"Die—monster!" Aldric roared, charging forward with all his might, his target the two orc leaders dueling at the center of the camp.
With a dexterity stat that remained an impressive fourteen even after penalties, Aldric dashed like lightning past a startled orc who hadn't even reacted yet.
His body twisted with precision as he slipped under another green-skinned brute's spiked club, stepped on a third orc's thigh, and used it as leverage to spring upward. His foot crashed into the face of another greenskin beside him, then in midair, his body contracted and spun, performing a high-difficulty midair roll powered by his core muscles—just in time to evade two sweeping double axes that sliced through the rain where he had just been.
A seamless chain of movements—each one flowing into the next—carried Aldric through the orc ranks like a phantom. When he finally landed before the two main orc leaders, Steeltooth had just lowered his raised arm, glancing around for his weapon, while the other bulky orc struggled weakly on the ground, unable to rise.
The rain-soaked air rushed into Aldric's lungs, cold and invigorating. It became energy, then transformed into a burning fighting spirit that filled every fiber of his being. Raindrops scattered across his armor, exploding into tiny bursts of spray.
In that moment, time itself seemed to slow down—every sound, every shimmer of steel became razor-sharp in his senses. He saw the cold gleam reflecting off approaching blades, the despair flickering in his enemies' eyes, and the warmth of blood splattering across his skin. It was all so real.
His charge didn't falter. The White Wolf's Claw in his hand turned into a streak of silver light, slicing through the air with lightning speed. The blade cut deep from an orc's left shoulder, cleaving through bone, tearing through tough sinew and organs, and burst out from the right armpit—one clean, perfect stroke. The orc's massive body split neatly into two halves.
The talent [Lightning Reflexes]—its effects were as magnificent as ever.
At that instant, Steeltooth finally retrieved his iron club from the ground. His roar shook the rain.
"Waaagh! Human! Tiny shrimp! Cowardly ambush!"
He spat out three words of Common in one breath. Aldric's eyes narrowed in faint amusement—this one wasn't just muscle; it could talk. But there was no time to admire its linguistic skills. He twisted aside as the iron club came crashing down, the air howling as it passed, close enough to make every hair on his body stand up. That thing—he absolutely could not block head-on.
Aldric's form darted and weaved around the club's deadly arcs, slipping under and past it like a shadow. Each time he found an opening, his blade flashed and drew fresh wounds across Steeltooth's thick hide.
From afar, the Witcher who had been strung up between two poles opened his eyes.
Those eyes—sharp and glinting like a cat's under torchlight, yet cold and piercing like an eagle's—locked onto the young warrior who fought so fiercely under the rain.
…
Once again, Aldric rolled aside, narrowly evading another crushing blow. The massive club slammed into the mud where he had just been. He spun, barely ducking under a giant axe that hissed through the rainstorm and sliced the air so close that he could feel the wind graze his skin. His instincts screamed warnings before the weapon even struck.
But the pressure was suffocating. For nearly five minutes now, the massive orc leader had been swinging that colossal iron club with mechanical relentlessness, like an unending engine of destruction.
His stamina was draining fast. His movements had lost the initial crisp sharpness. That last axe strike—if he hadn't dodged exactly when he did—it would've taken his head clean off. The axe's flat surface had flashed so close to his face that he saw his own pale reflection glimmer on it, thanks to the hyperawareness granted by [Lightning Reflexes].
This isn't sustainable.
Aldric quickly assessed the situation. The orcs had stopped chasing the escaping captives; instead, they were encircling him. He'd already managed to cut down five of the slower green-skins during the fight, but that had given Steeltooth time to recover. Now, the orc leader was barking commands, and his subordinates were slowly tightening their formation around the camp.
Then—finally—a message flashed across his retinal display:
"Mission Update: 'Survivors in Peril' – Objective Complete. Reward will be calculated after combat concludes."
Aldric let out a small sigh of relief, but there was no time to rest. The orcs pressed in from all directions.
A sharp thwip!—the sound of air splitting—came from behind him.
An arrow.
"Watch out!" shouted the monster hunter from the distance.
Too late. Aldric instinctively rolled left, evading the fatal hit to his heart, but the bolt still tore through his leather armor. The arrowhead pierced his side, exiting near his abdomen, the shaft quivering as it protruded from his back. Pain exploded through his torso, stealing his breath. He could feel it—his lung had been punctured. Every inhalation was agony.
Blood frothed from his mouth. Coughing violently, Aldric stumbled between tents, using every bit of debris and cover he could find. He stayed alert, searching for the hidden archer. But all he could see were the green hulks surrounding him, each wielding heavy weapons. No trace of the shooter.
Then—his instincts screamed again.
Danger.
Something sliced through the air from behind—a venomous fang in flight. Without turning, Aldric raised the White Wolf's Claw in a reverse grip, performing a rapid sheathing motion to intercept the strike.
Clang!
The collision numbed his wrist. But he'd blocked it. Just barely.
He exhaled a trembling breath. He knew his blood loss was worsening. The next shot—he wouldn't be able to stop it. And when that came, his only resurrection as a player would be gone.
But then his eyes landed on the Witcher bound nearby. Remembering the orcs' habit of eating their prisoners, Aldric clenched his jaw.
If he was going to die anyway, he might as well do one good deed first.
He charged forward through the orcs, hacking his way to the Witcher's hanging frame. "Hey, old man! Still breathing? Want me to make it quick? If you wait any longer, you won't get the chance!"
Using the Witcher's hanging body as cover, Aldric leaned against one of the wooden poles. He grabbed the broken arrowhead protruding from his abdomen, tensed every muscle in his body, and snapped it off. The shock of pain drenched him in cold sweat. With a groan, he used his sword as a crutch, reached back, and yanked the remaining shaft free.
"We all die," said the Witcher calmly, lifting his head. "But not today."
His voice was deep and rough, his face half-shadowed beneath the storm's gloom—lined with scars and weathered like an old wolf. White hair clung to his forehead, and a long scar ran from brow to cheekbone. Around his neck hung a pendant shaped like the same wolf head engraved into Aldric's blade.
"Your spirit is commendable, boy," the Witcher said. "Take my medallion. Inside it, there's a substance. To ordinary men, it's a deadly poison. But if you can endure it—you'll awaken the full power of that sword you wield..."
Before Aldric could answer, the Witcher's impaled hand began to glow faintly. The nails pinning him in place shattered as invisible energy rippled outward, blasting the surrounding orcs off their feet.
Aldric turned and saw another arrow strike—but this time, it hit a shimmering, transparent barrier that rippled like water. Beyond it, he finally spotted the hidden attacker: an orc roughly human-sized, mounted on a white wolf at the edge of the camp, holding a greatbow. When it saw its arrow fail, the orc sneered and made a throat-slitting gesture before turning away.
"Quen," the Witcher muttered, his voice faint but satisfied. "I made a few adjustments. We've got two minutes. Whether you want to or not, drink it, kid. I can tell—you're not like the others."
Aldric tore the wolf-head pendant from his neck, flipped open the tiny compartment, and saw a vial of glowing emerald liquid inside. Without hesitation, he downed it in one gulp. The bitterness filled his mouth. "Having a choice is better than none at all," he muttered.
"Out of ten men," the Witcher continued, his tone tightening with pain, "less than three survive. And only one truly grows strong. Our generation swore this cursed path would end with us... but maybe you'll prove us wrong. Good luck, boy. No one your age has ever endured the Trial of the Grasses."
Then the world began to spin.
It felt like being hurled into a centrifuge without safety restraints—vertigo, paralysis, and freezing pain crashing over him all at once. His body shut down, and the darkness swallowed him.
In the depths of unconsciousness, voices murmured.
Someone was speaking to him.
"...Butcher of Bl... Geralt of Rivia..."
Like a distorted radio signal, the words grew clearer.
"What is it you desire? What is it you seek? How will you carry out your will?"
The voice resonated deep within his mind—followed by a system prompt. Aldric, trembling in the void, whispered his reply:
"I do not crave wealth or fame, nor status or power. What I desire is a steed— black as night and swift as the wind. I want a sword— bright as moonlight and sharp as justice. I shall ride my black horse through the night, and with the sword in my hand, I will cut down all evil in my path. That— is what my heart truly seeks!"
"Then a steed shall await you—darker than night, swifter than the wind. And a blade shall be forged for you—sharper than light, brighter than the moon. But such wishes are never free, child. You will pay a heavy price."
"What price?" Aldric shouted. "I have nothing! In this world, I fear nothing!"
"Your blood, child," the voice whispered, fading away. "Your blood will suffice."
A deep sigh echoed through the void—and Aldric's consciousness snapped back to reality.
The Witcher's astonished gaze said it all: Aldric had survived an impossible ordeal. His back still burned with pain, and he could barely stand, but he was alive. Remembering the final words of the trial, Aldric raised his left hand, pressed the blade of the White Wolf's Claw against it, and dragged it across his palm.
Scarlet blood flowed down the weapon—and was instantly absorbed by it.
Then came the system prompt:
[Quest: Survivors in Peril]
Under your protection, the survivors are safe—for now.
Your bravery and ruthless efficiency against the alien race have not gone unnoticed. The Witcher, Gonz, has chosen to grant you the Trial of the Grasses to alter fate itself.
You have survived the most dangerous step in becoming a Witcher.
You are now... a true Witcher.
Mission Completion: Legendary (You completed an impossible task.)
Reward: Advanced Background Class 'Brave Ranger of Cerys has been replaced with Legendary Background Class 'Witcher'.
(End of Chapter)
TN: I know he seem too OP but he kinda really is from his absurd stats from the start and his training in the real world. My only gripe is the trial of grasses seem too simple.