Night — between the outskirts of Ellander and the Flotsam forests—
After finishing Victor's carefully prepared basil roast chicken, Angoulême sat by the fire and went back to whispering endlessly to her hawk. Ever since she got Catherine, the number of stupid things Angoulême said had dropped noticeably—either because Catherine kept her in check, or because Angoulême was now saying all the stupid things to Catherine instead.
Not bothering to hide it from Angoulême—she wouldn't notice the difference anyway—Victor propped up a small pot to boil water and began his unbelievable alchemy. In went mandrake, nostrix, allspice, bloodmoss, hellebore petals, and a splash of Dwarven Spirit, and then he started stirring.
Thinking about it, he'd been in the world of witchers for over a year now. His endurance, swordsmanship, and traditional alchemy had all improved significantly. Only his unbelievable alchemy had advanced at a snail's pace—he was still truly good at harmonizing only the same handful of things.
Aside from the stamina tonic being a newer formula, everything else—aphrodisiacs, hangover cures, and the emergency contraception he was making right now—were all masterpieces he'd already refined to perfection back in the alchemy world. Beyond that, it was mostly food-related and furniture-related stuff.
Victor knew why his progress was so slow. First, his mental stamina couldn't sustain longer periods of focused harmonizing. Second, the rational education of his past life had shackled his imagination—if he couldn't simulate a process in his head that reality could reproduce, then "creating something from nothing" was extremely difficult for him.
And neither of those problems was something he could solve right now.
Back in Ban Ard, he'd tried to look for formulas that could increase mental stamina, but those were monopolized by mages—because they needed them too. A few ingredients that might help were also absurdly expensive and rare.
The influence of rational upbringing was even worse. Because "belief" was an intensely subjective thing—if there was even a trace of doubt, it could affect whether unbelievable alchemy succeeded at all.
And unfortunately, his worldview had been forged in the modern internet age of filters, catfishing, and bait-and-switch livestreams. Doubting everything was an instinct rooted deep in his bones. So all he could do was broaden his horizons and let time slowly wear that reflex down.
A faint glimmer flashed. Victor kept the cauldron's prismatic glow at the lowest possible level. He fished out a dozen or so delicate tablets, candy-like in shape, stuffed them into a small leather pouch, and tossed it to Angoulême.
Angoulême caught it and stared at Victor, completely lost.
While packing away the little pot, Victor said, "You know… the captain always gives you the best. This is the best morning-after pill."
"Morning-after pill?" Her face stayed blank—clearly, she couldn't parse the subtle art of his euphemisms.
Victor had no choice but to lower his voice and try very hard to sound serious. "Emergency contraception. Guaranteed to work if taken within three days after. You might feel a little dizzy, get a headache, nausea or vomiting, stomach cramps, fatigue—nothing major."
He was being perfectly clear. She was perfectly confused.
"So why are you giving it to me?" she asked.
"Wasn't there a festival yesterday? I saw you with Ciaran… cough… cough… so, uh… you know."
"Oh! Captain, you mean that—no! I didn't sleep with him!"
The unexpected answer left Victor blinking. "Huh… you didn't? Then why was he following you around like that…?"
"He likes me, sure, but I don't sleep with anyone outside the hanza." Angoulême said it like it was the most natural thing in the world.
That hanza logic again. Victor understood—and immediately got stuck.
"But the troupe only has one man right now. Me. Don't tell me you…?"
Angoulême answered with innocent words that stabbed like knives. "Captain won't do. You know what my earlier years were like, so I decided a long time ago: I'll only sleep with people in the hanza, and I'll only sleep with men who are handsome and strong. Captain, you're strong enough… but 'handsome' has nothing to do with you."
She smoothed Catherine's feathers as she continued, completely unbothered. "I'm fine. I've lived like this for years, and my needs aren't that high. Now I've got Catherine with me too.
"But if you really care about that kind of thing, then hurry up and recruit a handsome, strong man into the troupe!"
Victor smiled on the outside, rubbed his nose, and swore viciously inside his heart.
You can just hold it in. Until you're forty, this troupe isn't recruiting a single male.
"Anyway." Angoulême tossed the little pouch once, then tucked it into her chest. "Thanks for caring, Captain. I'll take it."
…
The tent was pretty spacious—easily enough for two people to sleep.
After packing up his alchemy equipment, Victor crawled inside. Angoulême was fumbling around outside for who-knew-what. He was almost asleep when she finally slipped into the tent with a soft rustle, mildly interrupting his drowsiness.
Once she'd settled into a sleeping position, she spoke naturally, like it was nothing.
"Captain, did you know? Catherine really misses the forest."
Angoulême had initiated bedtime conversation. Victor's sleep took another hit.
"Is that so?"
"Yeah. She thinks it's uncomfortable here—no tall trees to roost in.
"I kind of miss the forest too. And the friends we drank and danced with. Yesterday was really fun. Captain, do you think we'll ever see them again?"
Victor paused. "You'd better not think that way. Think about it too much and it'll come true."
"Huh. I thought you, of all people, would want to see Toruviel again?"
"Listen to me. If you ever see them in a human settlement, stay as far away as possible. They'll bring trouble—every kind of trouble."
"I thought we were friends with them now?"
With Angoulême's relentless harassment, Victor's sleep was getting absolutely shredded.
So he turned onto his side to face her and spoke seriously. "Then let me ask you: if one day they start fighting the Flotsam garrison, and you're there—who do you help?"
"Easy. I help them!" Angoulême answered instantly.
"…"
Victor hadn't expected that a question he'd had to chew on over and over—while making potions, no less—was something Angoulême already had an answer for.
What was even scarier was that this idiot's answer was the same as his.
Curious, he asked, "Why would you decide that?"
"Because they're closer to us."
"But the garrison are humans, like us."
"Race isn't the first thing you consider." Angoulême said it matter-of-factly. "Zoltan said that, and I think it makes a lot of sense."
"Oh… what did he say?"
"Two years ago, when I was still traveling with Uncle Geralt looking for Ciri, we met Zoltan for the first time. He and his dwarven friends were helping a group of human women and children escape the flames of war. But those women relied on their protection while still looking down on them for being crude.
"I was annoyed enough that I almost went to complain to him, but then I heard him talking with Geralt. This is what he said—"
Zoltan Chivay: "My biggest flaw is that I'm an altruist with no restraint," he said. "I can't see someone in trouble and not help.
"But I'm a sensible dwarf. I know I can't help everyone. Even if I tried, for the whole world and all the creatures living in it, it'd still just be a drop of clean water in the sea.
"In other words, pointless effort.
"So I decided I'll only help specific people—so I don't waste my strength.
"I help the people who are close to me first."
Angoulême's imitation of Zoltan's tone was so spot-on Victor nearly felt like he was right there, listening to a dwarf deliver that speech.
Yes. In a chaotic age like this, trying to judge right and wrong at every moment was too hard—and too foolish.
Better to hold the line on your principles, and prioritize the people close to you. Simple.
Victor sighed. "Zoltan really is a wise dwarf."
"So our troupe will do that too?"
"Yes." Victor replied. "The Phantom Troupe always stands on its friends' side."
Not long after the topic ended, the girl's breathing evened out, and Victor finally began to drift back toward sleep.
…
Midnight.
Catherine let out a sharp cry and thundered her wings.
Angoulême sprang up like a cat. "Catherine says there's danger!" She grabbed her steel sword and dove out of the tent.
Victor followed immediately. The moment he stepped out, he caught a faint stink riding the wind.
He tasted it… again… trying to categorize a stench he'd never smelled before.
Then he pulled four vials from his herb pouch and handed them to Angoulême. "Drink these three right now. Pour this blade oil over your sword. It's a pack of nekkers. Pay attention when I warn you—I might throw bombs. Let's hope there aren't any nekker warriors."
Then he drew out another four vials for himself—bit down three stoppers and swallowed them in quick succession. With the last vial, he snapped his silver sword free and solemnly poured Necrophage Oil along the blade.
Under moonlight like flowing water, Victor adjusted his breathing.
He was nervous.
This was his second time going out to hunt monsters. Even if the enemy was only nekkers, there was no doubt about it—
Tonight would be another long, grinding gauntlet.