, been scheming and confident was now reduced to a pathetic wretch, scrabbling through the mud with his hands as he shrieked in desperation.
"Help me! Witcher, kill her—kill her, hurry!"
John, as if he were the conductor of a grand performance who had just brought the symphony to its perfect crescendo, calmly slipped his wand back into the holster at his waist.
He bent forward slightly with effortless grace, positioning himself so that he was looking down on Stregobor.
With a faint sigh of regret, he said, "Sorry, but I have no desire to become a murderer. Didn't you say so yourself? That I shouldn't be dispensing vigilante justice and trampling over the laws of Blaviken's streets."
He let out a soft, amused chuckle, then turned and took two unhurried steps forward, neatly sidestepping Stregobor's desperate attempt to clutch at his ankle.
Raising his voice to address the terrified crowd, he called out, "See? I didn't kill anyone."
"Now then…"
Behind him, Blaviken's seven subordinates staggered to their feet, pale and trembling, weapons still clutched tightly in their hands despite their wounds and dazed state.
John turned toward the townsfolk and waved, flashing them an elegant smile.
"Your murderers—your monsters—are about to take their leave. The stage is yours now, brave citizens of justice~ Heh~"
He began to stride away, each step so measured and calm that the muddy ground beneath his boots might as well have been a finely laid brown carpet.
The black-haired witcher passed through the crowd in silence.
From beginning to end, he had chosen no side, aided no one, killed no one.
Just as Stregobor had said, choices could never be known—whether they were right or wrong.
And Stregobor's own choices had led to the present outcome.
Choices were always mutual.
Neutrality—that was the creed by which witchers lived.
And retaliation—that was the declaration of the Second King of the wizarding world.
A king must not be insulted.
John hoped that those so-called righteous and pure citizens would come to truly understand that simple truth.
He left the borders of Blaviken behind.
Fortunately, the tailor's shop had managed to trim the bearskin for him before the chaos began.
He remembered seeing how the shop's scissors had broken several times while working on it.
As a merchant—as an alchemist—he abided by the rules of fair trade.
He left behind the remaining two gold coins as payment.
He just wasn't sure whether the shopkeeper would ever get to collect them.
He later heard about Blaviken's fate from somewhere else.
As a sorcerer, Stregobor had excellent means of escape, while Renfri, having had her leg injured by John, was unable to move swiftly.
Covered in mud, Stregobor fled Blaviken, abandoning the very townsfolk he had incited.
The people of Blaviken, it seemed, did not display the same lofty sense of justice they had shown when condemning the witcher.
At least when faced with someone who truly meant them harm, they chose to run.
Turning their backs on the enemy led to the deaths of more than a hundred of them.
Renfri's fate remained unknown, while the kingdom's forces began hunting down that vicious band.
What were they called again…? Ah, the Shrikes.
Meanwhile, the legend of the Black Witcher spread even farther, as if confirming the claim that witchers were devoid of emotion.
John thought it was all nonsense, especially as he stood there, staring at the notice board and feeling a headache coming on.
Name: The Black Witcher Yadani
Threat Level: Extremely Dangerous
Bounty: 1,000 gold coins
One thousand... Damn...
It seemed he was worth quite a bit after all.