"Truth of All Things…"
Allen's gaze focused entirely on Tissaia de Vries's face.
With a name as arrogant and pretentious as "Truth of All Things," it had to be connected to sorcerers in some way.
Sensing Allen's attention, Tissaia paused for a moment, then explained: "The Truth of All Things Trading Guild is affiliated with the Brotherhood of Sorcerers. It was originally founded by the legendary mages of the Chapter of the Gift and the Art to fund their spell research—and to translate their magical achievements into practical applications."
"After the Brotherhood of Sorcerers was formed, those legendary mages came to hold their own power bases. The Guild has since operated under the Brotherhood, trading safe and stable magical results, and supplying ingredients, vessels, and equipment needed by sorcerers."
"…So," Allen frowned, sensing something beneath the explanation.
Philippa Eilhart, speaking on behalf of her mentor, added: "The Guild itself isn't politically aligned. Over the years, its leadership has included not just sorcerers, but also kings and nobles from various countries. That makes it extremely difficult to trace the mastermind behind this."
"For instance, Aretuza," Augusta interjected with interest, "and the royal family of Temeria."
She cast a glance at Duke Mason.
"The Silver Lily (T/N: Insignia of Temerian Royal Family)does indeed hold interests in the Guild," Duke Mason didn't deny it. "In fact, most of the major northern kingdoms do. Among noble circles, shares in the Truth of All Things Guild are practically a top-tier currency."
At this, Ianna snorted coldly: "Then keep asking."
"I don't believe someone who hides in the shadows, pulling strings on this scale, would leave us only an untraceable guild as a clue."
Tissaia nodded and continued her questioning: "Who in the Truth of All Things Guild gave you the order?"
"I didn't see his face," Evenson paused, voice strained. "He came on behalf of the Guild, but never revealed himself."
"That evening, after the banquet held in the Guild's honor, I returned to my room… and saw him—hooded, hidden in the shadows of the corner."
"He promised me… if I killed five witchers, he'd secure me a spot as the Captain of the Royal Guard and get me into the royal court at Tretogor."
Ianna and Duke Mason exchanged glances, frowning.
To maneuver someone into the position of Royal Guard Captain was no small feat—even with the chaos from the Falka Rebellion, Redania's court was still heavily guarded.
Tissaia voiced the question they were all thinking: "How could you believe him?"
Evenson wasn't stupid. Why would he take such a risk just because the man said he was from the Guild?
"Because… because of a family crest…"
"What kind of crest?" Tissaia pressed.
"I… I can't remember." Evenson's expression turned dazed.
"No—you do remember," Tissaia's eyes flared once more with golden-violet light.
Allen thought he saw flashes of shifting images reflected in her eyes. And then, all at once—an image froze.
BOOM—
Dark red magical flames suddenly erupted from Evenson's body, sending a massive elemental shockwave into the air.
"Hmph."
Tissaia, clearly prepared, simply snorted coldly.
The wind she summoned did not feed the blaze, but rather smothered it—like cutting off all oxygen.
"Aargh—!"
A shrill, tortured scream echoed from the void. A piece of translucent, dark red parchment was torn from Evenson's chest and carried by the swirling wind.
Covered in arcane symbols and etched sigils, the parchment was unlike any traditional ritual diagram. Its writing was not Elder Speech, nor any human language, but a strange and alien script—
Twisted, grotesque, and malevolent. The ink seemed woven from pure malice itself, radiating waves of hostility. But before it could do further harm—
WHOOSH—
The golden-violet light engulfed the parchment the moment it touched the floor, incinerating it instantly.
The stench of sulfur and charred flesh filled the air.
"Demonic essence," Tissaia muttered in disgust, brushing her hand to summon a fresh breeze. The scent of oak and citrus replaced the foul odor.
"Mentor… a demon?" Philippa hesitated.
Tissaia casually smoothed back the strands of hair tousled by the wind.
"A guild that wants to kill witchers. Forbidden demonic knowledge. A perfect match, don't you think?"
In the witchers' world, the term "demon" referred to any otherworldly being summoned from another plane—not just classical devils. So while Allen found the phrasing strange, he couldn't say it was wrong.
Vesemir and Danthe exchanged tense glances.
For the first time, they were truly realizing the full weight behind Tissaia de Vries's title—the greatest sorceress on the Continent.
Witchers had long heard tales of demonic contracts. But never had they heard of anyone capable of forcibly stripping a contract out of someone's body.
Demonology… forbidden knowledge…
Allen stared silently, a chill in his chest.
Thank the gods they hadn't rushed to interrogate Evenson right away—especially not without Tissaia de Vries, and especially not outside Melitele's temple.
Otherwise, if the interrogation had gone poorly, it wouldn't have been a big loss—but if they had uncovered the truth, Allen would've had no way to remove the demonic contract from Evenson like Tissaia de Vries just did.
Caught off guard, he might even have been injured himself. After all, simply silencing someone didn't require two successive bursts of such powerful magical fluctuations.
"Urgh—"
Though the contract failed to silence Evenson—thanks to Tissaia's precise spellwork—it clearly hadn't left him unscathed.
At that moment, Evenson looked like a shattered porcelain figurine, his entire body cracked and seeping blood that stained the chiffon lining of his inner garments.
His face was so twisted it was nearly unrecognizable—uglier than a ghoul's.
Protruding cheekbones, crooked teeth, one eye burst open…
Though he didn't scream, still under Tissaia's psychic control, his breathing grew weaker and slower. Life was fading quickly.
He was dying.
"I've memorized the crest's details..."
With a wave of Tissaia's hand, an illusion appeared before everyone: a golden diagonal-striped background with a black acorn crest.
It hovered over a table, a rough, calloused hand pressing down beside it.
"Gold diagonal lines… a military noble who defended Kaedwen territory… black… wisdom and restraint… acorn…" Duke Mason furrowed his brow as he recalled.
"In heraldry, this should belong to a sorcerer of Kaedweni noble lineage…"
He turned toward Tissaia.
Tissaia shrugged.
"I've never memorized the family crests of sorcerers."
"I can look into it," Philippa Eilhart volunteered.
"Whoever managed to convince Evenson wouldn't be some low-tier spellcaster—it shouldn't be hard to trace."
Tissaia glanced at her apprentice, then at Allen, and smiled with satisfaction: "Perfect. Then I'll leave this matter to you and Allen. After all…"
"You'll be working together sooner or later."
Her tone held an intriguing implication, but before anyone could ask further, she looked down at Evenson and said, "Anything else? Ask quickly—"
"Praise be to the All-Mother," came a reverent, elderly voice beside her.
"Goddess of bounty, harvest, and childbirth, guardian of maiden, mother, and crone…"
A beam of golden light descended from above.
Evenson's injuries began to visibly heal—flesh mended, cracks sealed. And impressively, Tissaia's mental grip over him remained intact throughout.
"There's no rush. Ask at your leisure," Ianna said, glancing sidelong at Tissaia.
"No one can pull tricks or conceal their thoughts in her presence. Likewise, injuries like these are nothing to the Goddess's servants."
Tissaia just shrugged again, saying nothing.
But Philippa Eilhart was struck by a woman's intuition. Her expression turned odd as she shot a glance toward Allen.
She couldn't shake the feeling that the Arch-Priestess of the Melitele Temple sounded… jealous.
But was that even possible?
A temple leader nearing the natural end of her lifespan, jealous over a witcher—and toward the headmistress of Aretuza, no less?
She glanced at Augusta beside her. Augusta wore the same bewildered expression.
"So his target wasn't just the Wolf School or the Griffin School—it was all witchers?" Allen asked after a moment's thought.
"Yes. All of them," Evenson replied.
Allen exchanged a glance with Vesemir and Danty. The two witchers considered it, then slowly shook their heads.
"If that's the case…"
Allen's right hand began to reach for his sword—but before he could draw it, Ianna suddenly interjected: "This is Melitele's temple. Punishment should be delivered by the Goddess's servant—"
She didn't finish her sentence.
Snap!
A sharp finger snap echoed through the room.
Thud!
Evenson collapsed powerlessly to the floor, life extinguished.
The parlor fell into a momentary silence.
Ianna frowned and turned toward Tissaia de Vries, displeased.
"What are you doing?"
"Upholding order," Tissaia replied coolly, adjusting the ring on her finger and curling her lips into a faint smile.
"Judging the guilty."
She stood up from the high-backed chair and snapped her fingers again—summoning a glowing portal.
"Duke Mason, coming with me?"
"Of course." Mason looked at Allen, nodded, and allowed Arthur and Sara to help him rise.
Allen stepped forward quickly.
"Thank you, Duke Mason."
After patting Allen on the shoulder, Mason pointed to the leather armor on Allen's chest—bare, without any emblem.
"If you really want to thank me," Mason said, "then wear your family crest, Allen of Ellander."
Allen was taken aback for a moment, then nodded firmly.
"I will."
Mason curled his lips into a faint smile and waved for the bard, Yevgeny Virlad.
"Let me see your notes. Then come with us through the portal—it'll save us the trouble of the long road."
Overjoyed, Yevgeny pressed a hand to his chest in salute and handed over the prepared chiffon parchment.
Allen glanced at it briefly—everything seemed in order. He passed by Phillippa Eilhart and Augusta, stepping forward to face Tissaia de Vries.
"Lady Tissaia, I—"
"Shh~" Tissaia raised a slender finger to her lips.
"You've just returned from Drakenborg, and you haven't slept all night. Rest first."
"I'll return tonight. Then you can tell me your decision."
Somehow, Tissaia spoke as though she was already certain of his choice—even though Allen himself hadn't yet made up his mind.
But Tissaia's favor toward him—and toward the Wolf School—was real and undeniable, even if she herself claimed it was "merely for the sake of order."
Yet in the name of order, her witness alone was already enough.
By taking Evenson' life, she had now taken on at least a tenth of the wrath from Redania, the Rissberg Group's Civil Cooperative Organization, and that unknown—but likely Kaedweni—sorcerer from Ban Ard.
And with the bard now documenting it in song, Allen—whether or not he accepted the mission to rescue Hen Gedymdeith—would be shouldering an extra tenth himself.
It was a monumental favor.
"Thank you," Allen said quietly.
Tissaia blinked at him with a soft smile, then stepped into the portal.
Augusta cast him a curious glance before following.
As for Phillippa Eilhart, she paused beside Allen, opened her mouth as if to speak, but ultimately said nothing and walked away.
Allen stood staring at the portal, its surface unnaturally still, as though lost in thought.
"Allen," Ianna's voice came from behind, "a favor like this can always be repaid in other ways…"
Allen gave a bitter smile and was about to reply when—
His sharp witcher senses suddenly picked up movement to the side. His ear twitched, and he turned slightly.
Duke Mason was whispering something to Yevgeny Virlad: "Everything before this is fine, but the ending has issues…"
Yevgeny quickly looked over the elegant cursive notes on the chiffon parchment, scanning carefully but finding no errors.
"Here," Mason pointed to the end.
"The criminal acted on Ellander's soil, and his victim was a friend of Ellander's liege knight. How could his execution possibly be credited to a sorceress from Aretuza?"
Yevgeny froze.
"But…"
"Hmm?" Mason looked at him impassively.
"But what?"
Yevgeny Virlad trembled all over, startled, and gave a sheepish laugh.
"But… but the corpse—it was intact… only magic…"
"No, you saw wrong," Mason shook his head.
"He was beheaded—executed by Arthur on behalf of his lord."
Before the words had even fully left his mouth—
Arthur took a sharp step forward, placing himself at Mason's side, and in one clean motion, drew his sword and severed Evenson' head, just a step away from Yevgeny Virlad.
Blood sprayed across the bard's face—but not a drop touched Mason.
Yevgeny froze for a moment, then wiped his face blankly, nodding repeatedly.
"Y-yes… the criminal died under Lord Mason's just sentence…"
"Good." Mason finally nodded in satisfaction, then signaled a servant with his eyes to push the bard into the portal.
He never even glanced at Allen, whose expression had grown strange, or at Ianna, whose every wrinkle radiated displeasure—like he feared someone might try to steal Yevgeny Virlad away from him.
Of course—
Mason could pretend not to look. But Arthur, the commander of the knight-guard who had just swung the sword, stayed behind.
He bowed apologetically to Ianna and Nenneke.
"Forgive me, Arch-Priestess Ianna, Priest Nenneke—I'll have someone sent here to…"
"Go." Ianna waved him off with irritation.
"The body will be taken care of. And tell that cunning old fox—this is not Ellander. This is Melitele's ground."
Arthur gave another apologetic smile, offering no rebuttal.
He bowed again, gave a nod to Allen, Danthe, and Vesemir, then stepped into the portal.
Clang—
The portal vanished.
Allen stared at the space where the portal had been. Then he turned his gaze to Ianna, whose face still brimmed with indignation, and sighed quietly in his heart.
"Favors, huh…"
.........
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