A girl crowned with fresh wildflowers, a golden-haired woman heavy with child, and an old crone, her back bowed under the weight of centuries.
Three women stood before Will.
Their gazes were soft, brimming with tenderness, a pale golden radiance shimmering in the depths of their eyes.
The pregnant mother stepped forward from the center.
She lifted a pendant from her collar, revealing a single diamond that gleamed like the morning star.
Crack.
The gem shattered between her fingers.
A lush, verdant wave of light poured forth, swallowing him whole.
Drowsiness pulled at his thoughts like a heavy tide, dragging Will down into sleep.
…
The year was 1264.
An estate on the outskirts of Ellander.
“Dearest Will, won’t you stay the night?”
Lady Marie slipped out of her shoes and teased her hemline upward, resting her bare calf across Will’s knee.
She propped an elbow on the edge of the settee, tilting her head with an expectant curve to her lips.
Will cast a glance at the pale skin beneath her skirts, his expression steady as he unwound the coarse linen wrap.
The flesh beneath showed only a faint, hair-thin line.
He gave a quiet nod of approval; the treatment had taken nicely.
A warm green glow blossomed from his fingertips, washing over the skin until the remaining trace faded entirely.
The limb lay smooth and pristine, without a blemish to mar its surface.
He rose to his feet, offered a polite bow, and kept his voice sober.
“I appreciate your kindness, Lady Marie, but Mother Nenneke would never permit me to spend the night elsewhere.”
Marie showed no real surprise at the refusal, even if a faint pout touched her lips.
She drew out a velvet pouch and pressed it into his palm, finding plenty of excuses to brush her fingers against his skin while she did.
Will offered a courteous smile, gauging the reassuring heft in his hand.
At least twenty crowns.
A brief touch from a handsome noblewoman hardly troubled him, particularly when she was generous enough to pay extra for the privilege.
After parting with proper courtesies, Will mounted his horse and turned toward the city outskirts along a road he knew by heart.
Lady Marie had a soft heart and supported his work regularly, though the injuries she suffered always seemed to land in remarkably convenient places.
Having tended to her more than a few times, he understood well enough.
She was drawn to temptation, but dared not cross the line.
What held her back was the shadow of Mother Nenneke, along with the thousands of faithful devoted to the Temple of Melitele.
“Will! Back from Lady Marie’s again, are you?”
“Tell Frank his back’s felt stronger than ever these nights! He wants to buy you a drink!”
Will nodded to the calls, guiding his mount through the bustle of the market square, answering greetings and checking in on past patients along the way.
Word of his craft had long since spread through these quarters.
Everyone knew the Temple of Melitele had taken in a male monk.
His fees were modest, his healing left no scars, and he was both sharp of tongue and easy on the eyes.
“Uncle Moy, how goes my blade?”
Will reined his horse in before the forge.
An old veteran named Tris up at the temple had been coaching him in swordplay, and wooden practice rods could only carry a man so far.
He needed real steel.
Inside the soot-stained shop, a burly, plain-faced smith labored before the hearth, hammer striking iron with heavy rhythm.
The man called out over the hiss of coals.
“Materials have to come up from the Temerian interior, Will. It’ll take some days yet.”
“That couldn’t have come cheap. Here, let me cover the difference.”
Will had only a loose notion of what a plain steel sword ran, but counting out ten crowns felt like a fair sum to leave on the block.
Moy set down his tongs at once, snatched the coins, and thrust them straight back into Will’s chest.
“Put those away. I gave my word I’d forge it for nothing, and I won’t touch a copper from you.” His jaw hardened as he thumped his chest to settle the matter.
Looking at the smith, Will recalled the rainy evening a month back when he was heading up the temple road.
A hulking shadow had lunged from the ditch, startling him so badly he nearly shouted for the town watch.
It turned out to be Moy, weeping into his sleeves and begging for a healer.
Will had rushed with him to find the man’s aging mother seized by heart failure.
The intervention had been fast enough to save her, though it drained Will’s strength dry.
Seeing the man’s filial devotion and the bare rafters of their home, Will had slipped away without asking for coin.
The very next morning, the smith had shown up at the temple gates, determined to hammer out a blade for him.
“Alright, Uncle Moy. I won’t press the matter, then. But next time I need ironwork, I’m coming straight to you.”
They had plenty of time ahead, after all.
Two months had passed since he woke in this world.
When his eyes first opened, they met the sculpted faces of the Triple Goddess, with the name Melitele carved into the altar above.
His jumbled thoughts pieced together the truth soon enough: this was the world of The Witcher, a land where a commoner could meet a violent end on any given afternoon.
He had not needed a map to know where he stood: Ellander, seat of a duchy under the crown of Temeria, with Melitele’s great sanctuary resting against the foothills facing the Mahakam mountains.
The first time Will caught his reflection in a courtyard basin, the golden sheen in his round irises led him to believe he had crossed over as an injured witcher.
That hope faded quickly enough.
With a thought, a clean interface materialized in his mind:
Name: Will
Level: 1
Talent: Fountain of Life (Blessing of the Goddess: Longevity, boundless vitality, manipulation of life-force)
Attributes: Vitality 6.2, Strength 5.1, Agility 3.2, Perception 4.1, Magic ?
Magic: Failed to ignite Chaos source
Skills: Alchemy Lv.1, Swordsmanship Lv.1, Healing Lv.2
Experience: 0/100 (Each full bar grants 1 point to improve attributes or skills)
The barren sheet gave him a hollow feeling.
Forget the combat signs and passive traits from the games; he had no access to magical reserves at all.
He had entertained notions of cultivating both martial prowess and sorcery so dimeritium would never leave him helpless, but that dream was dead on arrival.
The silver lining remained the blessing: the Fountain of Life allowed him to wield living energy without tapping into Chaos.
What puzzled him was the sheer impossibility of opening a magic source.
Magic was a matter of innate talent; if a person lacked the spark, that was the end of it.
Common folk willing to risk their lives could consume mutagens to force a conduit open.
Such mixtures had originally been devised to elevate ordinary men into superior warriors, yet the meager magic they produced had instead given birth to the witcher profession.
For now, his life talent had manifested three distinct applications: healing, accelerated recovery, and plant cultivation.
The first brought in coin through medicine, while the second let him ingest poisonous herbs to temper his constitution.
Neither a Swallow draught nor an alchemical concoction could be swallowed by normal folk without consequence.
Above all else, however, lay his debts.
Driven by an obsession with testing toxic plants and medicinal roots, he had emptied the sanctuary’s storerooms before Mother Nenneke caught him red-handed.
A sound thrashing followed, along with a ledger of debts that turned him into a temple laborer, spending his days pouring life energy into herb beds until his head spun.
Any notion of reaching transcendence through swallowing rare herbs had vanished on the spot.
Leaving Ellander behind, Will took the path bordered by white poplars.
Seen from the road, the sanctuary terrace climbed along the slope.
The outer perimeter held several stone annexes, while the inner grounds opened into an expansive garden courtyard.
At its heart rose the main chapel, and deeper still lay the subterranean greenhouses cultivated by Nenneke.
“Will, you’re back? Mother Nenneke was asking for you.”
The moment he passed through the archway, a novice stepped into his path, dipping her chin with a shy glance.
“Understood. Thank you.”
He offered a brief smile and made his way toward the hall.
Along the flagstone corridors, several novices in simple gray habits paused in their chores to call out warm greetings.
A few of the younger girls slipped small parcels of dried fruit into his hands.
Beyond his fair features, an innate warmth clung to him that drew people near.
He could almost picture green numbers ticking upward over their heads with every smile.
He recognized only a fraction of the faces.
Melitele’s house held great renown across the land, and noble families frequently sent their daughters here to study letters and medicine.
Upon finishing their training, they went out as seers, midwifes, healers of women and children, teachers, or wandering priestesses.
The worship of the goddess reached back beyond recorded history, an unbroken devotion to harvest, maternity, and the seasons of life.
Across the courtyard, Will spotted Nenneke standing before the main hall doors, her arms folded tightly across her apron, sharp eyes scanning the yard.
A quiet chill crept down his spine.