Chapter 132: The Redemption of Jean the Shapeshifter (Part II)

Within a few minutes, the fine, steady drizzle that soaked one to the bone, combined with the biting autumn wind, coalesced into a marrow-chilling cold.

Having estimated the distance and feeling no further hesitation, Victor paused briefly. He reached into his herb pouch, retrieved vials of "Brown Owl," "Blizzard," and "Thunderbolt," and downed them. He could not allow the doppler to reach the Gate of Glory; the dense crowd there would inevitably cause him to lose his target.

The running doppler heard the footsteps behind her cease. She glanced back, catching a glimpse of the witcher stowing his vials and giving chase at a speed far greater than before.

She knew the massive boost the potions provided to combat prowess and frantically accelerated, but this action directly contradicted the teachings Victor had imparted to Angouleme. Before long, her breathing became ragged, her lungs wheezing like a bellows—the telltale sign of exhaustion.

Realizing she would not reach the Gate of Glory before being overtaken, she veered toward the roadside and slammed through a door, entering a derelict house in search of another exit.

When the witcher apprentice burst into the room, he found her huddled in a corner, leaning against the wall, gasping for air, her eyes filled with resentment and frustration. Unfortunately for her, while the old house was dilapidated, its structure remained intact, and there were no other exits.

"I'm glad to see you again, 'Mimic,'" the witcher said coldly. The doppler detested that name, but Victor didn't care for her anymore either—not after she had copied and provoked Angouleme.

The doppler’s breathing was heavy and loud.

"Let me go," she finally managed to say, using Angouleme's voice. "You could let me go, couldn't you, witcher?"

"Doppler," Victor replied, "from the moment you began your string of thefts, you should have expected that the merchants would not let it slide, and that this day would eventually come. And it's too late to talk about that now. After you mimicked Angouleme, I cannot let you walk away. Don't take a desperate gamble; her memories must have told you my intentions. I intend to hire you. I don't want to kill you, or hand you over to the authorities, but you must accept employment, keep my secrets, and stop abusing your shapeshifting. I will ensure you do so."

She swallowed hard, wearing Angouleme’s face. "And if I refuse?"

"I would be very reluctant to do so, but I cannot allow my secrets to be held by someone who is not a friend... No... don't do that, you'll regret it!" This was the third time that day Victor had offered a warning, and it proved as ineffective as the previous two.

Ignoring the boy’s warning, the doppler’s body began to swell, growing stronger and taller. Her golden curls surged, straightened, and lengthened, eventually forming a ponytail. The vibrant Van Helsing outfit she wore faded, reverting to standard iron-studded leather armor. Her slender, noble face became slightly angular, and four faint scars appeared. Above her right shoulder, a sword hilt emerged, and the herb pouch slung across her hip looked indistinguishable from his own.

"Don't come any closer," the other witcher apprentice said, lifting his chin and smiling. "Don't come any closer, Victor. I will never sell my freedom, just like you."

Deep, boiling rage.

*Yes, just as plain as I am,* Victor thought. *He doesn't look impressive at all right now.*

The boy reached for his sword. *That makes no sense. My mouth is actually quite well-shaped. My nose is reasonably sharp, too. So why, when you add the eyes, does it look so utterly ordinary?*

The doppler and Victor touched their sword hilts at the same time. Both blades were drawn in unison.

The two witchers moved with the grace and agility of cats. Without needing to coordinate, they both opened with a forward-turning side slash, attempting to take the other’s head. Their steel blades collided, spraying sparks.

With lateral steps and spinning sword dances, accompanied by the hiss of steel slicing through air, both men unleashed a flurry of strikes, the sound of clashing iron ringing out like a rhythmic tolling bell.

By the time Angouleme reached the doorway, she arrived just in time to see their hilts collide and both of them take two steps back to resume their stance—identical "Bull" guards.

"You cannot defeat me," the doppler roared, "because I have become you, Victor."

"You have made a grave mistake, Mimic," the witcher replied in a low voice. "Drop the sword, turn into anything else—anything at all—but do not turn into me. Otherwise, you will regret it. I promise you."

"I am you," the doppler repeated. "You cannot defeat me. You cannot beat me, because I am you!"

"You have no idea what it means to be me, Mimic. Stop now, before it's too late."

The doppler’s body swayed, his sword hand dropping. His breathing was rapid, his pupils dilated, his nostrils flared, saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth, and his limbs trembled uncontrollably.

"Don't go near him! He's dangerous!" the girl shouted from behind, trying to stop the boy from advancing.

Victor knew exactly what Angouleme was feeling now. It was the same malice he felt whenever he was driven to kill, radiating from the doppler and permeating the entire derelict house.

Outside the window, the rain intensified, accompanied by a thunderous crack of lightning.

The doppler began to shift. His body didn't change; he remained in the form of the witcher Victor, but his dull leather armor transformed into the black Van Helsing suit—the style Victor usually wore. The double-breasted buttons gleamed, the herb pouch was slung across his hip, his steel sword moved to his waist, and a crossbow was mounted on his right forearm.

Then, the ponytail loosened naturally. He closed his eyes, spread the fingers of his left hand, and swept them back from his forehead, causing his golden curls to settle into a "slicked-back" style.

He opened his eyes. The boy’s hands trembled slightly, and he couldn't help but tighten his grip on the Sword of Prometheus.

*That makes no sense. The mouth is still my mouth. The nose hasn't changed. So why, with these eyes, does he look insanely handsome? Damn it, he actually has the crimson nine-tomoe Rinnegan...*

*Damn! Why would there be a nine-tomoe Rinnegan in the Witcher world? This isn't scientific! And what's with the slicked-back hair? What is he trying to imply?*

Victor felt a sense of absurdity mixed with bewilderment. The doppler had integrated too many elements; there were too many things to complain about.

The torrential rain poured down. The doppler’s earlier frailty had vanished. With the nine-tomoe Rinnegan rotating, he smiled, drew his steel sword, assumed a "High" guard, and stepped toward the Phantom Troupe member blocking the door.

"Hey! Mimic, what the hell are you doing?" Victor probed. He had a vague inkling about the doppler's current state, and he hoped his guess was wrong.

The doppler didn't speak; his eyes and movements conveyed only one thought.

*Clang!* No words were needed. The witcher parried the heavy, fully-charged downward slash, forced back several steps, and ceded the doorway.

Stepping out of the derelict house into the storm, the doppler looked imposing. Yet, after trading blows, Victor found himself relieved of his uncertainty; he was no longer afraid.

That Rinnegan was clearly just for show. If he could actually use supernatural abilities like Amaterasu or Tsukuyomi, he wouldn't need to use a sword to clear a path—he could have just used "Shinra Tensei" to blow up half of Novigrad.

In other words, while there were slight differences in appearance, a fake was still a fake. He was merely a copy of himself, devoid of world-shattering power, and certainly not immune to the effect of "silver" breaking a "mimicry."

Left, right, forward, back. Victor and the doppler danced through the rain-slicked streets. The boy became increasingly certain that while his opponent possessed the aura of a king, he lacked the substance of one. His swordsmanship was slightly better, but his strength had not increased, and he could not overwhelm him.

When Angouleme joined the fray, they soon pushed him onto the defensive. Suddenly, the doppler withdrew, pointing his sword at the girl while his left hand reached into his herb pouch—a gesture the boy knew all too well: the Wolf School secret technique, the "Explosive Sword."

Victor was shocked. Although he didn't believe the doppler could simulate an "Infinite Herb Pouch," he didn't dare gamble. Reacting with lightning speed, he tackled Angouleme into the moat to escape the blast radius.

Submerged in the water, he watched helplessly as the doppler on the bank failed to produce a bomb.

Having shaken off the Phantom Troupe member, the doppler offered a smile, turned, and sprinted toward the Gate of Glory without looking back. Victor let Angouleme go, telling her to swim to safety, and quickly scrambled onto the bank to continue the pursuit.

The boy had a reason for the chase and a very bad premonition. Because the way the doppler had looked at him just now was wrong—there was no hesitation or confusion in his eyes, only a pure, unadulterated thirst for slaughter.

If that was truly the case, then he wasn't just running away.