Chapter 185: Geralt, Allen's New Bodyguard
"Witchers are all liars—don't let him go!"
"Damn witcher! He stole all our savings!"
"Arrest him! Let the king have him executed!"
"..."
Geralt of Rivia looked around, bewildered, at the villagers who had surrounded him.
It was his first time in Temeria. He had barely finished tending to his horse when he was suddenly mobbed by the locals.
Once upon a time on the continent of Europa, the Order of Witchers had flourished. But due to power struggles between factions, they eventually splintered into separate schools.
Former enemies took the chance to spread slander about witchers, causing their once-lofty reputation to plummet.
And since the common folk were largely illiterate, they accepted the rumors without question.
To be fair, some witcher schools—like the Cat, Bear, and Viper Schools—had long abandoned their founding principles in pursuit of profit.
Geralt, however, belonged to the School of the Wolf. He had always upheld a philosophy of neutrality and moderation, wandering the continent slaying monsters to hone himself.
Now, facing the angry mob, Geralt was at a loss for words.
He knew his current situation well—no matter what he said, it would sound like an excuse.
Though highly skilled and not afraid of the townsfolk, he was concerned for the safety of his longtime companion—his horse, Roach.
As for why he was here, Geralt had accepted a contract to escort and protect an important individual, serving as both guide and bodyguard.
Just then, a fiery portal opened in midair, stunning the crowd into silence.
This was clearly the work of a sorcerer.
In Europa, mages held the same status as nobility—far from people to be trifled with.
If one happened to be a dark sorcerer guilty of crimes, the Brotherhood of Sorcerers would often issue warrants across the kingdoms, recruiting commoners as informants to track them down.
"Beep boop, beep boop, beep boop…"
Allen rode out from the portal on Agatha, with Gu Yi by his side.
Seeing the gathered crowd, Allen said shyly, "No need to welcome me, folks. Carry on with your day. I'm traveling incognito, so no need to make a fuss."
Who is this guy?
And what's with that smug tone?
Still, due to his obvious status as a mage, no one dared speak up.
"Sir, they're here for me," Geralt explained calmly.
"Superman!"
Allen turned to him with a look of shock, then smirked confidently. "Don't think I won't recognize you just 'cause you grew your hair out and dyed it silver. That sexy cleft chin of yours gave you away, Clark Kent."
"..."
Geralt blinked, utterly baffled. He had already figured this eccentric must be the client he'd been contracted to meet—but something definitely seemed off about him.
Allen pointed at the angry villagers. "Are they trying to ask you for a selfie?"
Agatha, visibly annoyed, muttered, "Are you stupid? Just look at their angry eyes—they're clearly here for revenge."
"Ah, my bad."
Allen immediately turned toward the mob and shouted, "We don't know this guy. Do what you want."
"Honored mage, please hear us out!"
An old man stepped forward, pleading earnestly. "A witcher once scammed us, took our coin and vanished without fulfilling the job. Now our city lives in fear of a werewolf…"
The elder explained the situation in full, hoping this unfamiliar mage would lend his aid.
"Wow, Supes—I never thought you were that kind of hero."
Allen gave Geralt a look of scorn. Geralt sighed and replied, "I'm Geralt of the School of the Wolf. I've never scammed a soul. Also, I'm your contact. You're Allen from Kamar-Taj, right?"
"Wait a sec!"
Allen blinked. "This crossover's getting a little intense. We've got Witcher plotlines now?"
Before leaving, the elder sorcerer had indeed mentioned hiring a guide—but hadn't specified who. The contract scroll should confirm the man's identity.
In truth, Kamar-Taj hadn't requested a specific individual. They didn't even know which witcher school would respond.
Allen leapt off Agatha's back and declared confidently to the villagers, "I'll take care of the werewolf issue. Everyone can go back to their lives."
"Honored mage, how can we be sure?" the elder asked skeptically.
"Oh? You dare question me?"
Allen's expression darkened, his voice turning eerie. "How about I turn you all into werewolves? Then you won't have to fear them anymore."
Hiss…
If you can't beat 'em, join 'em?
Why solve the problem when you can eliminate the ones who have it?
What if he's actually a dark sorcerer!?
Fear replaced anger in the villagers' eyes as they recalled fairy tales of wicked mages who turned princes into frogs.
They were about to scatter when the metallic clank of armor drew their attention.
Riding at the head of a company of Royal Guards was King Foltest himself.
With the king's arrival and soldiers in tow, the townsfolk felt reassured, as though they now had someone to make a fair judgment.
Gu Yi had remained silent the entire time, too nervous to speak.
She was a village girl herself, unaccustomed to such formal scenes. Even though she was now a member of Kamar-Taj, she still hadn't adapted to her new status.
King Foltest dismounted and addressed Allen sincerely. "Sir, might I have a word with you?"
He had been fretting over how to handle the werewolf crisis.
But now, it was like a pillow had dropped into his lap just as he was dozing off.
Geralt was undoubtedly the best man for the job.
"You want us to take care of the werewolf, right?"
Allen said bluntly, "As long as the money's right, I'll catch it, scrub it clean, and lay it on your bed in whatever pose you prefer."
"That… might be a bit much."
Foltest looked embarrassed—though not entirely opposed. As a king, he'd tried everything: men, women… but never a she-werewolf.
"What's wrong with that? I'm madly in love with my right hand," Allen said, lifting it affectionately and giving it a longing look—nearly kissing it on the spot.
"Let's get back to the werewolf problem," Foltest said hastily.
He pointed to a distant mountain. At its peak stood a towering castle.
"The werewolf hides in that castle. Every night, it comes down and preys on my people. Over thirty have died. If you can eliminate the threat, I'll pay you two thousand gold coins."
"Don't ask why."
Allen gave him a sly look. "So, what's your favorite pose?"
"Back—! Cough cough…" The king straightened up. "That's not what I meant."
Allen shot him a knowing look, the kind only men understood. He whispered, "I'll be discreet. You just stay home and wait."
Realizing Allen was… different, King Foltest quickly made an excuse to withdraw with his troops, fearing that another conversation might loosen the shackles of his royal restraint.
With the issue resolved, the crowd dispersed, no longer targeting Geralt.
"I need to verify the contract."
Geralt took out a scroll of parchment, waiting for Allen to produce the matching one.
In an era without smartphones, contract scrolls and official seals were used to confirm identities.
Verification couldn't be skipped. Escorting the wrong person would be a breach of contract—something that came with fines.
Witchers might seem wealthy, with all their monster-slaying gigs and gold payments.
But in truth, the cost of maintaining their gear, keeping their horses in shape, and constantly brewing expensive combat potions kept their wallets painfully thin.
Once the contracts were verified, Geralt asked, "Are you really going to take on the werewolf case?"
"There's no werewolf," Allen said with a mysterious grin. "It's actually a vampire harpy…"