Ciri shed her clothes and slipped into the women's bath, empty and serene. She swam lazily, then leaned against the stone edge of the pool.
She pondered her future, the unknown world Su Ming described.
Humming and scrubbing her arm, a crow landed on the wooden railing, its black eyes fixed on her.
Ciri covered her chest, sinking into the water. "Lady Yennefer!"
She knew the sorceress was probably smirking through the crow's gaze.
"You sure you'll handle the bruxa?" Geralt asked, passing Su Ming a vial of Cursed Oil. Su Ming coated his greatsword, effective against curse-born creatures like strigas.
It was their third day in Novigrad. Geralt had scoured the city, finally locating the monster's lair beneath the Eternal Fire's abandoned church. Without a king's backing, the fanatical sect had crumbled.
Their zealous faith and witch hunts seemed like they'd never happened, though the city's crosses told the tale.
"No problem. Stay back and watch. One undead's no match for me," Su Ming said, driving his sword into the stone floor.
"What're you doing now?" Geralt asked.
"Meditating. Don't witchers meditate before a fight? Am I pulling it off?" Su Ming knelt, hands on thighs, eyes closed. His helmet hid his face, but he looked relaxed.
Geralt exhaled. "If you're waiting for a monster to show, sure, meditate. But it's night. The bruxa's coming any second."
Su Ming just wanted the witcher vibe. No pre-boss meditation felt wrong.
Besides, they were at the monster's doorstep. It wasn't digging an escape tunnel.
As he opened his mouth to reply, a blood-red, naked figure burst from the tomb, lunging at Geralt.
To her, the armored Su Ming didn't seem alive—no flesh or blood.
Ciri reached for her new gun, but Su Ming was faster. He yanked his sword from the ground, swinging it like swatting a fly, slamming the bruxa into the wall.
The church shook, crumbling statues teetering, dust clouding the air.
"Meh, about Man-Bat level," Su Ming said, turning to Geralt.
Geralt leaned on his silver sword, planted in the ground. "No idea what a Man-Bat is, but she's not dead."
The bruxa's tragic origin was another sad story Geralt tried to ignore. All he needed was the 3,000 oren bounty.
Without her rampage terrifying the city, the magistrate wouldn't have paid so much.
Su Ming kept an eye on her. His strike had shattered a quarter of her bones—she'd be slow to rise.
The abandoned church's undercroft was dusty, lit only by Ciri's torch.
"Since we're here, I'll try witcher swordplay. Behold, my Bear School secret!" Su Ming charged the wall as the bruxa stood, raising his sword and slashing her shoulder.
"Wishing you wealth! Good fortune! Smooth sailing! Good health! Abundance! Happy family!"
With each phrase, he swung, though the first cut had already bisected her from shoulder to hip. Nightfall was too sharp.
Still, he finished his New Year's greetings.
The two witchers watched him turn the monster into mincemeat.
"Is Bear School that brutal?" Ciri scratched behind her ear, unfamiliar with their style but likening it to Skellige berserkers.
"Don't buy his nonsense. Vertical slashes are a Bear School opener, but repeating one move isn't swordplay," Geralt said, exasperated.
After a while, Su Ming sheathed his weapon, removed his helmet, and sipped water. The greetings had parched him.
"Kept the head for you to turn in. Didn't bring a hook," he said, tossing the head and helmet to Geralt.
"You'll corrupt Ciri. That's no swordplay," Geralt grumbled, hanging the head on his belt.
"Wrong. This pure strike embodies the wish to end foes. Heavy blade, no finesse—ultimate skill. When you outclass your enemy, endless chopping is the finest sword art," Su Ming countered, as Ciri's gaze flicked between them, judging who was right.
Geralt didn't get it—foreign words—but the explanation made sense. It required mastering a monster's habits, something only a master could do without injury.
"Ciri's too green for that, and it's not her style," Geralt said.
"Nah, it's for you. One swing, 999 damage, three seconds to wreck. Try it for three minutes, and you'll love it like me," Su Ming teased.
Geralt turned to leave. A joke, clearly. Time to collect and head to Kaer Morhen.
The coin came easily. The magistrate didn't want the head, so Geralt hung it on his saddle, planning to crash at Dandelion's inn.
Dandelion had settled in Novigrad with his girlfriend, both poets, revamping the Rosemary and Thyme into the Chameleon, on a less busy street.
Business was steady—not great, not bad. Most came for drinks and shows, few stayed overnight.
Su Ming's group had lodged there, his tales sparking Dandelion's creative itch.
He was writing a novel, though his girlfriend called it "dreamlike drivel."
Returning to the inn, Geralt caught a familiar scent as they entered.
Amid the booze and sweat, the aroma of lilac and gooseberries stood out.