It wasn't until the moon was high overhead that the Phantom Troupe finally made it back to the alchemy workshop at home.
Sinking into an armchair, the young man replayed the day's turmoil in his head. Looking back on it all, he still felt the lingering chill—especially that last encounter with the sorceress. One wrong step and it could've all gone to hell.
If it were some other isekai powerhouse, they'd probably have switched straight into flirt mode on the spot—pulled off a few miracle-level moves—and wouldn't even need to come home tonight.
Unfortunately, that kind of luck didn't belong to him.
Because he was Victor of Bell Town, not Geralt of Rivia; a green apprentice who'd only just stepped into the world, not some master with a polished reputation.
No century-long career's worth of fame. No strength that people couldn't ignore. Wanting a sorceress to even spare him a proper glance—let alone have something "worth telling" happen between them? He was better off going to bed early. In your dreams, anything is possible.
"At that moment, Victor had absolutely no idea that today was only the prologue—his endless entanglements with Keira Metz were only just beginning."
"…!?"
The boy in the armchair slowly tilted his head, giving the girl a sideways glare. Her eyes darted around, putting on an innocent face. "Angoulême, I'm warning you one more time—when I'm thinking, don't just add narration whenever you feel like it!"
A fire crackled in the furnace at the center of the workshop. From the big cauldron drifted the scent of lavender—sweet and clean, the kind that loosened tight nerves, eased mental fatigue, and made the whole room feel safe.
"Heh heh heh," she snickered, grinning in a way that was downright pervy—yes, it was rude to describe a girl like that, but it fit far too well here. "Vic! Don't tell me you never thought about it even once?
Come on—she was gorgeous. And as far as I know, sorceresses and witchers have a tradition of ending up in bed together. Like when the old wolf was in Toussaint, he got mixed up with a woman called Fringilla!"
"Angoulême, can you not make stuff up about 'witcher traditions'?" Victor pinched the bridge of his nose. "The number of witchers you actually know is exactly one—Geralt—and he is not a reliable sample size.
Listen. The vast majority of witchers—like me, like my senior, Eskel, or Master Vesemir—we work like farmers. We grind away, hunting monsters day in and day out. We don't call kings our brothers, and we don't sleep with sorceresses.
Strictly speaking, as far as I know, in the last hundred years there's only been one witcher who got dragged into a sorceress's bed."
"But when you were talking today, I saw you staring at her feet the whole time. Do you have some weird thing for feet?"
"…I don't."
"But you didn't dare look up once—didn't even dare look at her breasts. Doesn't that mean you like her, so you got shy?"
"...…"
"I bet you—" Angoulême abruptly clamped her mouth shut, because she noticed something was wrong with the way the captain was looking at her.
She knew that expression. No negotiating. The same look he had when he made her study, when he made her go swimming, when he dragged her out for morning runs.
His voice left no room at all: "I'm not planning to have anything happen with her. At least not now—definitely not now. I just want to collect materials properly and study properly. People like us have to know our place."
Angoulême drooped, head lowered.
…
Half an hour later, after roughly sorting out tomorrow's monster-hunting plan, Victor finally got up from the armchair and prepared to make a "Dancing Star"—the plant-killing trump card more commonly known as an incendiary bomb—only to realize, in disbelief, that the girl was still sitting beside him, looking like she wanted to speak but couldn't bring herself to.
Coming out of his brooding—and with that weary, long-suffering "father" mindset kicking in—Victor realized his reaction earlier hadn't been appropriate. No matter what, she'd only been joking with him.
So he tugged the corner of his mouth into an ugly, exaggerated face. "Alright. Don't look so wronged. If you've got something to say, say it."
Instead, the girl lowered her head and started trembling, like she'd truly gotten her feelings hurt.
Her acting's getting better, Victor thought. Too bad it doesn't work on me.
He stood up and punted a foot at her.
Angoulême sprang away in an instant, fast as a startled rabbit, about to open her mouth and complain—
"—Spit it out," he cut in first. "I still have a pile of things to make tonight!"
With a long, helpless sigh, she sat back down, face serious, setting herself up for a proper talk.
The sight made Victor raise an eyebrow. He dragged his chair back over and sat beside her again, curious what this wild kid was about to say.
After thinking for a moment, she finally spoke. "Mm… okay… I'm sorry about earlier. I joked about sorceresses because I was tired. I wanted to talk to you, but I didn't know what to say.
Maybe… today was just too insane…
We got chased down twice in a row, and then twelve people died right in front of me.
I met the Scoia'tael's leader, with a whole crowd of elves under him, and then I got hauled off to the Order to be questioned, with everyone wearing full gear.
I saw a beautiful sorceress, and I saw the Order's master, and they talked about kings and nobles like it was all that mattered.
Yeah, I know I'm an idiot. I don't understand that stuff. But that doesn't mean I don't worry…"
As she spoke, her muttering grew quieter and quieter. But Victor already understood—this slump of hers was just pressure piling up too high.
Angoulême wasn't like him. Victor always knew what was happening. She, on the other hand, had been dragged along all day—running, escaping, fighting—and then, against her will, thrown into one "important person" after another. No wonder she felt lost.
Come to think of it, ever since the troupe set out from Vergen on the way to Vizima, it had been disaster after disaster: the Kayran, the Scoia'tael, Tailles, Ramsmeat's gang, Falwick… He really was putting her through the wringer, making her hack through thorns alongside him.
With that thought, Victor reached out and ruffled her straw-dry blond hair into a mess. "Alright, alright. It's fine, it's fine. Trust your captain. He always has a plan.
And I've got a new plan right now—tomorrow, we rest for a day. No studying. You can go out and have fun on your own. The captain's also sponsoring you with a full bag of oren coins, so you can take Catherine wherever you want, eat whatever you want.
We've worked ourselves raw for this long. It's time to actually relax a little, right?"
"Really?" The gloom on Angoulême's face vanished in an instant. She beamed, then asked, "That's great! Then can I also ask where the captain's planning to go?"
Melitele above—single-celled organisms would never go extinct, and Angoulême was the best proof of it.
Victor smiled and spread his hands. "I'll be spending the afternoon at the Eager Thighs to unwind."
…
The next morning, while the girl ran off with her sponsorship and her little stash to play in Vizima's busiest, most bustling district—the Trade Quarter—the boy stayed behind in the place the Falwick Mercenaries had used as a hideout before.
Even though most of them had already moved into the morgue to live there, Victor still handed over five orens and had one of them guide him back to the two-story building.
Victor wanted to find clues about that "wandering mage." The look in the man's eyes and the gesture he'd made before fleeing didn't seem like someone who was going to let things go.
Unfortunately, by the time noon came and Victor left, he hadn't found anything of value—only an unsent letter:
"Dearest Branny!
We've arrived safely in Vizima. The goods we brought from Ellander are extremely popular—at this rate, everything will be sold in another two or three days.
My dearest Branny, soon I'll be bringing back a pouch stuffed full of orens, so full you won't finish counting them for days!
Tell the little ones their dad's coming home soon. Tell them I'll bring back toys and food. I'll let them eat honey cake until their bellies burst!
As for you, Branny, I'll bring you a silver necklace and a brooch. You can be fierce sometimes, but I still love you, you little minx.
—Yours, Justin
P.S. Remember to put on that nightgown with lace and red beads when I get back. And add a little lipstick."
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