Geralt stared at the Rotfiend carcass, his eyes moving from the clean cut to the grey blade in Jake's hand. The lack of an explosion was what bothered him most; usually, killing those things required a Quen shield or a very fast roll.
"Explain it to me," Geralt said, his voice flat. "Why does my hand trigger a headache, and why would this 'logic' of yours make a sword explode? I've handled elven artifacts and cursed relics. I've never met a piece of steel that was... allergic to me."
Jake sheathed the Balanced Sword and leaned against a mossy rock. "It's called Aptitude. Think of reality like a fabric. Magick bends that fabric to create effects—fire from nothing, telepathy, portals. Technology, on the other hand, reinforces the fabric. it makes the laws of gravity, friction, and thermodynamics absolute."
He pointed to Geralt's chest, where the Wolf Medallion hung. "You are a mutant. Your body was rebuilt using Mutagens and alchemy. You channel Signs. In the eyes of the universe, your 'Aptitude' is heavily weighted toward Magick. You are a living violation of physics."
Jake then held up his hand-crafted Fine Revolver. "This gun is a masterpiece of Technological Aptitude. Its every gear and spring relies on the laws of physics being 100% stable. When you get close, your magical 'aura' acts like static interference. It tries to warp the metal, to soften the springs, to change the way the powder burns."
"And if I try to use it?" Geralt asked.
"The two forces collide," Jake explained. "The Magick in your blood tries to bend the gun, while the gun's Technological nature tries to flatten your Magick. The result is a catastrophic failure. For the sword, the 'static' would just ruin the edge and make your head throb. But for a gun? The pressure levels are so precise that a tiny magical warp would turn the chamber into a bomb in your palm."
Geralt went silent. He looked at his calloused, scarred hands—hands that had saved villages and slain dragons—and slowly facepalmed.
"So what you're saying," Geralt rasped through his fingers, "is that because I'm a Witcher, I am fundamentally incompatible with the most efficient weapons I've ever seen. I'm stuck with silver and steel because I'm too... 'anomality' for your science."
"Exactly," Jake said, a sympathetic smirk on his face. "You're a creature of the old world, Geralt. My gear is for the people who can't cast spells. It's for the common man—and the Non-humans who have been stepped on for too long."
Geralt sighed, dropping his hand. "Great. I've found the future of warfare, and I'm the only one who can't join the party."
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]
Aptitude Explained: Geralt now understands the Tech/Magick Divide.
Relationship Status: [Geralt of Rivia] is now Philosophically Depressed.
Jake saw the look of defeat on the Witcher's face and let out a short laugh. "Don't look so miserable, Geralt. You can't use my guns, but that doesn't mean I can't turn you into something the Lodge of Sorceresses will fear."
Geralt looked up, his brow furrowed, his hand still resting on the pommel of a sword that felt primitive compared to the one Jake had just used. "You just spent an hour telling me I'm too 'magical' for your gear. What could a boy with a suitcase of gold have for a relic like me?"
"The magic in this world is messy," Jake said, choosing his words with cold, technological precision. "I've seen the mages here. They treat Chaos like a wild beast. They need massive innate strength—a natural Source—just to survive the backwash of a simple fireball. But you? You're different."
Geralt shook his head. "I'm a Witcher, Jake. I wasn't born with the Gift. I'm just a mutant."
"Exactly," Jake countered, his eyes lighting up. "Your mutations—the Trial of the Grasses—they didn't just make you fast. They rebuilt your flesh into an artificial source. Your body is a biological battery designed to channel energy into Signs. You've been using it to power primitive, inefficient 'gadgets.' I'm going to teach you how to use it as a precision engine."
Geralt leaned in, his interest finally outweighing his skepticism. "An artificial source?"
"Think of it like this," Jake said, sketching a diagram on the soot-stained table. "A mage is a natural spring, gushing water everywhere. You're a pump. It's not as 'strong,' but it's consistent. The refined magic I know doesn't need a natural spring; it needs a Discipline. It doesn't require 'magic strength,' it requires Aptitude. Since your mutated flesh can already hold a charge, you can cast these spells. They don't need chants. They don't need rituals. They just need you to manage your stamina."
Geralt's jaw dropped. In his world, you were either a mage or you were a "lesser" user of Signs. "You're saying... I could cast real spells? Without the drain that leaves me panting after three Aards?"
"I'm saying you could master the College of Force to crush plate armor like parchment, or Necromantic White to knit your own wounds closed in the middle of a fight," Jake explained. "Instead of tapping into the world's messy Chaos, you use the 'charge' in your mutated cells. It will drain your physical Vigor and Stamina rather than your mind. For someone with your endurance, Geralt, you'd be a god on the battlefield."
Geralt looked at his hands, his golden eyes reflecting the orange glow of the forge. He had spent his life being told his magic was a crude imitation of 'real' sorcery. Now, this boy was telling him his mutations made him the perfect vessel for a more advanced science."Show me," Geralt rasped. "If I can strike without the chant and heal without the poison, then the Northern Realms aren't ready for what's coming."
Jake spent the evening coaching Geralt on how to shift his focus from the "crude push" of Signs to the "refined flow" of Minor Healing. Under Jake's guidance, Geralt successfully closed a deep gash on his own palm without a single drop of Swallow potion.
The Witcher stared at his unscarred skin, the lack of "magical backwash" leaving him stunned. He didn't feel the world's Chaos resisting him; he felt the logic of the spell working in harmony with his own mutated biology.