The war still hadn't reached Velen, so the common folk were doing alright—at least they had food and drink. Standing before the notice board, Victor didn't see anything that looked like an urgent cry for help. Most of what was posted was small-town nonsense and petty domestic gripes.
Linen Yarn
"If you're short on linen yarn, come see me. A new batch of yarn will be ready by month's end. I'm still looking for a helper girl—hands must be deft, and you've got to be willing to sit for long hours at work. If you like complaining, don't bother coming—Jaddy."
That job posting was of absolutely no use to him.
Few Words Bout Byfron
"Let it be known throughout the land that Byfron is a fool and a lout, who borrows yet never returns, respects no laws, divine or human, and rides roughshod over the virtue of maidens. May drowners pull him to a watery grave!"
Victor tore down the unsigned smear note… "Rides roughshod over the virtue of maidens"? Country law enforcement really that useless? Angoulême might be interested—at least it'd give her something to do.
She'd been bored today and ran off to Fergus's forge to play overseer. With their strength increasing, the steel swords they'd been forging this time were creeping close to three pounds—heavier than before.
Victor was just about to leave the notice board when a gust of wind swept through, peeling away a few overlapping sheets and revealing a contract hidden underneath.
A Gravedigger's Advice
"To the people of Lindenvale!
If you were thinking of strolling through the cemetery, I advise you to abandon the idea at once! A monster has made its home there. It's been digging up graves and smashing things to pieces—recently it has even begun attacking anyone who enters the grounds, and it has kidnapped the miller's child.
If you still have an ounce of sense, keep far away from the cemetery. But if you have the courage and the skill to kill the beast for us, we will pay a generous reward."
Leaning in, Victor read it again carefully to make sure he hadn't misunderstood. "Generous reward" was even underlined.
In peacetime, with food supplies stable, ghouls should be within manageable numbers. And as long as there were corpses to pick at, they generally wouldn't wander close to villages—kidnapping a child was basically impossible. They were opportunists: they ate what was there, when it was there.
So it wasn't ghouls…
He didn't deliberate long before deciding to visit the gravedigger who'd posted the plea—right now.
…
"So, Yoana—you left the Skellige Isles because of your dream of forging?" Angoulême sat on the table, swinging her legs back and forth.
Yoana swung her hammer down again and again on the sword blank, her voice bold and unrestrained. "Yes. Back on the isles they don't believe a woman can be a good craftswoman. I refused to swallow that, so I decided to come out and make my name."
She snorted. "Didn't expect that once I reached Temeria, you lot don't even trust human smiths. You only believe in dwarven craftsmen. I couldn't find work anywhere."
Angoulême laughed. "That's normal. King Foltest holds the title of the King of Mahakam—dwarves acknowledge his rule, so he's got plenty of dwarven craftsmen under him forging weapons and building machines. That's how he got the name 'King of Sieges.'"
She tilted her head. "Dwarves are usually incredible at this stuff. People like Fergus are the rare ones. By the way, is it true he can only patch up farm tools and can't even forge a nail properly?"
The former master craftsman Fergus, crouched by the furnace fanning the coals, immediately bristled. "Hey, Angoulême—now you're going too far. I can't accept that."
Yoana cut in with a grin. "All right then, dear Mr. Graem—I'll admit you can at least hammer out a nail."
With no other choice, Fergus huffed, turned his back, and went back to work. He wasn't exactly pleased, but when he remembered Victor's promise—work hard and he'd get dividends and a share of the profits, tied to a shop in Novigrad—his chest warmed, and his hands found their rhythm again.
Glancing at his back, Yoana lowered her voice with a smile. "For my sake, give him a little face. Don't bring it up again. If I hadn't partnered with him, I couldn't have made a living at the forge before—I would've had to eat by… other means."
Angoulême understood at once and nodded with a small smile.
…
"Hey! Anyone home? Hello—anyone in there?"
Victor knocked three or four rounds before an enraged shout finally answered.
The door flew open. The homeowner had heavy black circles under his eyes, a filthy untrimmed beard, and the kind of exhausted face that screamed constant worry.
"What the hell do you want? Who told you to knock on my door, you—!" The gravedigger cut off mid-curse the moment he got a clear look at who was standing there.
People can pretend they don't judge by appearances, but everyone does. And right now, who was Victor?
He was a premium Van Helsing knockoff.
The outfit made him stand out like a hawk among chickens—sharp, striking, and unmistakably different. "Lindenvale's number-one heartthrob" wasn't an empty boast.
In front of someone who looked that refined, a small-village gravedigger didn't dare raise his voice. He visibly shrank, and since he couldn't see Victor's eyes behind the dark lenses, the pressure only grew.
Victor's mouth curved into an oddly suggestive smile. "Hey. Fancy a round of Gwent?"
"Huh…?" The gravedigger stared blankly, having no idea what this elegant stranger was talking about. He stumbled back two steps, suddenly ashamed of his own ignorance.
Victor shook his head, regretful that this world had no Gwent—and no one who could play along with his jokes. He stepped forward into the doorway, but the hut was dim and smelled even worse up close. He retreated two steps again and beckoned the gravedigger outside.
"You're the one who posted on the notice board about strange activity in the cemetery at night?"
The gravedigger froze for a moment, then his face lit up like a miracle had fallen into his lap. "Y-yes, sir! It was me. I posted it."
"Tell me what's going on."
"It started about half a year ago. Graves kept getting dug up, and the bodies inside would vanish. At first I thought it was just ghouls—if I went by day, they'd be gone."
He swallowed. "But a month ago, at night, we started hearing strange footsteps near the village… and then last week, the neighbor's child disappeared…"
…
"Here—this is the place!" Since it was daytime, the gravedigger was straightforward: once he finished explaining, he led Victor to the site to investigate.
The cemetery outside Lindenvale was decently built. The altar was carved from stone, and the graves around it were laid out in orderly rows.
Victor sniffed the lingering stink in the air and studied the slime smeared along the wall. In the gravedigger's eyes, this young man was clearly someone with a background—clean, well-dressed, imposing. Someone who could solve problems. So the gravedigger stood off to the side and didn't even dare to breathe too loudly.
The witcher's apprentice reached his conclusion quickly. It should be a lone "pretty girl"—the kind of monster he could defeat fair and square.
Victor's tone stayed relaxed. "All right. I need to head back and prepare. This won't be as easy as you think. As for payment—two hundred orens will do."
"Ah, sir, th-that… that price… I can't afford it!" The gravedigger's expression collapsed into bleak misery.
Victor frowned. "This isn't only your problem. That creature's going to get bolder and bolder—soon it won't stop at kidnapping children. Go talk to your village elder. Have everyone chip in together. Two hundred orens isn't much. Once you've raised it, come find me at the tavern." With that, Victor headed back to the village with light steps.
Naming two hundred orens, he felt no guilt whatsoever. If anything, Victor thought he was being ridiculously soft-hearted—practically giving it away.
A single Grapeshot bomb cost twenty crowns—equal to sixty orens. Two hundred orens was already close to what he considered his baseline cost.
And were "pretty girls" really that easy to deal with? That one could stick out its tongue!
Besides—even if he didn't desperately need money, the principle of paying for services still had to stand. There were witchers worth respecting who truly lived and died on this thin income.
Unfortunately, after the gravedigger told the village elder, most of Lindenvale's villagers felt there was plenty of room to haggle. They believed this young, lavishly dressed gentleman couldn't possibly understand their hardships…
…
Note: "Fancy a round of Gwent?"
Gwent is the card game inside the game—a mood-setter with comedic effect. Even if, one second ago, everything was falling apart—disaster at your doorstep, your home burning down, your spouse gone, your child lost, an army at the gates, the country about to collapse—
All it takes is the player asking, "Fancy a round of Gwent?"
And immediately the other person's face changes, fighting spirit surging. "No one in this village can beat me!"
Then they'll battle you for three hundred rounds like they've got endless energy.
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