Victor pulled two vials of healing potion from his herb kit and fed one to Angoulême and one to himself.
Watching the two witchers finish the bruxa was genuinely a pleasure—and it made him understand, deep in his bones, why Eskel once said that if he had a choice, he would always prefer outnumbering a monster.
Serrit formed the Yrden Sign and pressed it to the ground. A pale violet ring of etheric power spread out from his feet. The bruxa stepped into it as she closed in, and her body was immediately affected—her movements turning sluggish, robbed of that ghostlike speed from before.
The etheric circle created by Yrden didn't just slow targets. It also forced invisible, mist-formed, and spectral creatures to reveal themselves—essentially the same effect as a Moon Dust bomb.
The bruxa tried desperately to escape the Yrden field, but the big brute was simple and brutal about it. He threw up the Quen Sign and met her head-on in a hard, violent collision. Quen soaked the swipe of her claws, and his silver sword punched straight through her body.
For an instant it felt like time stopped.
Then the giant engaged his waist and core, dragging the blade sideways in a brutal pull-and-yank, opening her belly wide in a horizontal gutting cut—then turning away as he withdrew.
…Hands clamped over her abdomen, the bruxa tried to stop blood and organs from spilling out. But everyone present simply watched in silence, because they all knew it was hopeless.
At last she lost all strength and dropped to her knees.
Serrit stepped in behind her and drove a sword through her heart.
When he pulled the silver blade free, she let out one last hoarse, broken moan—and collapsed, dead.
Next came the witchers' traditional "surgery" time.
The tension finally left Victor's shoulders. He turned to look at Auckes, who had stayed behind to protect him.
From the beginning until now, Auckes' face had been stuck in a broad grin, like he was delighted by something nobody else could see. When he noticed Victor watching, he didn't find it strange at all—if anything, he looked even more excited and waved.
"Hey! Victor! I'm Auckes of the School of the Viper. I've wanted to chat with you for ages. And damn, your bombs are amazing. No wonder you're an apprentice of the School of the Wolf. I've never seen a Dancing Star hit that hard."
Victor froze.
Not just because Auckes seemed like a relentless chatterbox—but because the information packed into his words was far too much.
That the three of them knew his name, and knew he was a witcher apprentice, wasn't surprising. Plenty of people in the city knew that. The problem was that they also knew his actual school.
Which meant they had investigated him privately.
And when Auckes mentioned Dancing Star, he clearly wasn't talking about tonight's deluxe version.
Victor's mind flashed back to the last time he had used a Dancing Star—when he'd thrown one in the Vizima cemetery against ghouls.
Meaning…
He suddenly remembered that fleeting sensation of being watched.
"A month ago—you were in the Vizima cemetery?!"
Auckes, head wrapped in a scarf and looking sharp and capable despite the nonstop talking, clapped his hands. "Ha! I knew it. So you did notice back then. I heard there was a witcher going after ghouls, so I came to watch for fun. When you got surrounded, I was going to jump down and help—but good thing I didn't make it in time. Otherwise I wouldn't have gotten to see what you can really do. That Dancing Star was bright enough to blind the gods."
Auckes said more after that, but Victor didn't really take it in.
Because the two witchers who had just finished the monster—Serrit still busy working the bruxa's body for parts—while the giant with that overwhelming presence was already walking toward him, one step at a time.
He pulled his hood back.
The brute was bald.
"Auckes. Shut up." His voice was stern, and his southern Nilfgaardian accent made it even sharper. "Victor. How are your injuries? And hers?"
Clearly, he held authority among the three. The reprimand landed, and Auckes immediately went silent.
"I'm fine," Victor said with a smile, flexing his hands and feet to show he was still functional. "With some rest, I shouldn't have any lasting issues. But Angoulême might need a closer check."
Two crossed scars ran over the bald man's scalp. "Good. Take her back and get her treated."
He held a big hand out in front of Victor.
Three glass tubes of vampire blood dropped into the witcher apprentice's palm.
His features were deep-set, and the whole man looked like he'd been carved out of granite. "After you've settled her, meet us at the embankment in the slums. I'm sure you have a lot of questions. I have a few too. But this isn't the time. Go take care of your friend."
Victor nodded, slipped the vampire blood into his herb kit, and lifted Angoulême onto his back. His voice turned solemn. "Thank you. Seriously—thank you."
The witcher apprentice carried her out.
…
Bleeding from seven places looked terrifying, but Victor knew Angoulême's injuries weren't actually severe. With rest, she'd be fine.
He put her back on the bed, wiped her face off quickly, and made her drink another potion. Then he reached out and stroked Catherine's feathers. By now, Victor was familiar enough with the hawk that he could touch her freely.
"Watch Angoulême," he told her softly. "If anything happens, slap her face and wake her up."
Then Victor returned to his own room, wiped his face, downed another potion, and stepped out into the sitting room, ready to go find the three witchers.
Shani came in first.
Victor and Angoulême had left to hunt in the afternoon. It was just turning into night now—perfect timing for the young doctor to finish work and come by, only to run straight into this.
…
After checking Angoulême's condition and tucking her in, Doctor Shani left the room. She walked out into the hall, crossed her arms over her chest, and glared at Victor.
Victor didn't think he'd done anything wrong, but under that stare he still felt guilty and looked away. The wooden floorboards had dark stains; it was probably time to schedule a proper housecleaning.
Shani clicked her tongue twice in annoyance, marched forward, grabbed his hand, and dragged him toward the downstairs room, her tone sharp. "Relax. She's not badly hurt. She'll recover quickly. Now come to my room—you're getting checked too."
Victor knew his condition had to be no worse than Angoulême's, but there was no reason to argue with someone who cared about him.
He sat on a chair in Shani's room while she examined him carefully—his eyes, eardrums, nose, tongue—then listened to his heart and lungs.
One thing worth noting: in this era, there was no stethoscope. Doctors just pressed an ear directly to the chest to listen. Right then and there, Victor decided he was going to put "invent a stethoscope" onto his to-do list. The principle wasn't complicated—no one had simply thought of doing it that way.
The checkup ended quickly.
"Looks like nothing serious," Shani said. "You really are a lot tougher than Angoulême. Be more careful next time."
She hesitated, then finally asked the question anyway. "Why do you insist on becoming a witcher? As an alchemist, you could live a stable, comfortable life."
Victor smiled. Ever since Dandelion had asked him, he'd known Shani would ask sooner or later. Anyone who cared about him would wonder.
He shrugged and pulled an ugly face. "Maybe to other people it's hard to understand, but it's my choice. Some things have to be done by someone, don't they?"
After seeing witcher Signs again in the sewers, Victor could see his own heart clearly. He wanted extraordinary power—the way a child wants toys, the way a young man wants girls, the way an adult wants everything. Simple as that.
Hearing his answer, Shani fell silent and stared at his face for so long that Victor started wondering if he'd said something wrong.
Then she leaned back in her chair and spoke with a sigh. "I understand. Being a doctor is hard too. But since I chose it, I'll keep going. You… you've made your choice as well."
Her reaction made Victor suspect she'd filled in a whole story in her head—one he hadn't actually said—but he didn't know how to explain it.
In this era, most people seemed to think becoming a witcher was miserable. Dirty. A life that would earn disgust.
But what Victor saw were advantages: a strong body that was almost immune to disease, a long lifespan to freely do what he wanted, and a foundation of supernatural strength.
So for him, there wasn't much to hesitate about. As for the downside of infertility—maybe medieval people cared a lot about that, but Victor, having lived three lives, didn't. And besides, he had unbelievable alchemy as a backstop. If he ever changed his mind later, he could research methods of cultivating breeding worms and other solutions.
Most importantly, since he'd already found a way to raise mental power through "pleasure," all he needed was time. Given enough of it, that earlier boast—about giving Angoulême something to rely on, something "invincible"—wouldn't be empty talk.
But only Victor knew those reasons.
To everyone else, it looked like he had the option not to become a witcher—one of those lives so many people hated—yet he chose it anyway. That kind of stubbornness looked like self-sacrifice, like a noble resolve worthy of respect.
Shani, shaken by Victor's "resolve," softened noticeably. "So you're going to the slums now to find those three witchers?"
"Yes," Victor said, standing. "They helped me. And there's a lot we need to talk about."
Shani picked up a cloak and handed it to him. "It won't be dangerous, will it?"
"No. They just saved me and Angoulême. There's no reason for conflict between us."
"Then I'll stay here and watch the girl. Go, and come back quickly."
Victor nodded. "I'm heading out."
Shani smiled. "Be careful on the way."
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