Name: Will
Level: 5
Talent: Fountain of Life (Initial)
Attributes: Vitality 11.5, Strength 6.7, Agility 5.3, Perception 5.8, Magic ?
Skills: Alchemy Lv.1, Swordsmanship Lv.3, Healing Lv.2, Life Meditation, Life Drain
Experience: 170/500
Absolute swindle.
Will swore to himself that he would never touch an exploding necrophage again.
The stench clung to his pores, the experience felt miserable, and the wretched thing was nothing more than a walking keg of black powder.
This water hag had been a lesser specimen.
In the marshes of Velen roamed the Ladies of the Wood, true ancient horrors drawing power straight from the mire to curse or bless mortal kingdoms like demigoddesses.
Looking down, Will found a burlap sack crammed full of severed drowner ears, alongside the bagged carcass of the water hag.
Salat reckoned the city bailiff would pay out a handsome sum for the haul.
Crowns were always welcome.
Beyond growing stronger, Will nurtured a quiet ambition to buy a comfortable country estate once he retired, preferably nestled in the hills near Melitele’s sanctuary.
This sewer sweep had carried a foul undertone from the start: first a stray corpse-eater, then a water hag driving the swarm.
Something deeper might be festering down those ancient elven channels, but the collapsed masonry made pushing further impossible.
He caught Salat’s eye through the torch smoke.
Without exchanging a word, the two men understood the danger and turned their boots toward the surface outpost.
…
The following morning, inside his private room at the Roost Tavern, Will found himself staring in disbelief as Geralt materialized beside the wardrobe.
How the white-haired mutant kept tracking him down across Vizima was beyond comprehension.
The previous afternoon, Will and the knights had tried scrubbing off in the icy waters of the Chotla river, yet even running water failed to strip the rancid necrophage fat from their skin.
Defeated, they had made for the bathhouse, hiring three tavern girls armed with stiff horsehair brushes and tallow soap to scour the filth away before dousing him in rosewater.
Pampered by soft hands and warm linen, he had finally fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep.
“Calm yourself, Geralt. The blade was a gift from Countess Marie.”
Seeing the witcher’s yellow cat eyes boring into the silver scabbard leaning by the nightstand, Will offered an exasperated sigh.
Geralt’s lips peeled back in a dry, humorless smirk.
“Quite generous of her. Treating you like her own boy, is she? Did I forget to tell you that high-born nobles strip a man to the bone before tossing the scraps into the ditch? The ladies even faster than the lords.”
“First of all, she is hardly an old matron. Second, did you answer this many questions every time you woke up in a sorceress’s silk sheets?”
Geralt offered no denial, merely shaking his white head.
“When we return to Ellander, you hand the steel back to her bailiff. I’ll take you up to Mahakam and have a dwarven clan forge you a proper runic silver blade.”
“We can settle that on the road. At the very least, I retain the right of refusal.”
Within the cramped confines of the bedchamber, he took two measured steps, executing a sequence of sweeping parries and fluid cuts.
Watching the edge carve through the air, Will noted how the School of the Wolf tailored its swordplay for tight skirmishes, functional in an open field or a narrow closet alike.
Completing the routine, Geralt laid the silver across the foot of the pallet.
“A clean piece of iron, well balanced. I picked up rumors in the palace quarter last night: an officer of the White Rose and a young swordsman carrying twin blades quelled a subterranean riot, putting down an elder water hag.”
Will nodded, a faint chill still touching his spine as he recounted the battle blow by blow.
“Hmph… managed well enough.”
Geralt grunted, torn between crediting the boy’s luck or his field instincts for turning the rotfiend blast into an asset.
“You reckon the disturbance was ordinary?” Geralt asked.
Will turned the possibilities over in his mind.
Pinning the blame on the woodland rebels felt like the cleanest answer.
“The Scoia’tael… they could have breached the old sluice gates connecting the wetlands to the drainage canals, driving scavengers into the lower wards.”
“To what end?”
“To spread panic, turn commoners against the town watch, and spark an uprising among the non-human ghettos.”
Geralt tapped his knuckle against his brow.
“Now that you’ve puzzled it out, keep your boots clear of the ward. Monster hunters don’t stick their noses into political butcheries. Word around the lakeshore says a forktail has been harassing the outlying crofts. Once I strip the beast’s spinal fluid, I’ll meet you back at the taproom.”
“Understood, understood. A green novice like me has no business riding with the master.”
“One more thing,” Geralt said, his cat eyes narrowing as he checked for blind spots in his intelligence.
“How did you end up riding with a squad of the White Rose?”
“Lady Marie sent them along to keep my hide intact,” Will admitted with a self-deprecating shrug.
Geralt threw him a skeptical look, clearly wondering whether he had already failed the charge Nenneke had laid on his shoulders.
“Mind your back,” the witcher murmured.
Without another breath, his lean frame slipped through the open window frame, melting into the morning fog below.
Honestly, does the man have something against timber doors?
Knock, knock, knock.
Geralt had barely cleared the alley when heavy raps echoed against the panel.
At least Salat possessed the basic courtesy to knock, unlike witchers who treated closed casements like casual thresholds.
Salat stepped inside, dropping his mail-clad frame onto the settee, brow furrowing as he noticed the cushions were still uncomfortably warm.
Shrugging it off, he unhooked a heavy leather purse from his breastplate and tossed it across the room.
Will caught the pouch, loosening the cord to reveal a thick mound of silver.
At least sixty Novigrad crowns.
“This much?” Will asked, his eyebrows arching.
“We put down the hag and secured the cisterns. The high chapter released a supplemental bounty, and the boys split the purse down the middle. In fact, Grand Master Valerius wants an audience with you.”
“Rudolf Valerius? What does he want with me?”
Salat fell silent for three heartbeats, his voice dropping low.
“Word reached the chapter house that you had ridden into Vizima, just as the garrison outpost at Dorndal went cold. The council is drawing conclusions.” Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
Will shook his head in disgust.
The leadership of the White Rose was clutching at straws.
They could pin that border slaughter on the Squirrels, but they would never hang the collar on him.
Not a chance.
“Where is his proof?” Will asked, keeping his expression flat.
“Does he think a lone healer can storm a fortified chapter house and butcher a garrison of anointed knights?”
Salat held his tongue; the Grand Master had presented no evidence beyond suspicion.
“Men of rank should know better than to sling mud without iron behind it,” Will added, his voice dropping into a dangerous whisper.
“Though for your private ear: Captain Tailles’s company out of Dorndal was wiped out to the last man.”
The words struck Salat like a lightning bolt.
The knight froze mid-breath, staring at Will in sheer disbelief as chaotic calculations raced behind his eyes.
A disaster?
Or an opening for advancement?
Did the boy slaughter them?
Impossible.
Drawing a steady breath, Salat leaned forward.
“How do you know this?”
“The Grand Master kept it from you, did he? Sits on the bad news so King Foltest doesn’t see how toothless his order has become. Nilfgaard is driven back south, yet his own bastions are cut to ribbons in the borderlands. Fitting.”
“The Scoia’tael?”
Will gave a slow, deliberate nod.
“Go back and tell Valerius that trying to pin their corpses on my head is a fool’s errand.”
He knew the game well enough.
A bitter confrontation with Tailles, followed by a silent garrison; the old lords were simply hunting for a convenient scapegoat outside their noble families.
He was a wandering contractor hired to cull monsters, not a lackey bound by chapter statutes.
“Leave it there, Salat. The tavern cellar is holding a tasting competition for winter cider, and I intend to claim a mug.”
Will stepped past the stunned, motionless knight.
Vizima was an eccentric place, where royal decrees clashed with back-alley knives every night and pigeon droppings were as likely to hit a ducal collar as a beggar’s rags.
Descending the oak stairs to the taproom, his eye caught the same hooded traveler huddled over an earthenware mug in the shadowed corner.
Will took a stool by the counter, rapping his knuckles twice against the wood.
Tore the barkeep soon slid a brimming mug of sweet winter cider across the timber.
Will drained the draught in deep, easy swallows.
Calling it wine was high praise, but as a novel refreshment from another world, it served to take the edge off.
A soft scrape of leather stirred beside him.
The hooded stranger rose from the corner, stepped up to the bench, and pulled the wool cowl back to reveal tapered ears, pale skin, and an ironic smirk.
“We meet again, Will. Son of the Goddess.”