Chapter 131: The Redemption of Jean the Changeling (Part I)

Unnoticed, the sky grew heavy with dark clouds, despite the sun having greeted them warmly when they set out that morning.

When Angouleme whipped her head around, they were not far from the pancake stall; Victor could still smell the rich, toasted aroma of warm wheat. Her shout was the starting pistol, signaling the beginning of the First Fruit and Vegetable Market Marathon, with the doppler leading the pack, the girl in hot pursuit, and the boy bringing up the rear.

This had to be resolved once and for all; there would be no second chances. Novigrad—the largest city in the North—housed nearly forty thousand permanent residents, with a transient and traveling population more than double that. In such a vast sea of people, tracking down a specific doppler was an impossibility. If they let him escape today, it was almost certain he would never appear before Angouleme again. After all, the girl had no leads whatsoever; she had simply turned around and caught him by pure instinct. Once he grasped the principle behind Angouleme’s tracking, he would never dare approach her again. Nor would Victor allow Angouleme to roam the city day after day, searching for that elusive trace of hostility.

The sudden, frantic chase threw the produce market into chaos. Stalls and customers, acting as inadvertent obstacles, were shoved aside, creating a symphony of screams, curses, collisions, and crashing goods.

"Hey! Stop right there!"
"Oh, my aching back!"
"Thief! There's a thief!"
"You bandit! You robber, don't you dare run!"

Bursting through the crowd, the doppler ran swiftly, yet he was no match for the Kaer Morhen parkour master, the ultimate athlete, and three-time consecutive champion of the Vizima Road Race—Victor Corleone. However, Victor did not close in. He maintained a steady distance behind Angouleme, knowing the doppler’s most troublesome ability: mimicry. Often, after turning a corner and colliding with a stall in a blur of motion, the doppler would emerge transformed—from man to woman, or elder to youth.

Fortunately, as long as the creature remained focused on the girl, he could not hide. Victor had to ensure the doppler’s attention did not shift to him. If the creature lost focus on Angouleme and mimicked someone else, the Phantom Troupe would have no way to identify him. Thus, the boy held back, waiting to calmly corner the doppler in a less populated area before subduing him in one strike.

Angouleme understood Victor’s strategy and maintained a steady pace. She was confident in her endurance; since moving to Novigrad, Victor had never abandoned his dream of training her into a long-distance specialist. He often joked that the one who laughs last is usually the one who lasts the longest—a lesson he had learned from many examples back in Belhaven. Morning runs were not to be missed.

The doppler soon bolted out of the market, heading toward the Tretogor Gate. It seemed his dwelling was in the Far Corners, the most impoverished district of Novigrad, which aligned with his habit of stealing food. The trio charged into the city’s outskirts, an area providing functions the core lacked: space for drying processed food, laundering services, and dye-works requiring vast plots of land.

Seeing the area was sparsely populated, Victor suddenly surged forward, flashing past Angouleme and slamming heavily into the doppler’s back. The creature tumbled, rolling all the way to the edge of the moat. When he scrambled to his feet, he found himself surrounded by Victor and Angouleme.

"Finally, we meet, Mr. Doppler. What is your name? Let’s talk, shall we? We mean you no harm." With the atmosphere tense, the witcher apprentice spread his hands to show he was unarmed, quickly getting to the point.

"You’re the witchers hired by that bastard Sylvester, aren't you?" The creature gasped for air. He appeared as a plump, middle-aged woman.

"Well... we are witchers, yes, but... wait, don't!"

Ignoring Victor’s warning, the doppler began to writhe. His body started to shrink; his frame thinned, his chest collapsed, and his height diminished. His chestnut curls turned golden and shortened until they reached his ears. His long dress took on a glossy sheen, morphing into black leather. Silver studs sprouted on the shoulders and sleeves, and the plump, ruddy face sharpened into a slender, heroic visage.

In the blink of an eye, he had become an exact replica of Angouleme!

She tore off her cloak, threw it to the ground, and stomped on it. "Hmph! Doppler-killers! Don't think you can fool me—why would I ever trust you?" Her voice was crisp and vibrant, unmistakably the girl’s own grating tone.

Victor sighed in genuine awe. Looking at the appearance alone, it was impossible to tell them apart: the straw-like hair, the flat backside, the flat chest, the thick waist, the short, stubby frame—even the "doppler-detection outfit" had been copied perfectly. It was no wonder they were hunted to extinction; to be mimicked to one's face like this was more than any person could bear.

"Damn you, you son of a bitch!" Angouleme roared.

When a human sees an identical copy of themselves, an uncontrollable rage flares up—an instinctual reaction to the violation of one's own "uniqueness." Angouleme was especially murderous now, as Victor had explained the nature of a doppler to her before they set out: it involved a copy of brain patterns and psyche—or, in other words, the soul. Once the creature observed and mimicked, it could replicate the victim's voice, thought processes, behavioral style, and professional skills. Every secret thought became transparent. It could easily usurp the victim's social standing; even their closest kin would be unable to discern the difference. This was what Angouleme hated most; the girl had an obsession with being "irreplaceable."

The doppler shook his head, sighing. "Good heavens! I am so sorry. So, you’ve had such experiences before."

"Don't do that!" Victor warned a second time, but it was futile.

Angouleme drew her steel sword with a sharp hiss and immediately clashed with the other Angouleme. Both fought with the same wild, agile technique, trading blow for blow at blinding speed. The doppler was a classic example of someone courting death; its display of sympathy had completely enraged Angouleme. They lunged at one another, their blades ringing out like a torrential storm of steel against steel. The sound echoed off the moat, leaving Victor unable to intervene.

"Not bad," they said in unison, each stepping back. Angouleme panted, "Not bad, monster. But you are not me, and you certainly cannot replace me. Prepare to die."

"I am you. I am exactly like you. So that’s how you tracked me down," the doppler replied, brimming with confidence.

Angouleme took a deep breath. The exchange made it clear that winning alone was highly unlikely. The doppler was just as agile and strong as she was. Her only advantage was Victor’s presence, which forced the creature to divide its focus.

The doppler launched another attack. Angouleme parried, countered, ducked, and leaped, trying to grab the opponent's wrist. But her attacks hit only air as the creature exploited a gap to escape once more.

Victor rushed to pursue. Having copied Angouleme, the doppler now knew the weakness of her tracking technique: "As long as there is no hostility, she cannot tell the difference." In other words, if the doppler blended into the crowd again, it would mean the failure of the Phantom Troupe. Worse, the creature would take all of Angouleme’s secrets regarding Victor with it. While it might not intentionally use them to harm the boy, Victor could never tolerate such leverage falling into outside hands. He would kill the creature rather than let it escape; the doppler's talent for mimicry was, indeed, a path to its own destruction.

Yet, this chase was no longer easy. The doppler had, after all, copied Angouleme’s physical prowess.

Fine rain began to fall from the sky, the cool mist hitting their faces. Their path along the road pointed directly toward the Glory Gate, where drunken rogues and vagabonds, tossed out of the nearby taverns after a night of revelry, often collapsed in their stupors.