Without warning, Victor looked up—rain was pouring down in sheets again, another afternoon thunderstorm.
He set the letter aside and pinched the bridge of his nose. Ah.
On the third day after Megatron was deployed, Catherine arrived with the expected good news… and an unexpected bonus.
"Captain, it really happened exactly as you said. Tailles is no longer a problem.
"When I'm writing this letter, the announcement is already plastered all over the city: Duke Hereward has removed him from his post as captain of the city guard and ordered him to return to Dorndal at once to report in.
"I heard he got the news inside the guardhouse. He completely lost it—started shouting that he wanted to see the duke. In the end, Dennis Cranmer showed up with men, tied him up, and had him hauled out of the city.
"You really do have a way of doing things, Captain. You stripped him of his power in one move. I confirmed it myself: the people he had stationed outside the city for an ambush all received orders to withdraw by evening.
"And now… you've been staying at the temple for almost twenty days. Since Tailles isn't a threat anymore, how much longer are we staying here?
"These past two days, buying supplies hasn't gone well. Ellander's market doesn't have a lot of what we need. I think once we reach Vizima, we'll have a much better chance of finding everything…"
Angoulême's letters were getting longer and longer—and more and more nagging. She really must be bored out of her mind in the city.
Victor reached out and smoothed Catherine's feathers. The more time they spent together, the more she allowed. Touching her from behind was still out of the question, but at least she would let him stroke any feathers that were within her line of sight.
After thinking it over, Victor went downstairs, wandered into the front hall, and chatted casually with a few commoners. Then he returned to his room, pulled out fresh paper, and wrote back to Angoulême—telling her to meet him tomorrow morning by a lakeshore in the forest, at Clearwater Lake, and to bring the alchemy materials he'd asked her to buy.
On the one hand, if he didn't pack the ingredients into his herb satchel soon, some of them might spoil. On the other, it wasn't just about calming his fiercely loyal right hand's impatience—Victor himself was starting to feel that being cooped up inside the temple for too long meant it was time to breathe outside air again.
…
The next morning was clear. Victor wore a light linen shirt, brought only his steel sword and the herb satchel he never left behind when traveling, and left through the temple gates.
He walked for half an hour beneath a shaded avenue of poplars, turned left into the woods, then walked another half hour deeper in.
Soon enough, he reached the shore of Clearwater Lake.
He'd asked around the day before, and the commoners had eagerly shared this "secret spot." Supposedly, people often met here for dates—some thrill-seeking couples even came at night for… exercise.
But it was early morning now.
The lakeshore was empty.
The breeze was cool. The water was clear. The grass along the bank was lush and green. Victor could easily imagine how good it would feel to lie down and let the sun warm him—
So he did exactly that.
It had been a long time since he'd been able to relax like this, basking in sunlight with nothing pressing down on him. The gentle warmth made him think of his life in that other world of alchemy—back when every day had felt unhurried. Eyes closed, he could almost smell cake, sweet biscuits, and hot black tea.
And yet, when he searched his own heart, he realized something strange.
He missed it… but he didn't want to go back.
Somehow, he seemed to like this dangerous, war-torn world of witchers.
…
A rustle of leaves cut through Victor's drifting thoughts.
Someone was moving through the brush, approaching through the trees. That should be Angoulême—
No.
Those heavy footsteps weren't hers.
The sudden spike of danger made Victor flip over and spring up toward the sound, but he was still a heartbeat too late. A heavy fist, wrapped in a steel gauntlet, smashed into his abdomen—straight into the liver.
The shock yanked at his vagus nerve, crushed his diaphragm, and in an instant the pain stole his breath and drained the strength from his whole body.
His attacker wasn't satisfied.
Before Victor could even crumple and gasp, a hook slammed into the side of his face as he swayed. The blow sent him flying sideways, and he hit the ground hard.
The figure stepped in, then kicked Victor's right lower leg.
Crack.
The sound of bone splitting was sharp and unmistakable.
The attacker paused, surprised it hadn't snapped clean through—but Victor's eyes were already unfocused, his mind swimming. The beating stopped there, because if it continued, Victor would pass out.
And a witcher had to be conscious to receive judgment.
Victor was dragged by his uninjured left foot to the edge of the lake. Water was dumped over his face from a jug, and as his awareness slowly returned, he forced his eyes open.
He wasn't surprised in the slightest to see Sir Tailles standing over him—once handsome, now twisted beyond recognition by hatred.
"Ta… Tailles… sir…" Victor slurred, each word broken and thick. "Why… why?"
"Why?" Tailles bent down, grabbed Victor's collar with his left hand, and raised his right fist to strike. "After you humiliated me again and again with that contempt in your eyes, those insolent gestures, those arrogant words—and you still dare to ask me why?
"You think I don't know anything?"
But with Victor sprawled there, barely breathing, Tailles finally sneered and released the collar, letting the witcher apprentice slump back onto the ground like a corpse.
He drew his sword instead.
The tip angled down and slashed across Victor's left cheek, carving a line as Tailles spat his curses.
"You street swindlers. You disgusting freaks. Did you really think hiding in that dark, superstitious nest would keep you safe—that I couldn't reach you?"
One cut finished, the sword tip traced another, opening a second mark on Victor's face.
"No. My eyes have seen your crimes. I will not sit back and let you use filthy potions to bewitch my lord—nor will I let you disgrace the honor of the Order of the White Rose."
Declaring the witcher's "sins," Tailles sank into the supreme satisfaction of believing he was delivering justice.
He never realized that the Victor lying there like a dead dog wasn't as badly hurt as he looked.
Because Victor was a witcher apprentice.
His body had been trained—carefully, deliberately—to survive the Trial of the Grasses.
A liver shot and a heavy blow to the face were brutally effective against an ordinary man, but they weren't enough to leave Victor helpless for long.
So the moment he was dragged to the lake, Victor began to act.
He wasn't an expert at playing dead, but the plain, youthful face of someone too young to be this durable was convincing enough.
Finally—after the third cut—Tailles lifted his sword high, satisfied, ready to drive it down and pin Victor to the earth.
"Starting with you, monster. Your blood will wash away the insult you've dealt the Order—"
Victor's left leg snapped inward, then kicked out hard, heel driving into Tailles's unguarded shin.
At the same time, Victor used the force to roll away.
As he rolled, he snatched up the Mahakam blade that had fallen nearby. When he came up, he drew steel in one swift motion, the sword leaving its scabbard with a clean hiss.
The tip leveled at Tailles.
Tailles stood there in full plate, a richly decorated breastplate trimmed with brass, a crimson cloak snapping in the wind. Seeing Victor rise and draw steel, he flicked the blood from his sword point and smiled—cruel, delighted.
He idly swung his blade, casually tracing a few bright "flowers" through the air. His voice was unhinged with glee.
"Heh… heh heh heh… good. Good. I've waited for this day for years.
"Ever since that damned bastard left humiliation on my face more than a decade ago, I've ground myself down, sharpened myself—so I could return it to him one day.
"But he died. Died by the roadside like a stray dog.
"Doesn't matter. You're a witcher too. I'll carve you into pieces and prove that freaks like you have no right to exist!"
Unlike the knight's joy, Victor's expression was grim and careful. He was disappointed that his kick hadn't done more—he'd only knocked Tailles off balance for a moment. Yes, a man in full plate wouldn't be fast…
But Victor, with a cracked shin, was worse.
And judging by what Victor saw—what he heard—Tailles wasn't the pathetic weakling he'd once been.
Victor wasn't confident he could win this fight.
Which meant… he had no choice.
Faintly, a drifting voice echoed in his head again—thin and unreal.
"Kill him. You can do it, can't you?"
"This can't be resolved anymore. It isn't your fault—he's the foolish one."
"He losing his position has nothing to do with you. You bear no responsibility. He struck first… kill him."
"Doesn't your face hurt? Pay that pain back to him."
Victor shook his head hard, forcing those whispers away.
Decision made, he shifted his stance. One hand held the sword. The tip angled down toward the earth.
"Tailles!" Victor roared. "This is your final ultimatum!
"Leave now, and I'll pretend none of this ever happened. You can go back to Dorndal and remain a knight of the Order of the White Rose.
"Otherwise, you will die here—by the secret, lethal ultimate art passed down within the Wolf School… by the hand of the witcher Victor."
Tailles answered with a cold laugh. With a clack, he lowered his visor, took his sword in both hands, and strode forward.
He believed he'd seen through Victor's bluff.
A cracked shin was decisive. No "secret sword art" could be used in that state.
And facing the knight's stubborn advance—
Victor drew breath.
"Ultimate—"