By the lakeside near the slums, eating grilled fish and drinking wine—once they got drunk, they started bragging, reciting their own tales of martial glory. In that regard, witchers were no different from ordinary men.
Three witchers and one apprentice, their faces and bodies hung with a dazzling array of "battle honors." Compared to the others, Victor's scar layout was the plainest—one line across the bridge of his nose, and three on his cheek.
"Hahaha, this long one on my chest was… from an endrega warrior's foreclaw. That bastard almost split me in half. Even now I can still remember the pattern on its carapace—black with white speckles.
"And then? I used the Sign of Igni and burned it till it squealed…"
"…It was a whole pack of foglets."
"I'll tell you, that fleder was fast—nasty piece of work. But I was nastier, and faster. It left me this mark, and I gutted it for the favor."
"And you… Victor, what's the story behind those pale lines on your face?"
After the witchers finished their stories, of course they had to check on the kid. The wounds didn't look serious, but you had to give a man his turn to speak—who knew what kind of story might be hiding under his leather, out of sight.
The apprentice lightly traced the scars on his cheek. "…A human. The one on my nose was from a bandit. I hesitated instead of pinning him to the ground on the spot, and he countered. As for these three on my cheek—those were from a knight. He despised all witchers."
Maybe the answer stirred up something in each of them. The air fell into a brief silence, with only the crackle of the campfire left.
After all, in a witcher's long life, it was impossible not to have endured human violence—no doubt about it. Most humans treated the men who carved out safe living space for them exactly like that.
"Heh-heh-heh. The most terrifying monster of all." Auckes drawled with a nasty little smirk.
"People like imagining monsters—creating them—because it makes them look less terrifying by comparison." Serrit suddenly lifted his voice in a poetic cadence, the first time all night he'd spoken so many words at once.
And it was a line every witcher had heard a thousand times. Letho took a swig from his bottle and continued in a low, rough voice, "When they're drunk as mud, they'll lie, steal, beat their wives, let an old woman starve to death, chop a fox trapped in a snare with an axe… or fill the last unicorn in the world with arrows."
Auckes swayed, grinning. "But they'd rather believe that compared to themselves, the mora prowling into homes at dawn is far more frightening. It lets them feel a little better. Makes life easier to swallow."
That relay of words from the three witchers came from a deceased legend among their kind—Geralt of Rivia.
The White Wolf wasn't a literary man, but he had a poet for a best friend: Dandelion. The bard polished Geralt's words and spread them across the Continent, and witchers everywhere took particular delight in that razor-edged bit of mockery.
The apprentice added lazily, "They say a mora looks like a pale child, wandering through villages at daybreak, bringing death and sickness to children.
"The funny thing is, this imaginary creature is so rare that no one has ever truly seen one—not witchers, not mages. But that doesn't stop common folk from believing in it with all their hearts."
At the apprentice's neat little annotation, Serrit gave a soft clap in approval, and Auckes laughed so hard he nearly doubled over.
Letho reached out and gripped Victor's arm. "Thanks for the extra explanation. But even when you run into that kind of rot, don't be disappointed in humans. And don't give up on your calling. There are still good people who understand us."
"I'm fine." The boy smiled and shook his head. "I understand it completely. The stupid part of human nature won't change in a thousand years."
"Agreed." Serrit agreed because his outlook was bleak; the boy said it because it was simply true.
"You two are way too negative…" Auckes slapped his thigh in dissatisfaction and lifted his bottle. "Fine—let me tell you something inspiring. I overheard it last time at the Eager Thighs…"
And just like that, stone-faced Serrit, sunny Auckes, big-brotherly Letho, and the energetic Victor drank and talked until dawn—until it was time to say goodbye.
…
The next morning, outside the Shepherd's Gate, the three witchers prepared to leave Vizima.
"Be careful on the road. Stay alive." Victor said, yawning.
"If you weren't yawning while you say that, it would sound more sincere." Serrit said coldly.
Victor yawned again. "I'm not a witcher. Staying up all night drinking means I'm going to be sleepy. More importantly—do you really have to leave in such a hurry?"
"If that hunt for the female vampire hadn't happened, we were planning to come find you today and get answers, then leave the city once things were settled." Auckes was still grinning as he spoke.
"There's a contract in Angren—slyzards. Serrit and I took it earlier," Letho said, patting his bundle. Inside were a few Dancing Stars Victor had given them, along with a chunk of honeycomb. "Auckes made it sound interesting, so we detoured to take a look at you first.
"Turns out you're even more impressive than expected. The way you make bombs is something else. Honestly, I think you might have a real future as an alchemist."
Last night, after they drank themselves stupid, the three witchers had carried the apprentice out to the cemetery to watch him "perform" with Dancing Stars—burning ghouls for show. The power of that unbelievable alchemy… even a master from the School of the Wolf would've had to tip his head in respect. For a few Vipers, it was downright jaw-dropping.
Since Victor genuinely wanted friends, he wasn't stingy about it—he handed over several bombs packed to resist damp and shock as travel gifts. As long as the Ram Gang's supply line didn't run dry, he wouldn't be short on materials anyway.
He watched the three of them mount up and ride away. Victor was just about to turn back toward the city when, without warning, Letho wheeled his horse around and rode back alone, as if he had something to say.
When Letho drew near, Victor asked, "What is it?"
Letho's granite-carved features didn't shift. "I remember you said yesterday that after leaving Kaer Morhen, you haven't been drinking the stamina potion meant for conditioning the body?"
Victor nodded. "Yeah. I can't get some of the special ingredients—only found around Kaer Morhen."
Letho grunted, pulled a sheet of paper from inside his coat, and handed it over. "The School of the Viper's stamina potion recipe. Maybe it's not as effective as the Wolf School's, but the ingredients are easy to find."
Victor took the paper and lowered his eyes to read—then, realizing what kind of gift this was, he snapped his head up.
Letho's face remained blank, his tone steady. "Don't look so shocked. It's not some secret formula. We've been wandering the Northern Kingdoms for a long time, and we haven't run into an apprentice worth investing in.
"Shame you're not from the School of the Cat. Truly. What a shame."
With that, he turned his horse, rejoined the other two witchers, and rode off without looking back.
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