Chapter 5: Arrival in Blaviken
POV: Viktor
The smell hit him first—bread, honest-to-god freshly baked bread, drifting through the forest air like a promise of salvation. Viktor's stomach clenched so hard it felt like someone had reached inside him and twisted his organs into a knot. He'd been subsisting on berries and questionable nuts for ten days, and the scent of actual human food made him dizzy with want.
He crested the hill and saw it: Blaviken.
The town spread before him like something from a medieval painting, all timber and stone and thatched roofs that looked like they'd grown from the earth itself. Smoke rose from chimneys in lazy spirals, and he could hear the distant sounds of life—voices calling, cart wheels creaking, the general bustle of people going about their business in blissful ignorance of the tragedy that was about to unfold.
Viktor's legs shook as he stood there, and not just from the hunger. This was it. The place where everything would happen. Where Geralt of Rivia would earn his most hated title, where Renfri would die for her revenge, where the Lesser Evil would prove that there were no good choices in a world built on suffering.
And somehow, Viktor was supposed to change it.
"Day fourteen." His voice came out as a croak, barely recognizable as human speech. "Four days left. This is it."
The final push to reach his goal had nearly killed him. Days ten through fourteen had been a blur of desperation training that pushed his body so far past its limits that he'd started hallucinating during the longer runs. His vision would gray out, his legs would give way, and he'd find himself face-down in the mud with no memory of falling.
But he'd kept going. Every time his body quit, he'd dragged himself upright and pushed harder. Every time his mind tried to convince him to stop, to rest, to accept that maybe 90 MP would be enough, he'd forced himself through another set, another rep, another hour of punishment that felt like dying by degrees.
And this morning, finally, gloriously, the system had delivered its verdict:
[TRAINING REGIMEN COMPLETE]
[STAMINA ACHIEVED: 10.0]
[MAXIMUM MANA POINTS: 100]
[TEMPORAL SENSE AVAILABLE]
Viktor had collapsed when he saw those numbers, falling to his knees in the forest clearing where he'd spent two weeks slowly destroying himself. For a moment, just a moment, he'd allowed himself to feel something that wasn't pain or fear or desperate determination.
Relief.
He'd done it. Against all odds, against every reasonable expectation, he'd actually done it. He had 100 MP. He could use Temporal Sense. He might actually survive what was coming.
Of course, survival and victory were two very different things.
Viktor made his way down the hill toward Blaviken's gates, trying to look like a normal traveler and not a half-starved lunatic who'd spent two weeks living in the woods. His reflection in a stream that morning had been... educational. Sunken cheeks, wild hair, eyes that had developed the kind of intensity usually associated with religious fanatics or the clinically insane. His clothes—such as they were—hung on his frame like rags on a scarecrow.
The guards at the gate looked him over with the kind of professional assessment that suggested they'd seen their share of dangerous drifters. One of them—a burly man with scars that spoke of experience with violence—stepped forward as Viktor approached.
"State your business in Blaviken."
"Just passing through." Viktor tried to make his voice sound normal, non-threatening. "Looking for work, maybe a meal."
The guard's eyes lingered on Viktor's hands, taking in the calluses and scars that spoke of recent hard labor. "What kind of work?"
"Whatever's available. I'm not picky."
After a moment that felt like an eternity, the guard stepped aside. "Welcome to Blaviken. Try not to cause trouble."
Viktor nodded and walked through the gates, his heart hammering against his ribs. Inside the town proper, the smells intensified—bread, roasting meat, ale, and underneath it all the particular mix of odors that came from too many people living too close together. It should have been overwhelming after two weeks in the wilderness, but to Viktor it smelled like civilization.
He made his way toward the market, following his nose and the sound of commerce. His stomach was actively trying to eat itself at this point, and he had exactly four copper coins in his pocket—money he'd taken from the drowner corpse back on day one, before he'd fully grasped the moral implications of looting the dead.
"Bread," he told himself firmly. "Buy bread, get information, find Geralt."
The marketplace was exactly as he'd seen it in his visions—cobblestones worn smooth by centuries of foot traffic, stalls selling everything from produce to crude weapons, people haggling and laughing and living their lives. In a few days, some of these stones would be painted red. Some of these people would run screaming.
Viktor pushed the thoughts away and approached a baker's stall. The woman behind the counter looked him over with the kind of professional assessment that merchants developed after years of sizing up potential customers.
"What'll it be?"
"Bread. Cheapest you have."
She produced a small, slightly stale loaf that looked like salvation wrapped in crust. "Two coppers."
Viktor handed over half his worldly wealth and bit into the bread with an enthusiasm that bordered on religious ecstasy. It was dry, a little too salty, and absolutely the most delicious thing he'd ever tasted.
"You look like you haven't eaten in days," the baker observed.
"Close to it." Viktor managed between bites. "Been traveling rough."
"Dangerous time to be on the roads. Strange things happening lately."
Viktor's attention sharpened. "Strange how?"
"Witcher came through a few days back. Killed some monster in the swamp, they say. Thing had been taking travelers for weeks."
"A Witcher?" Viktor tried to sound casually curious rather than desperately interested. "Is he still in town?"
"Far as I know. Keeping to himself, though. Can't say I blame him. Folk don't much care for his kind, even when they're doing good work."
Viktor nodded, filing away the information. Geralt was here, had been here for days, probably staying at the inn and trying to avoid attention. The timeline was accelerating.
"Heard tell there's other strange folk asking questions too," the baker continued, apparently in a chatty mood. "Princess's men, someone said. Looking for some wizard or another."
Viktor's blood turned to ice water. Princess's men. Renfri's band. They were already here, already searching for Stregobor. Events were in motion, the tragedy was building toward its climax, and Viktor was running out of time.
"What kind of questions?" he asked, trying to keep his voice level.
"Oh, the usual. Asking after old tower, whether anyone's seen lights up there lately. That sort of thing."
Stregobor's tower. Renfri's band was already closing in on the wizard, which meant the confrontation was imminent. Viktor needed to see the current situation, needed to understand exactly how much time he had left.
"Daily Vision," he whispered under his breath.
[MANA DECREASED: 100 → 85]
The world blurred around the edges as the visions came:
Geralt in a tavern, sitting alone at a corner table. The same scene Viktor had seen before, but sharper now, more immediate. This wasn't tomorrow or next week—this was tonight. The Witcher's amber eyes were studying the room, his hand resting casually near his sword hilt.
The tavern door opening. A woman in dark clothing entering, moving with predatory grace. Renfri, finally arriving to set the tragedy in motion.
Blood on cobblestones, fresh and wet and gleaming in morning sunlight. The marketplace transformed into an abattoir, innocent stone turned into a canvas for violence.
Viktor came back to himself standing in the middle of the marketplace, swaying slightly on his feet. The baker was looking at him with concern.
"You alright, lad? Looked like you were about to faint."
"I'm fine." Viktor forced himself to focus. "Just tired. It's been a long journey."
He needed to move, needed to find the tavern, needed to see Geralt with his own eyes. The visions were one thing, but reality was another. He had to know for certain that events were unfolding as he remembered them.
Viktor made his way through the town, following the sound of voices and laughter that indicated the kind of establishment where a Witcher might seek anonymous solitude. The inn stood at the town's center, a two-story building that looked like it had been serving travelers for generations.
And there, crossing the marketplace with the fluid grace of a predator in human form, was Geralt of Rivia.
Viktor's breath caught in his throat. He'd seen the show, read the books, absorbed every piece of lore about the White Wolf. But nothing had prepared him for the reality of the man. Geralt moved like violence barely restrained, like death taking a casual stroll. His white hair caught the afternoon sunlight, and his amber eyes swept the crowd with the kind of attention that missed nothing.
Two swords crossed his back—steel and silver, ordinary metal and legendary craftsmanship. His black leather armor looked worn but well-maintained, and the wolf medallion at his throat seemed to vibrate with barely contained energy.
"That's him." Viktor's hands were shaking, and he couldn't tell if it was from hunger, exhaustion, or the sheer overwhelming presence of myth made flesh. "That's actually Geralt of fucking Rivia."
The Witcher's path would take him directly past Viktor. Closer and closer, until Viktor could see the scars that marked his face, could catch the scent of sword oil and road dust and something else—something wild and dangerous that spoke of mutations and trials that would kill ordinary men.
And then Geralt's medallion began to vibrate.
Viktor saw the Witcher's eyes narrow, saw his head turn slightly in Viktor's direction. For one terrifying moment, their gazes met across the marketplace. Amber eyes studied Viktor with the kind of attention usually reserved for potential threats, and Viktor felt like a mouse that had just noticed it was being stalked by a cat.
Then Geralt's expression shifted to something that might have been dismissal. Whatever had triggered his medallion, he'd apparently decided it wasn't immediately dangerous. The Witcher continued on his path toward the inn, leaving Viktor standing in the marketplace with his heart trying to hammer its way out of his chest.
[PREMONITION SENSE ACTIVATED]
[ANOMALOUS READING DETECTED]
[SUBJECT: ENHANCED HUMAN - POTENTIAL THREAT LEVEL: EXTREME]
[RECOMMENDED ACTION: AVOID DIRECT CONFRONTATION]
"No shit," Viktor whispered to his unhelpful system. "Avoid direct confrontation with Geralt of Rivia. What's next, don't try to arm-wrestle dragons?"
But the encounter had confirmed something important: Geralt was here, the timeline was on track, and Viktor's presence was already affecting things in subtle ways. The medallion's reaction meant the Witcher knew something was off, even if he couldn't identify exactly what.
Viktor made his way to the inn, his mind racing with plans and contingencies. He found a dark corner table where he could watch the door without being easily noticed, ordered water with his last two coppers, and settled in to wait.
The tavern was exactly as he'd seen it in his visions—low-ceilinged, thick with smoke, filled with the kind of people who minded their own business and expected others to do the same. Geralt sat at his usual corner table, nursing what looked like ale and radiating the kind of controlled menace that kept conversations quiet and eyes averted.
Viktor sipped his water and watched the door, his entire body tense with anticipation. Somewhere out there, Renfri was making her final preparations. Her band was closing in on Stregobor. The pieces were moving toward their inevitable collision, and Viktor was the only person in the world who knew how it would end.
The only person who might be able to change it.
"Geralt's here," he whispered to himself, staring at the legendary figure across the room. "Renfri's coming. The Lesser Evil begins tomorrow."
But tomorrow felt very far away, and Viktor had work to do.
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