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"Igni..."
Muttering this strange incantation under his breath, Christen found himself utterly overwhelmed. No words could adequately express the shock flooding his mind. Without relying on any external medium, a human hand had just erupted in flame.
Clay, observing the astonishment carved plainly across Christen's face, easily read his thoughts. He understood all too well what the man was feeling. This was a power foreign to this world, a force that defied its natural laws. If it failed to provoke awe, all his painstaking efforts would have been in vain.
"Have you memorized the casting gesture for this Sign?"
Clay gently patted Christen's shoulder, pulling him out of his dazed murmuring. Christen jolted as if waking from a trance and responded without hesitation, voice firm and excited:
"Yes, my lord! I've memorized it completely!"
"Good. There are five Signs in total, but I won't demonstrate each one here."
Noticing the confusion in Christen's wide, blinking eyes, Clay offered a weary smile. He pointed at Christen's disheveled figure and spoke with a helpless expression:
"Don't you think you stink a bit too much right now? Vomit, sweat… If you hadn't just cast the Sign, I would've seriously questioned whether the mutation was even successful."
Like all Witchers, Clay's mutation had greatly enhanced his olfactory senses. Were it not for the sheer shock of witnessing the Igni Sign, Christen might have passed out from the unbearable stench clinging to his own body.
Now that his sense of smell had fully returned, Christen visibly gulped, clearly suppressing the nausea rising in his throat. Clay waved his hand, gesturing for him to stay where he was.
As he stepped outside, Clay gave a parting instruction over his shoulder:
"Clear your mind. Aside from you, me, and the Lord, no one else must know about the power you've obtained. Not a single soul."
More than a day had passed when Clay finally opened the wooden door carved with red markings. Standing just outside was a lone guard, one of the Lord's most trusted men.
Hearing the door creak open, the guard immediately stepped forward upon seeing Clay, concern evident in his eyes.
"Lord, have you completed your task?"
Clay gave a brief nod and gestured toward the room's interior. He offered no explanation and issued his instructions with quiet authority.
"Fetch two men. Have them clean the room thoroughly. One of my personal guards is inside. Make sure he washes properly before he comes out."
He had neither time nor patience for the flicker of confusion that crossed the guard's face. What sort of nonsense was running through his head?
"Yes, my lord!"
Seeing that Clay had already turned to leave after issuing his orders, the guard could only place a hand over his chest in salute, then quickly went off to summon help, still wearing a puzzled expression.
---
Sea God Tower – The Study
After returning to his chambers, Clay took a moment to wash up and rest. Now he sat, well-groomed and composed, in the study of his grandfather, Lord Wyman. Reclining comfortably in the soft chair across from the old man's desk, he uncorked a bottle of wine with practiced ease and poured himself a drink.
The Lord, long accustomed to his grandson's informal habits, simply blew at his mustache in mock irritation and chose to ignore it.
Clay took a slow sip of the Summer Red and let out a contented sigh. Compared to the Arbor Golds from the southern vineyards, he much preferred this rich and flavorful vintage. It suited his palate far more.
"Take it easy. You drink even more than your father did at your age. Three generations of drunkards in the Manderly family. I truly don't know who to blame anymore."
Though he grumbled, the Lord's actions betrayed his words. He poured himself a generous glass and set down the nearly empty bottle.
Clay only shrugged. Every time they drank together, his grandfather made the same complaint. By now, he was grown completely used to it.
"So, that lad, Christen. How did it go? The process was successful, wasn't it?"
More than the wine, it was this question that held the Lord's deepest concern.
Clay nodded, his expression softening with the relief of a burden lifted. Though fatigue still lingered in his eyes, there was satisfaction too.
"Grandfather, rest assured. It was a success. But I'll admit, the process nearly broke me. It was incredibly taxing."
Catching the inquisitive look in his grandfather's eyes, Clay decided to offer a bit more detail. After a moment's thought, he continued:
"You likely already suspected that the mixture of those materials we gathered would be lethal if consumed directly. Without the proper support mechanisms, it would've killed him instantly."
"To ensure success, additional steps were required. Specifically, magic."
The Lord gave a thoughtful nod. He remembered the strange techniques his grandson had displayed before, powers that had left a deep and lasting impression.
Clay went on:
"This special potion was designed to transform the human body from the inside out. The process is extraordinarily dangerous and cannot be endured alone. It demands the assistance of someone knowledgeable."
"I spent an entire day stabilizing his physical condition. After that, the rest followed naturally."
The Lord fell silent for a long while, weighing his grandson's words carefully. Then, with a furrowed brow, he asked:
"So... after undergoing this mutation, will Christen be able to wield power like yours?"
He had to understand the scope of his grandson's creations. As White Harbor's ruler, this knowledge was essential.
Clay shook his head.
"No, he is still far from reaching my level. The mutation only granted him the potential to wield such power. To truly master it, he must train without rest and absorb an immense amount of knowledge."
"For instance, I taught him only the Igni Sign, the one that produces fire. As for the others, I will not teach them. If I choose not to pass them down, then there is no one else in the world who can."
The Lord nodded solemnly. He understood. This was the old adage brought to life: if you teach your apprentice everything, your master starves. Witchers possessed many abilities and their knowledge was vast, but Clay did not intend to share it all.
Through his system, Clay could observe the thoughts of every Witcher under his command. Even so, it was wiser to remain cautious.
After all, he was not the only one in the world who wielded magic. Others existed, such as the Three-Eyed Raven, Melisandre, Thoros of Myr, and even the Night King beyond the Wall.
Therefore, anything of true value had to remain under his control. In the face of unexpected events, he needed to preserve his maneuverability and leverage.
"Good. I don't fully understand the intricacies of this magic, but I trust your judgment. So what's your plan going forward?"
Clay knew his grandfather was referring to whether he intended to create more Witchers.
He had already given this matter plenty of thought. Shaking his head, he shared his decision:
"There is no rush. If we create too many at once and lose control, it will be a disaster. It is better to proceed slowly, one at a time. Besides, the process drains me greatly. I cannot afford to pour all my energy into it."
"After all, I am a Manderly first, and only then a so-called warrior of ancient Valyria."
These words clearly touched the old man's heart. The Lord's ruddy cheeks stretched into a broad, satisfied smile. This was what he admired most about his grandson—he possessed a strong sense of identity and would never become a slave to power.
"Very well. Do as you see fit. Oh, and one more thing. You have not visited the Wolf's Den since your return, have you? I have been managing it in your absence. But now that you are back, you should go and take a look. After all, you are the commander of the White Sea Guard."
He lifted his hand and showed a trident-shaped ring inlaid with a blue gemstone. His voice grew quiet and meaningful.
"Blue and red will never be the same. Those men... they only recognize red."
Clay nodded silently. Indeed, it was time for him to return there.
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[Chapter End's]
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