Back in his room, Reyn was still mulling over Roger's offer. Become a witcher?
Reyn knew a bit about witchers, but not much. He knew they were experts in monster hunting. Monsters meant demons and creatures corrupted by Fel energy—numerous and varied beasts. They often hid among humans, sowing destruction. Witchers' main task was to find and eliminate these creatures. Due to constant contact with monsters, witchers inevitably absorbed demonic and Fel auras, making people instinctively feel aversion in their presence. Moreover, a witcher's appearance often meant tragedy had already occurred or was about to. Over time, witchers became seen as bad omens. In some ignorant and superstitious countries, people believed witchers brought misfortune and disaster, treating them hostilely or even driving them out.
Of course, such prejudices were common only among ignorant commoners. In the superhuman world, the witcher profession was considered very strong and respected.
The witcher profession had emerged relatively recently. Once it was just an advanced specialization of the Ranger, but in the last few centuries, witchers had gradually become a separate class. Their combat style largely resembled rangers': emphasis on sword mastery, supplemented by a few spells of various purposes, making them highly versatile fighters.
As the name suggested, witchers excelled at tracking monsters—they were extremely sensitive to Fel auras.
Every witcher had a special silver sword for fighting monsters. Forged from rare Witcher Mithril, it dealt far greater damage to monsters than ordinary steel. However, against other foes, the silver sword was ineffective, so witchers carried a standard steel blade, switching weapons as needed.
That's why witchers always carried two swords on their backs—it became their most recognizable trait.
At Kleiden Academy, where Reyn studied, there were no witcher instructors. It was said they had their own secretive schools, with traditions mostly passed from master to apprentice, keeping their numbers small.
Each school had its own traditions and training methods. Reyn had once heard from an instructor that there were over a dozen witcher Schools, but the strongest and most developed were four: Bear School, Wolf School, Cat School, and Snake School.
This division stemmed from the choice of primary soul for merging after the second transformation, determining differences in their combat styles. Reyn didn't know which specific souls these four Schools used—that was each one's secret.
"Roger invited me to join his School..." The offer greatly tempted Reyn. Roger constantly wore a medallion with a wolf's head, indicating his affiliation with the Wolf School. Reyn had no idea what that School's style was like, but it didn't matter much—Roger was a legendary witcher!
Any legendary superhuman was a significant figure in the Empire. No doubt Roger held an extremely high position in the Wolf School. Becoming his apprentice meant gaining a powerful patron!
Moreover, one shouldn't forget the Mark of Discord. Until it faded, it was wiser for Reyn to stay near a strong protector. And Roger fit the role perfectly.
Reyn pondered long but didn't decide immediately. He hadn't passed the Soul Transformation Ritual yet and wasn't sure of success. Even if successful, there was no guarantee he could become a witcher. The profession required high talent, comparable to powerful church classes, as it involved magic aptitude.
Besides, Roger didn't demand an answer now, suggesting they revisit it after the ritual. If the ritual failed, there'd be nothing to discuss.
"I'll wait for the ritual results, see what happens, then decide whether to become a witcher," Reyn concluded.
He pushed the thoughts aside and lay on the bed, but sleep wouldn't come. He was still in a state of extreme excitement, brimming with energy. Moreover, he felt his body continuing to strengthen on its own, even at rest.
An indescribable power flowed through his veins, and wherever it passed, muscles, bones, vessels, and organs seemed to charge with energy, growing stronger. The process went continuously, in waves, and at certain intervals, Reyn felt noticeable changes.
"This sensation..."
"Feels damn good!"
Reyn was almost intoxicated by it. He opened his phone interface—a hundred small cells representing charge level were fully filled green. Just looking at them brought pleasure.
"Full charge! Now I can spend energy freely, however I want."
Reyn's gaze fell on several icons activated recently. He counted them—five new ones!
The most noticeable icon, which he'd spotted earlier, was shaped like a microphone. At its top was a stylized pointed ear, with curved wavy lines radiating outward.
"What's the point of a microphone?" Reyn wondered skeptically and activated the icon.
In the next instant, his ears filled with myriads of sounds! Human voices, wind rustling, friction noises—everything mixed into a chaotic cacophony that seemed about to burst his head from inside.
Reyn hastily deactivated the microphone and clutched his head. It took time to recover. Scratching the back of his head, he finally understood. A microphone captures sound waves of various frequencies, converts them to electrical signals, and amplifies or suppresses noise. After the phone's mutation, the microphone's capabilities had greatly expanded.
Now he could hear sounds across the full frequency range, from much farther away, and even the quietest noises were clear, like a radio broadcast.
"This is super hearing!"
Reyn was thrilled. He cautiously reactivated the microphone and, after a few tries and adjustments, quickly adapted. Focusing on one specific sound amid the chaos, he made the sound waves order themselves; the sound became clear and pure. He could track its source, gauge distance, while other noises faded to background.
"I'm telling you, you can't get lucky all evening! My turn to play..." This was one of the patrons downstairs in the tavern hall. The voice sounded tired but laced with excitement.
"Ah... uh... o-oh! Marcus, you're magnificent! More, harder!.."
Women's moans mixed with heavy male breathing—sounds from the neighboring house.
"Such passions raging deep at night," Reyn blushed slightly and shifted focus. The indecent sounds quickly faded in his ears.
Puff-puff-puff—a night bird flew over the street and perched on a tree at its end, occasionally emitting a melodic trill. Under the tree, in the gutter, a fat rat poked its curious snout from under a stone, then darted out and scurried through the mud—its paws making a series of squelching sounds—before vanishing into another hole.
Within hundreds of meters, the microphone captured sound waves even from tiniest vibrations, tuned, amplified, and fed them to Reyn's brain. Myriads of sounds wove in his mind into a complete picture of the world—this was a wholly new way to perceive reality.
Even blind, Reyn could "hear" the world's outlines, navigate space, handle daily tasks, even fight—perhaps with sharper perception than sighted people.
Reyn experimented long and quickly mastered the microphone. He decided to name this new ability—super hearing—"Voice of All Things."
"Such sharp hearing needs training. I'll use it more when out on the street. Useful for tracking and avoiding being tailed. If Shadow Blade assassins approach, I can detect them early."
"Only pity it drains energy so fast."
Experiments with Voice of All Things cost him one energy cell—99% left. Full charge lost. Though Reyn knew it would recharge with rest, a slight annoyance lingered.
He shifted to the second activated icon. It was simple, depicting a 3D gyroscope model. Reyn felt anticipation.
Every phone had a gyroscope—a sensor for detecting motion, spatial orientation, and forces. Many phone functions relied on it. What ability did the mutated version grant? He activated the gyroscope icon, but nothing seemed to change.
"Damn, I'm such an idiot," Reyn slapped his forehead. The gyroscope reacts to motion changes, and he was lying still.
He jumped off the bed quickly. As his feet hit the floor, he sensed something odd. An inexplicable feeling: moving from bed to floor, every action was remarkably stable and swift, precisely calibrated, without excess motion. Now standing still, he felt much more "steady."
"If someone pushed me now, I'd probably wobble like a roly-poly and instantly regain balance."
Reyn took a few steps, and a wholly new sensation enveloped him. Hard to describe. His body felt like a complex, high-precision machine. Every movement under full control; he clearly felt force transmission between torso and limbs, his entire body's workings.
Reyn looked at his hands. He began wiggling his fingers, faster and faster, building speed until they blurred. This lasted over ten seconds, then motion stopped abruptly. Fingers froze, still and stable as if carved from stone.
"With hands like these, I won't lose to a ranger's Nimble Hands!"
Reyn smirked smugly and grabbed the sword leaning against the bed. It was Iceberg's blade, taken as a trophy. A bastard sword, handy for one or two hands, right weight and fine craftsmanship—a truly good weapon. Selling it would fetch at least a dozen gold shields.
As the hilt settled in his palm, Reyn felt something strange: the sword became an extension of his hand; every detail felt familiar, as if he'd owned it for years. Center of balance, size, weight—all known and intuitive.
In three years at the academy, Reyn had mainly studied one fencing complex: Imperial Military Fencing. This style emphasized defense and counterattack: the fighter held the center line, defended stably, movements precise and economical—perfect balance of offense and defense. It was the Empire's most common style; many started with it. Basics were easy to learn, mastery hard.
Imperial Military Fencing had four basic stances. Reyn most often used the "Plow Position": body slightly sideways, legs spread and bent, sword held two-handed before the waist, tip angled forward and up.
Focus sharpened. Wide step forward—a direct lunge. Cold gleam flashed through the room; steel whistled through air.
Reyn had practiced this lunge for three years, but never had it been so precise, fast, and powerful. Even academy fencing instructors couldn't do better.
Reyn exhaled contentedly. With a light motion, he tossed the sword into the air—the blade snapped perfectly into its sheath.