Chapter 111: The Beautiful Girl of Lindenville

With the war yet to arrive, life for the common folk in the Velen region remained tolerable; at the very least, there was enough to eat and drink. Standing before the notice board, it seemed there were no urgent pleas for help, only mundane trifles and neighborhood gossip.

"Linen Yarn"
"If you are short on linen yarn, come find me soon. A new batch will be ready by the end of the month. I am still looking for a girl to help; you must be dexterous and willing to sit for long hours. If you are prone to complaining, don't bother coming. —Jetti"
This job posting was useless to the youth.

"Regarding Baifulong"
"I hereby proclaim to the world that Baifulong is a fool. He never returns what he borrows, ignores the law, respects neither gods nor men, and treats innocent young girls with brutality. I hope a drowners drags him into a watery grave."
Victor tore down this "anonymous libel"... Brutality toward innocent girls? Poor enforcement of rural law? Angouleme might find this interesting—a little something to keep her busy.

She had spent the day idling as a supervisor at "Fergus’s Smithy." As her strength grew, the steel swords they forged were now nearing three pounds, slightly heavier than before.

Just as he prepared to leave the board, a gust of wind blew, dislodging a few notices and revealing a request underneath.

"The Gravedigger’s Warning"
"People of Lindervale!
If you are thinking of wandering into the cemetery, I advise you to abandon the idea immediately! A monster has made it its home; it digs up graves, causes destruction, and has recently begun attacking those who enter. It has even kidnapped the miller’s child.
If you have any sense, stay away from the graveyard. If you have the courage and the skill to help us slay this monster, we will provide a generous reward."

Leaning in closer, the youth read the notice a second time to ensure he hadn't misread it. The "generous reward" had indeed been underlined.

In times of peace, food supplies remained stable, and ghouls should have been at a manageable level. As long as there were corpses, they rarely approached villages, and kidnapping children was unheard of; they were always creatures of the moment, eating whatever was available.

So, it wasn't a ghoul...

After brief consideration, he decided to visit this desperate gravedigger immediately.

...

"So, Yuna, you left the Skellige Isles just for your dream of smithing?" Angouleme sat on the table, her legs swinging.

Yuna hammered away at a sword blank, her spirit bold. "Yes. Because in the Isles, they don't believe a woman can be a master smith. I refused to accept that, so I decided to set out on my own. I never expected that upon arriving in Temeria, you wouldn't even trust human smiths, preferring dwarves. I couldn't find work anywhere."

"Ha, that’s standard. King Foltest holds the title of King of Mahakam; the dwarves accept his rule, so he has countless dwarven smiths forging weapons and siege engines. That’s how he earned the title 'King of Sieges'."

"Dwarven craftsmanship is usually excellent, but men like Fergus are rare. Tell me, is he really only capable of fixing farm tools? Can he not even forge a nail?"

Fergus, the former master smith currently hunched over the bellows, took offense. "Hey, Angouleme, that is quite enough. I cannot accept that."

Yuna chuckled, adding, "Fine, dear Mr. Gram, I concede you can at least forge a nail."

Resigned, Fergus turned away to continue his work, grumbling. Though unhappy, the thought of the profit-sharing Victor had promised him—a shop of his own in Novigrad—kept him warm and motivated.

Glancing at his back, Yuna lowered her voice, smiling. "Give him some face for my sake. Don't bring it up again. If I hadn't partnered with him, I wouldn't have been able to make a living as a smith; I would have had to rely on 'other methods' to eat."

Angouleme nodded understandingly with a smirk.

...

"Hey! Is anyone home? Is anyone home?" After knocking three or four times, the door swung open to a roar of rage. The master of the house had deep dark circles under his eyes and an unkempt, filthy beard, looking thoroughly harried.

"What the hell do you want? Who told you to knock on my door, you dog—!" The gravedigger’s tirade died the moment he saw his visitor.

As the saying goes, clothes make the man. And who was Victor? He was a high-end replica of Van Helsing! His attire stood out, refined and extraordinary; he was, without a doubt, the most handsome man in Lindervale.

Before someone of such noble bearing, the village gravedigger dared not raise his voice, shrinking back instantly. The inability to see Victor’s eyes behind his sunglasses only added to the unspoken pressure.

Victor pulled a mysterious smile. "Hi, care for a round of Gwent?"

"Uh!?" The gravedigger looked blank, not understanding what this noble was talking about. He couldn't help but step back, reflecting on his own ignorance.

Victor shook his head, lamenting that this world had no "Gwent" and no one to share his memes with. He stepped into the shack, but the light was poor and the smell worse, so he backed out and gestured for the gravedigger to follow.

"You’re the one who posted on the board about the disturbances in the cemetery at night?"

The gravedigger paused, then joy washed over his face. "Ye-yes, my lord! It was me, I posted it."

"Tell me what’s going on."

"It started about half a year ago. Graves were frequently dug up, and the bodies inside would vanish. At first, I thought it was just ghouls; they were never there during the day. But a month ago, I started hearing strange footsteps near the village at night, and last week, the neighbor's child disappeared..."

...

"Please, look, it's right here!" Since it was daytime, the gravedigger led Victor to the scene.

The public cemetery near Lindervale was well-constructed, with stone altars and neatly arranged graves. Victor sniffed the air, detecting a lingering stench, and observed the slime on the walls. In the gravedigger's eyes, the youth was a man of great importance, dressed in such fine, clean clothes that he was surely capable of solving the problem. He stood by, not daring to draw a full breath.

The witcher apprentice finished his assessment quickly. It was likely a lone "young maiden"—a monster that could be defeated head-on.

Victor spoke lightly, "Let's go. I need to go back and make some preparations; this won't be easy to resolve. My fee will be two hundred orens."

"Ah, my lord, this... this price? I cannot afford that!" The gravedigger’s expression turned utterly miserable and desperate.

The youth frowned. "This isn't just your problem. This monster is growing bolder; soon it won't just be eating children. Go talk to your village elder, have everyone pool their money together. Two hundred orens is not much. Once you have the money, find me at the village tavern." With that, Victor walked back to the village with a light step.

He felt no guilt in asking for two hundred orens; he felt he was being incredibly charitable, practically holding a clearance sale. A single "honeycomb" cost twenty crowns—equivalent to sixty orens—so two hundred was very close to his own costs.

Was a "young maiden" really so easy to handle? She could lash out with her tongue!

Besides, even if he weren't short on money, the concept of "user pays" had to be maintained. After all, there were many respectable fellow witchers who truly relied on this meager income to risk their lives.

However, it was regrettable that after the gravedigger informed the village elder, the villagers of Lindervale generally agreed there was plenty of room for negotiation. They were convinced that this young, well-dressed gentleman simply didn't understand their hardships...

...

[Note: Care for a round of Gwent?]
"Gwent" is an auxiliary card game within the game, serving as a humorous way to lighten the mood. Even if the situation is dire—the world is ending, the house is on fire, the wife is lost, the daughter has vanished, an army is at the gates, or the nation is falling—if the player simply asks, "Care for a round of Gwent?", the opponent’s expression will immediately shift to one of fierce determination. "No one in this village has ever beaten me!" they will cry, ready to fight for three hundred rounds.