The sharp edge of the blade sliced through the hard skull, the heavy sword widening the wound as it tore through flesh and bone. Blood, mingled with grayish brain matter and shattered fragments of bone, burst forth in a ghastly spray. The mutated orc's eyes popped out under the violent pressure, its entire head exploding into fragments. A clean decapitation—skull shattered, instant death. That was how Aldric had been taught in the academy all those years: one strike, one kill.
The surrounding greenskins clearly recognized how formidable the slain orc archer had been. Though a despised half-breed, none could deny his skill—no prey had ever escaped his arrows, and his eyes were said to be the gaze of Death itself. Yet now, his head had been smashed apart; the camp's strongest greenskin had fallen in a single round. Their mightiest warriors had been slain with such ease that the remaining orcs could hardly comprehend it.
Their shock, however, gave Aldric all the time he needed. The instant his feet touched the ground, he pivoted and charged forward in wide, powerful strides, lowering his shoulders and gripping his longsword in a reverse grip. He returned to Steeltooth's side, looming over the fallen orc with a cruel grin before plunging the White Wolf's Claw straight into his enemy's chest. With each fading heartbeat, waves of warmth flowed from the blade into Aldric's body.
"Human… coward…" Steeltooth rasped. Despite suffering a wound that would have killed any human instantly, he still managed to roar his final defiance. "Orcs… the bravest of all!"
The White Wolf's Claw replenished stamina and dulled pain, but the illusion of strength it brought clashed with the dizziness from his severe blood loss. Aldric's senses teetered between extremes—one moment he felt invincible, ready to charge again and slaughter the demoralized orcs; the next, he felt utterly drained, as though all his blood had run dry, his muscles hollowed of all strength.
Steeltooth's voice still echoed in his ears, but Aldric no longer had the energy to respond. Every drop of power in his body had been wrung out, and even thinking felt like an extravagant effort.
He extended his left hand, forcing it deep into the wound made by the White Wolf's Claw. Steeltooth tried to grab his arm, to stop him, but his ravaged body no longer obeyed. He could only choke out one final, desperate word—
"No…!"
It was too late. Aldric's hand found its target—he felt thick veins and tough connective tissue snap between his fingers as he ripped the organ free with his last ounce of strength. Bracing himself on the sword's hilt with one arm, he raised the other high, holding aloft the massive orc heart that still throbbed faintly in his palm.
"In the name of humanity—cleanse the filth! Let defeat be the only fear!"
As if in answer to his cry, fires suddenly erupted across the entire camp. Despite the rain, the soaked tents and distant wooden palisades ignited instantly, turning into blazing accomplices. The surging flames carried waves of heat that rolled through the encampment, bathing the battlefield in a crimson glow.
Among the panicked greenskins, one suddenly dropped his weapon and screamed something in the orcish tongue before fleeing into the darkness. The others exchanged uncertain glances—looking at the lone human warrior before them, at the ground littered with orc corpses—then broke and scattered in all directions.
Exhausted beyond measure, Aldric slumped against Steeltooth's corpse, feeling the heat of the burning ground seep into his body as his mind grew hazy. The wounds and the effects of the elixir numbed by the White Wolf's Claw now returned with doubled agony, and only that pain kept him barely conscious.
"Still alive, kid?"
A familiar, gravelly voice reached his ears. The Witcher rode toward him atop a white wolf, shirtless, swaying slightly. His charred, pierced hands hung limply at his sides as he approached.
"Barely…" Aldric managed a weak smile. Seeing the witcher still standing, he finally allowed himself to relax.
The white wolf, which had fled after its orcish master's death, was somehow now obedient beneath the witcher's saddle. In the flickering firelight, though battered and bloodied, the old man somehow looked leisurely—almost as if taking a stroll through the rain.
"Want me to make it quick for you?" the Witcher teased, raising his burned hands with a crooked grin. "If you wait too long, you won't get another chance. Not bad, kid—you've passed as an apprentice. How about learning the Igni sign next?"
Aldric, lying against the orc's corpse, let out a soundless laugh—then the world faded to black.
…
When Aldric next awoke, he found himself lying against a large rock, half-reclined on the damp earth. The White Wolf's Claw lay beside him. Not far away, the witcher was tending a campfire. His hands were roughly bandaged, and from his steady movements, it seemed he had already recovered somewhat.
He looked down to inspect his injuries. The worst of the penetrating wounds had been crudely treated. He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious, but after a few deep breaths, he felt significantly better. His remarkable constitution—sixteen points of endurance—was restoring his body at a pace far beyond what was humanly possible. He even thought that if he could eat something, he might soon be able to stand and walk on his own.
The faint rustle of his movements drew the attention of the nearby white wolf. Its pale green eyes gleamed eerily in the darkness. The beast bared its fangs slightly, growling a low rumble. Aldric blinked—he realized that even in the dim light, he could see the creature as clearly as if it were daytime.
The wolf's growl caught the Witcher's attention. "You're awake? Impressive. No wonder you were the oldest one to ever pass the Grass Trial," the man said, his voice carrying a hint of admiration. "With that much blood loss, even an old veteran like me wouldn't recover faster than you."
"We're safe?" Aldric croaked, startled by the hoarseness of his own voice. His mouth was full of dried, clotted blood. "Got any water?"
The Witcher came closer and handed him a metal flask. Aldric took it and recognized it instantly—it was Captain Emmus Rockfell's Rum Flask. He tipped it back, draining it in one go. Cool water slid down his throat, replenishing the fluids his body so desperately needed.
"Old man," Aldric muttered, wiping his mouth, "stealing someone else's drink isn't exactly noble." He nodded toward the white wolf. "How did you tame it? Is it safe?"
"Axii," the witcher replied casually, waving a hand. "Until I lift the sign, it's tamer than your average dog. I'll teach you later—but be careful if you ever use it on people."
He straightened up slightly and spoke in a more formal tone. "All right, kid. Let's do this properly. My name is Gonz Alagon, Witcher of the Wolf School." He extended a scarred hand solemnly. "Thank you for saving my life. In our line of work, we don't like owing anyone debts."
Aldric grasped his hand firmly, shaking it with equal seriousness. "I'm Aldric, from Cerys. And I suppose that makes me a Witcher too, doesn't it?"
"That's right," Gonz said gravely. "You're the only new Witcher of this generation—and likely the last. During our last Blades Gathering, the Witchers agreed: no more recruits unless under special circumstances. You, kid, are that exception. From now on, I'll be your mentor. I'll teach you everything about being a Witcher—until the day I recognize you as a true one."
"Guess I'm lucky, then," Aldric said, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"Unprecedentedly lucky," Gonz replied, his tone heavy. "The Grass Trial has a seventy to eighty percent mortality rate. And it's only meant for children—no one your age has ever survived it. But something told me you would. Given the situation, I had to take the gamble."
Aldric opened his system log and checked the trial record:
You have accepted the Witcher's Grass Trial. Failure will result in immediate death.
Dexterity check… Success.
Constitution check… Success.
Charisma check… Failure.
Talent [Still Water, Clear Mind] has warned you of impending death…
You have gained one re-roll opportunity.
Charisma check… Success.
You have passed the Grass Trial. Congratulations, you are now a Witcher.
He exhaled slowly, feeling a chill down his spine. One failed roll—and he would have died. Taking a deep breath, Aldric asked, "Where are we now? How long was I out?"
"You should call me Master," Gonz said, then chuckled. "Though our kind isn't exactly big on formalities. You can just call me Sir Gonz—that's my title in the human kingdoms." He sat down beside Aldric, tossing a few logs into the fire. "I tracked the route those human captives took. The trail ahead was deliberately covered—someone didn't want the orcs finding them. You've been unconscious for about four hours. Another hour, and I'd have dug a hole to bury you."
"I know where they're hiding," Aldric said, flexing his arm, trying to restore his combat readiness. "But we agreed beforehand—one hour. No matter how many of us are left, we head straight for Rogue Camp."
Gonz stood, brushing ash from his hands. "All right, apprentice. Rest another half hour, then we move. This forest's dangers aren't limited to orcs. There are darker things lurking here—and we need to leave before they find us."
(End of Chapter)