The cold of the manor lingered long after the spirit's death. Yet Leonel—no, the man who now wore his face—knew better than to trust the quiet.
He stood in the heart of the study, his gaze fixed on the broken mirror. The air had grown still, but not safe. If the ghost was anchored, then it was placed. If it was placed, someone had done it with intent.
Someone had wanted the Dusk family dead.
They had nearly succeeded.
And if they thought their work was done, it was best to let them believe that. For now.
His instincts, honed by a body that no longer belonged to a man of Earth but something closer to a predator, whispered the path forward:
Lurk. Observe. Plan. Strike.
He would not act until he knew more.
He would not reveal himself until the knife was ready.
The family's name, resources, and wealth—tools that could attract attention. Until the hand behind the curtain was exposed and severed, they were best left untouched.
But the vault—yes, the vault was something else.
Hidden behind his father's painting, in the stone cavity none but Leonel and the housekeeper had known, he found gold and notes totaling just over 5,000 pounds. Untied to the banks. Untied to the family's traceable assets.
Enough to vanish. Enough to begin again.
He scanned through ledgers and property lists, searching for anything unmarked, unconnected. That was when he found it:
A lease in Cherwood Borough, not listed under the Dusk name, not linked to any bank or trust. The owner: a pseudonym.
A safe house, perhaps.
Or something more secret.
Either way—it was the most anonymous place he had.
He didn't dress as a baron when he left. No polished boots or brocade coats. Just plain grey trousers, a charcoal coat, and a cap low over his eyes.
Still, there was no hiding the new body.
From a lean 5'10" student's frame to a towering 6'4", his build now radiated restrained violence. Muscles forged by alchemy and instinct. A body made to kill.
He moved like a blade sheathed in skin.
Both swords went with him—Lunaris, clean and quiet, across his back, and Pyrran, heavy and bound, tucked securely in his pack.
He left nothing behind. No trace. No farewell.
The manor grew silent once more.
Cherwood Borough greeted him with drizzle and soot. The carriage wheels clattered through narrow streets lined with shuttered windows and weary gaslamps. The apartment stood near a forgotten alley, tucked behind an old smithy that hadn't seen business in a decade.
He inspected it like a hunter studying a trap.
Lock—intact.
Dust on the sill—undisturbed.
Hinges—silent.
Inside, it was sparse. One bedroom. A worn fireplace. A writing desk. No mirrors.
He searched for sigils, traps, signs of arcane use—nothing. No spiritual residue. No hidden poisons.
A safe house, indeed. Likely used in years past by someone cautious and smart.
He unpacked silently.
Gold coins hidden beneath floorboards.
Lunaris within arm's reach.
Pyrran, wrapped tightly, set near the hearth.
He began to write.
Not a diary.
Not a confession.
A log. A ledger. A hunter's record.
Day 1: Location—Cherwood Safehouse. No pursuit. No active surveillance.
Strength, reflex, senses: enhanced. Beyond human norm. No fatigue after exertion.
Noticed: resistance to spiritual residue. No corruption after mirror spirit. Unnatural calm. Cold thinking. Predatory.
Possible drawback: emotional detachment. Beastlike logic. Reduced empathy.
He paused.
This wasn't just a Witcher body.
It was becoming something else.
And it wanted a path.
The following morning, he dressed in muted finery—enough to pass as a lower noble. Longcoat, gloves, a hat that shadowed his features.
Even still, heads turned.
His height. His build. The calm, lethal energy he carried.
The carriage took him into the heart of Backlund.
Fog coiled between the alleys like snakes. Trams hissed through iron tracks. Paperboys shouted the headlines of scandal and politics.
He passed factories spewing smoke, and streets where hungry men sold secrets for soup. But more importantly, he passed the Church of the Evernight Goddess.
His breath hitched.
Not from fear.
From recognition.
A whisper on his neck. A low, pressing pull behind his sternum.
He didn't see anything.
But something in that holy place saw him.
He kept walking.
Did not flinch. Did not turn.
A hunter does not run.
He mapped the city.
Marked locations where whispers of Beyonder activity gathered.
Odd shops. Antique sellers. Bookstores that stayed open after midnight.
He asked no questions.
Only listened.
One clerk mentioned a woman who spoke to crows.
Another whispered of a man who bled shadows.
He took it all in.
That night, he returned to the apartment and wrote again.
Day 2: Reconnaissance complete.
Churches maintain ambient spiritual influence. No direct harm. Sensed presence. Possible passive detection?
Civilian understanding of Beyonders: limited. Mixed reverence and fear.
He turned the page.
Theory:
Witcher body = stable spiritual vessel.
Possible to resist corruption without Anchor or ritual.
Could function as hybrid between arcane and alchemical paths.
Next goal: Sequence 9 potion. Path: Hunter.
He drew lines.
Witcher Traits: Strength. Senses. Spiritual resistance.
Hunter Traits: Tracking. Stealth. Spirit combat.
Combined? A new evolution.
He closed the book.
Not yet Klein's time.
But it would come.
The city was moving.
He could feel it.
And when it did, he would be ready.