Chapter 126: The One Who Came from the Sea That Day

With hurried footsteps, Victor descended the stairs. The shopkeeper, Marcus, was dozing off behind the counter, sleeping soundly in a reclined, tactical posture.

Pushing open the shop door, the square was bustling with a throng of people, voices hawking goods rising and falling in a chaotic symphony. Yet, the imposing figure was nowhere to be seen.

Jacques of Aldeburg... had he truly been here just moments ago? Or had Victor himself been dozing off?

Over the past fortnight, gold coin reserves had replenished, potions and bombs were plentiful, and the youth had grown complacent in his “invincible” and comfortable existence—living days filled with the alchemy workshop, the fish market, Lame Kate, Preacher’s Square, books and scrolls, and his five o’clock patrols.

A boy without worries, his enthusiasm for venturing out at night to beat up troublemakers had waned, almost as if he had returned to the carefree days of a fairy tale.

But the recent encounter reminded Victor that it was still too early to indulge in a leisurely, retired life. There were many forces far stronger than himself; it was not yet time for an extended vacation.

Returning inside, he roused Marcus awake. After purchasing the book *White Frost: Mysterious Calamity or Natural Phenomenon*, Victor left the bookstore and headed to the Novigrad notice board.

...

*Hunting the Bat*

Where do you cowardly rat hide?

Your courage only faces scum?

Tonight, I await you at Beggar’s Square!

No excuses.

— Bosler

Glancing at the date on the flyer, Victor felt a pang of regret; the challenge had been issued seven days prior—clearly, he was too late to accept.

But missing the appointment was unavoidable. As a hero motivated by interest alone and limited to what he could handle, merely thinking about going out to beat up villains was already a gentle act towards society. Recklessly shouldering the burden of saving the world would be sheer folly.

The notice board was plastered with countless sheets, making it difficult to glean meaningful information. Yet Victor felt compelled to rouse himself, to remember his original purpose.

...

At dusk in the Novigrad harbor, seagulls soared across the sky, the setting sun cast a golden glow over shimmering waves like a painting, while sailors, drunks, beggars, and prostitutes formed scattered accents within the landscape.

This was usually the domain of the Beggar King, but Victor had come here in search of Bosler. Mr. Hawthorne’s ship had docked today with important cargo, so the silver-haired elf was present to supervise.

Having lived in Novigrad for nearly a month, the Dragonborn poet had become somewhat of a local celebrity. Especially since Fergus’s blacksmith shop had opened, he was no longer seen as an outsider in the Beggar King’s territory, but acknowledged as a resident.

His attire was neither flashy nor conspicuous at the port; ruffians did not attempt to extort him, and directions were easily given. It wasn’t long before he spotted Bosler waving to welcome him.

“Hey, my friend, what brings you here today?”

“I saw something interesting on the notice board and couldn’t resist asking. I heard you challenged the Bat? How did it go?”

Indeed, Victor had come seeking Bosler to gather information, to temporarily escape his unambitious state. Naturally, his disguised, vigilante work would resume, though he hoped to avoid plunging headfirst into any potential traps.

One of Bosler’s underlings spat disdainfully. “Pfft! That rat didn’t dare show up. Mr. Bosler waited all night, but he never appeared. Not so brave as the poems say.”

Bosler shook his head. “We challenged him because the gangs must respond to provocations. Since he didn’t appear, it means it was an isolated incident. That’s that.”

His calm, untroubled manner reassured the youth.

“I see. Seems like this person generates quite a bit of buzz.”

“As for me personally, I admire him somewhat. Protecting women is chivalrous. But on the other hand, I despise his mindset. Trash should be killed outright; wounding them severely is pointless. Once healed, they’ll revert to their old ways.”

“Sounds like you disapprove of your subordinates’ methods?”

The silver-haired elf replied, “Order—reasonable order—is the foundation of lasting rule. Mr. Alphonse always says that. I agree wholeheartedly. So those three bastards who disrupted the order are now reflecting on their misdeeds at the bottom of the sea.”

Just then, one of his men approached. “Sir, most of the cargo has been unloaded.”

Bosler said, “Mr. Victor, perhaps you should step aside for a while. What’s about to happen here is something neither nobles nor poets tend to appreciate.”

He waved the boy away.

Before Victor could reply, a commotion at the dock caught his attention. A fleeing boy, gaunt and malnourished, was being chased by several sailors, tearing madly towards the direction where Bosler and Victor stood.

The silver-haired elf had his hand on his sword hilt, ready to strike. But after a glance at the Dragonborn poet, he refrained from his usual habit of drawing his blade to cut the fugitive in two. Instead, he lightly tripped the boy, sending him sprawling to the ground, face bloodied and dazed.

“Help… please… save me…” The boy crawled forward with cracked, blood-stained nails, inching towards Victor’s boots. Just as he was about to reach them, the poet stepped back two paces.

Victor looked at Bosler with a conflicted expression. “Human trafficking?”

The silver-haired elf spread his hands and smiled wryly. “A legitimate business, some might find it hard to accept—Master Dandrian included. I respect their compassion, but business is business.”

The boy bore a tattoo on his neck; he was a Skellige native.

Two sailors approached, lifting the boy’s feet to drag him back the other way, his nose bleeding and fingers leaving streaks of blood on the deck.

“Wait!” Victor said softly.

The sailors froze, then, seeing the silver-haired elf nod, released the boy’s feet and stepped aside.

“Dragging him back like that will ruin him, won’t it?”

“He’s not meant to live. We just don’t want to deal with it in front of you. Taking him back for dissection is a good choice—it sends a message to others about how escaped slaves are handled.”

The boy’s face was rubbed raw on the deck, almost unrecognizable, resembling a devil. Yet his eyes spoke with fierce will to live, pleading silently to the witcher apprentice.

One need not ask how such a look conveys desperation; it is simply understood.

“Can I buy him?” Victor gestured to the broken figure on the ground.

“He’s yours,” Bosler answered decisively.

“But I must warn you, sir, he’s not yet fully broken. Having the audacity to flee means you must be cautious—revenge is not unheard of, like the farmer and the snake story.”

Noticing the eager expressions of two of Hawthorne’s men nearby, Victor knew that if he shook his head, the next moment they would drag the boy away to slowly die in torment.

“If I don’t see it, I can pretend I don’t know. Since he’s right here, thank you for the gift, Bosler.”

The silver-haired elf waved him off casually, as if it were no big deal.

Victor crouched down, looking at the boy. His eyes were brown.

“What’s your name?”

“Lu... Ruf...” the boy mumbled indistinctly.

“Ruf!?”