Chapter 133: The Redemption of Jean the Shapeshifter (Part II)

On rainy afternoons, I always remember that day: the "Butcher of Novigrad," steel sword in hand, carving a path of carnage from the Glory Gate all the way to Perfume Alley.

He left a trail of mountains of corpses and rivers of blood, yet he simply struck, cut, and struck again, never once blinking.

*Excerpted from "A Study on the Origins of the 'Blood Avenue' Incident"*

...

From a distance, one could see the chaos erupting near the Glory Gate, with crowds screaming and fleeing. The closer Victor got, the more he wished to turn away—especially after several residents, who had run straight toward him, collapsed in terror at the sight of his face, losing control of their bowels in pure panic.

"&%$!/*#> (@^[-*&+) *."

All the profanities in the world could not express the helplessness in the witcher’s heart; he felt a strong urge to turn around and run.

If he failed to catch this doppler today, he would never be able to set foot in this city again. He would surely earn a moniker like "The Ripper" or "The Decapitator," only to be strung up on a stake by the Temple Guard and burned alive.

He reached into his herb pouch and pulled out a scrap of cloth to mask his face. Such attire was common enough in the gang-ridden streets of Novigrad, but it would at least save Victor from being welcomed by the shrieks of newly minted fans along his pursuit.

He stopped his sprint before the Glory Gate and took a deep breath. His eyes stung with a reluctance to look—the tragedy was unbearable. The doppler had gone completely insane, striking down everyone in his path.

He thanked the heavy rain for driving many people home early, but even so, the scene was a sea of blood and bodies. Clearly, anyone who entered the reach of his blade was met with a lethal strike. Many had died who did not deserve to, and who certainly did not deserve to die here. Tracking the monster was not difficult; he simply followed the trail of corpses and blood.

In the "Glory Alley," the territory of the Beggar King—the place where he had lived for the past half-month, the streets he walked daily—the doppler had left nothing but bloodstains and wailing survivors.

Exhaling a long breath, Victor resumed his pace, clearly hearing the fragmented whispers of emotion from the roadside.

"That madman! Master Pap had already gone after him; he’ll surely hack him to pieces."

"Waaaah... Mommy..."

"Dad! Please... please don't leave me!"

"Ah! My child!"

The masked youth sprinted past, acting as if he heard nothing.

...

Guided by the cries of grief, he faintly heard the clash of steel. From afar, Victor spotted the doppler’s Van Helsing-style attire, cornered before Perfume Alley by Pap Tabbard and six of his men.

As the youth approached, he saw four corpses lying on the ground—all, by their attire, men of the Beggar King. The doppler’s eyes flickered with a kaleidoscopic intensity, his steel sword dancing with such fluidity that he was actually suppressing the larger force single-handedly.

Watching for a moment, Victor realized the doppler’s swordsmanship had clearly improved. His strength and reaction speed remained within the bounds of the potions they both had taken; he was relying on superior technique to overcome superior numbers.

Pap roared, "Victor, have you lost your mind? Killing so many people—you’ll never escape this!"

Though the Zerrikanians were known for their cruelty, it was usually reserved for rival gang members or those who had crossed them. Cutting down random civilians on the street crossed even his line.

The doppler did not answer; he simply maintained a blissful smile. His sword flowed smoothly, and with a slight turn to create an opening, he slit the throat of another of the Beggar King’s men.

Without removing his mask, Victor drew his sword and joined the fray, parrying the doppler’s strike against his next victim. Removing his mask now would only increase the chaos and might even lead to him being swarmed by the agitated mob.

When the doppler had transformed into Angoulême, he had retained his own self-awareness despite inheriting her memories and thought patterns. But now, Victor felt that the doppler’s own sense of self was gone, replaced by a singular, insatiable craving for slaughter and the ecstasy of completion.

The masked youth’s arrival, with his sharp technique and quick reflexes, prompted the mercenary leader to wave his remaining five men back. He joined forces with this passing swordsman, barely managing to maintain a stalemate.

Yet, beneath his mask, Victor’s expression grew grave. Compared to a short while ago, the doppler’s swordsmanship had undergone a quantum leap. Just moments ago, the monster had been pinned between Victor and Angoulême with almost no room to breathe, but now, even with Pap’s help, they could not suppress him.

Pap was undoubtedly a master far beyond Angoulême. Alchemical potions could, at best, bring their physical prowess to the level of a Zerrikanian, but they could not improve sword technique. The doppler had been surrounded twice, and in between, he had only gone through the process of "testing his blade along the way."

Did this mean his swordsmanship grew rapidly through the act of killing?

If he were allowed to keep killing, would he eventually become a sword saint? Victor decided to let that question remain a mystery forever. In the witcher’s world, there was no such thing as "attaining enlightenment through slaughter," nor did killing make one’s technique stronger—this was not necromancy. But his copy seemed to have that tendency, and he was never satisfied. Realizing he could not kill Victor and Pap, he exploited a gap and fled.

Victor was certain he wasn't trying to escape; he just wanted to kill more. He was heading for Hierarch Square.

...

The rain poured on. His soaked leather armor hindered his movement. To get from Glory Alley north to Hierarch Square, one had to pass through the Fish Market. Fortunately, the heavy rain meant it shouldn't be too crowded.

Then, the youth saw from a distance that the eunuch, Harbin, was standing alone in the rain with an umbrella, blocking the path. The people in the fish market had been cleared out—clearly a precaution taken by Sigismund Dijkstra upon receiving intelligence.

To the west of the fish market lay the Silverton district, the territory of Cleaver the Butcher, so Ubam Tye stood to the northwest. To the east, though some distance from Whoreson Junior’s Bits, Bors Lahr stood to the northeast.

The doppler’s actions had incited public outrage. The four major figures of Novigrad had simultaneously dispatched their most elite fighters to execute him on the spot. Had the main force of the Temple Guard not been stationed on Temple Isle, they would have likely arrived by now as well.

The doppler charged straight north, targeting the seemingly easiest obstacle: the eunuch. Harbin smiled and clapped his hands together, pulling them apart to reveal a fireball the size of a cooking pot, which he hurled at the doppler at point-blank range.

Victor knew that, to some extent, the doppler was himself. Theoretically, what the monster could do, he should be able to do as well. He watched with intense focus, wondering if the doppler would die to this fireball or demonstrate how to counter a mage with a sword.

At the moment of impact, the doppler pivoted and twisted nearly ninety degrees, making two sharp turns to bypass the fireball entirely. Then, with a horizontal strike, he cleaved the eunuch Harbin in two from bottom to top.

The scene made Victor’s skin crawl. He asked himself if he could manage such desperate confidence and resolve, and he knew he could not. At least, not yet.

Then, like shattering glass, Harbin splintered—it was a magical mirror image. The eunuch reappeared at the doppler’s side, casting a second "Magic Bind," but the monster dodged it once more.

Ubam Tye and Bors Lahr moved in, striking from left and right to seal off all paths forward, pinning him outside the fish market.

During that brief obstruction, Victor pulled a bomb from his herb pouch and roared, "Hold your breath!"

The "Dancing Star" flew through the air, detonating right above the murderer’s head, showering him in shimmering silver dust.

The three men to the north had seen the masked youth and Pap pursuing together, so hearing his warning—being the seasoned veterans they were—they not only held their breath but also ensured the enemy remained within the lethal zone.

Ubam Tye threw his hand-axe, and Bors Lahr launched a throwing knife, both restricting the doppler’s movement. Harbin cast another spell into thin air, then shattered his mirror image again to avoid the silver dust.

With a bang, the silver powder blanketed the area. Wherever it touched the doppler, a bubbling sound emerged as his form began to fade and melt.

The others had not yet realized what was happening, but Victor knew. The解除 (dismantling) of the mimicry forced him back to his original form, stripping him of the physical prowess, elite swordsmanship, and alchemical benefits he had copied from Victor.

The silver powder did not harm a doppler, as they were humanoid, but any part that touched the silver would force them out of their mimicked state. It was an unavoidable weakness of their kind; without it, humans would never be able to distinguish them from one another.

Wearing his mask, bathed in silver dust, Victor walked up to the doppler. Stripped of his disguise, his true form looked like a mannequin made of flour and mud.

His irises, which should have been yellow, were now filled with a frantic, murderous blood-red. He was insane—beyond salvation—and there was only one way to end it.

With a forward pivot and a side slash, Victor decapitated the doppler. The headless corpse swayed, knelt, and collapsed.

Exchanging glances, Ubam Tye, Bors Lahr, the eunuch Harbin, and Pap Tabbard stood at the four corners, surrounding Victor. They had all heard the youth’s voice and seen his build; they could guess who stood within their circle.

With a long sigh, Victor pulled off his mask, revealing the very face they had all been hunting moments before.

Pointing to the mud-like pile on the ground, the youth said softly, "A doppler. A mad doppler. Rare, but they exist."

The four men’s expressions shifted, and they remained silent.

The rhythmic sound of boots surrounded them—the Temple Guard had arrived. Leading them was the Captain of the Guard, Schirru, with Caleb Menge trailing slightly behind.

As he approached, the four men who had been wary of Victor bowed to Schirru in unison and quietly retreated.

The Captain of the Guard looked down at the doppler’s corpse without a word, a sickly flush appearing on his deathly pale face. After a while, he shook his head and turned to leave.

Caleb Menge stepped up beside the witcher. "Mr. Victor, is it? Please come with me. There is a comfortable place nearby with black tea and scones. It’s a perfect spot for a chat; we have many questions we would like to ask you."