Chapter 136: Finding Violence in Stillness

Late at night, with the relief of a matter settled, the young man walked out of Sigismund Dijkstra’s "Relaxation Bathhouse." Finishing his conversation with Dijkstra meant he had dealt with everyone who sought an audience with him.

The eunuch Habin saw the three of them out, uttered a few perfunctory courtesies with an enigmatic tone, and shut the bathhouse gates.

After confirming the bard was safe, Bourcel also took the young man’s willing promise to attend tomorrow’s poetry recital and headed back to the Bits district to report to Hieronymus.

With the crowd dispersed, Victor did not rush to leave. Instead, he strolled about, admiring the carvings on the bathhouse exterior—a style reminiscent of ancient elven art.

Angoulême did not urge him on; for a top-tier crew member, not interrupting the leader when he was posturing was a matter of professional conduct. In the past, when she was less worldly, she would always pester him to ask what he was doing, only to be forced to listen to a barrage of trivial knowledge about Belhaven. Experience had proven that the reliability of that knowledge was on par with the "Sword Against the Catriona Plague" hanging at her waist—you couldn't exactly call it useless, but anyone who claimed it was useful would be lying through their teeth.

After a short while of art appreciation, Victor asked, "Which way should we take to get home?" He stood with his hands behind his back, gazing up at the wall carvings, looking every bit like a man of great importance.

"Let’s take the Fish Market; it’s closer!"

"Very well. I’d like to visit that place again, too."

Having said this, he turned around. Angoulême watched as Victor took a black scarf from his herb pouch and tied it over his mouth, leaving only his eyes exposed. Because of the ten-day extension granted by Chappelle, the young man could not show his face in public; he had to skulk about like a shady gangster, masked at all times, even for tomorrow’s poetry recital—he called himself the "Masked Poet King."

Silently, the girl pulled a red scarf from her cloak and covered her own mouth, transforming into the likeness of a thug, and followed Victor across Hierarch Square.

In truth, as soon as the words left her mouth, Angoulême regretted suggesting the Fish Market. She was one of the few who had witnessed Victor slay the doppler, and one of only two who truly knew the full story.

It had started with an explanation of the creature's habits, the leader’s plan to lure the doppler out, how to drive it into a corner, and arrest it so it could be employed by their group. Then, when they finally faced it, the creature first copied her, leading to the battle by the moat, and then it copied the leader, becoming the "Butcher of Novigrad."

When Victor and Bubu fought the doppler, she had arrived just a moment behind, so she too had noticed how the doppler’s swordsmanship skyrocketed during the massacre. Although she lacked the critical information to reach the correct conclusion, she was certain that the doppler had not been insane initially; it was normal when it mimicked her. Therefore, the cause of the madness could only lie in its mimicry of the leader.

She dared not ask this question.

...

The two walked in silence, soon reaching the bridge at the Fish Market. The scent of fish filled their noses, but there was no smell of blood.

Victor thought that if he were a true witcher, he would surely be able to smell the lingering traces by now.

It was here, during the day, that he had encountered the strongest swordsman he had ever faced—perhaps only Master Vesemir could rival him. The man had looked exactly like him, and his strength had been identical. Victor had used Moon Dust to force him back into his true form and then severed his head—without hesitation.

Noticing the young man lost in thought, Angoulême said, "The body has been collected. Even the bloodstains are gone."

"It must have been burned away. The cruelest and most vicious criminal in the history of Novigrad... Dudu," Victor replied instinctively.

"Dudu!? Is that the doppler’s name?"

Rubbing his nose, the young man recalled the address Chappelle had given him. "Perhaps. Come with me. We have to go to one more place before going home."

"Where to? Which way?"

"We need to go to the Far Corners. It shouldn't be too far from Tretogor Gate."

...

From Glory Lane east to Glory Gate, this was the path the doppler had cut through with his blades. Along the way, faint weeping echoed, and every doorway held the dim glow of a candle.

When the two reached Glory Gate, there would usually be a few drunken vagrants sprawled by the bonfire, but tonight the place was brightly lit, filled with Temple Guards, gang members, and many ordinary citizens.

Victor took out some crowns, bought two candles from a vendor, lit them, and placed them on the ground, joining the ranks of those praying for the victims.

After passing Glory Gate and walking a bit further, the Phantom Crew arrived at the Vegetable Market. As the epicenter of the incident, it was oddly peaceful and quiet. Aside from the glow of the Eternal Fire altar, there was no other lighting.

As they passed through Tretogor Gate, the guard on duty checked their identities. He trembled slightly upon seeing Victor’s face but did not lose his composure; it seemed he knew a thing or two and had been given strict instructions.

...

Stepping into the "Far Corners" once more—a place where Temple Guards did not patrol and which fell outside the commercial influence of the Big Four—they entered a different world. The Beggar King controlled Glory Lane and the Docks; Cleaver the Butcher held Silverton; Whoreson Junior controlled the Bits and parts of Gildorf; and Sigismund Dijkstra ruled Hierarch Square.

Though the economic output of the Far Corners was low, it did not mean there was no wealth to be squeezed. Because the Big Four did not intervene in its management, it had become the turf of scattered, small-time gangs and a hotbed for petty crimes.

For instance, not far from the Phantom Crew, a typical home invasion and murder was taking place.

The door stood open, and three elves were sharpening their weapons around a human. Their angry voices were clearly audible.

The long-eared elf glared at the human and shouted, "You filthy piece of scum!"

"You must pay in blood!" the short-eared elf kicked over a chair.

The middle-aged man, surrounded, knelt on the ground with his hands clasped. "I didn't do anything! Please, everyone, I beg you!"

Noticing the masked man and woman approaching the door, the black-haired elf standing guard snapped, "Move along, strangers! Don't interfere!"

Seeing others appear, the middle-aged man scrambled to call for help: "Please, help me... I have a wife... and children... have mercy..."

"It's too late! You're a dead man today, drug peddler!" the long-eared elf cursed viciously.

"Can someone tell me what's going on here?" With his face covered in black cloth, Victor’s voice sounded somewhat muffled.

The short-eared elf stepped forward. "This human sold Ganja powder to young elves, but the batch was laced with poison. Everyone who used it died."

The human behind him knelt and argued, "Lies! They just want to kill me and steal my crowns! Please, help me!"

The long-eared elf shouted, "What you sold was poison! Aren't you ashamed of making those young people convulse to death?"

The human argued desperately, "You... you are talking nonsense... Listen, elves! You hate humans and want revenge! But can you blame the corruption of your own civilization on humans? On me?"

"Shut up, you poisoner."

The young man’s attitude was indifferent. "I want to know if he actually has any Ganja powder on him."

"We've already checked. We searched his whole body, even his boots. There's nothing. He sold it all. That doesn't prove he's innocent."

Victor looked at the human. No one had gagged him, and he did not deny being a Ganja peddler.

The young man said in a low voice, "Selling Ganja is bad enough, though I don't believe he sold laced trash—murdering your own customers is bad for business—but do whatever you want."

The Ganja peddler cried out, "No! Sir, please, don't let them kill me!"

"Thank you, masked sir. Thank you for letting us uphold justice. Farewell," the black-haired elf said, hand over his chest.

"Justice isn't that cheap. I just don't care whether he lives or dies."

...

Shortly after leaving the crime scene, they found the address Chappelle had provided. Victor opened the door to "Dudu's" wooden shack. It was as dilapidated and worn as every other house in the Far Corners, barely managing to keep out the cold.

"Prometheus" was drawn, the tip of the blade glowing with a flicker of fire that ignited the oil lamp on the wall.

Walking around casually, the young man found a letter on the table. He read it quickly and handed it to Angoulême. "As I said, there is a connection between dopplers. They are content with poverty. Rather than coexisting with wolves or other beasts in the wild, they prefer to cling to human civilization, even if it means being beggars or petty thieves."

The girl took the letter and read it in silence.

*Untitled:*

*Dudu, please stop this nonsense. You might not know it yet, but a giant cat leaves a lasting impression.*

*Why not choose a safer form like I did? I’ve been a beggar for three years now, and no one has looked at me twice. And I earn plenty of money!*

*Enough that you’ll never need to steal again.*

*How about it? If you have a change of heart, I’ll put in a good word for you with the Beggar King.*

*See you next time we make contact.*

*Your faithful, Louis.*

*P.S. Remember to burn this after reading. No problem, right?*

*P.P.S. I know I’m paranoid, but just humor me and burn the letter.*

*P.P.S. If I come to find you next time and see this letter, you owe me a beer.*

...

After reading it, she shrugged and walked upstairs, finding Victor staring blankly at a wall.

Holding the oil lamp closer, she saw what was on the wall and froze. It was covered in thank-you notes.

"Big brother, thank you! Without you, Mom and I would have starved."

"Thank you for the bread. I’ve never eaten anything so white."

"Big brother, the apple was delicious..."

"Big brother, will you come by this winter?"

Looking at the wall of letters, Angoulême understood the reason for Victor’s silence, and she, too, had nothing to say.

The autumn night wind whistled through the cracks in the window, sounding like low sobs.

"These children won't have a big brother anymore," Victor’s voice was very calm. "Angoulême, are we the bad guys? Did we do the wrong thing?"

"His death was an accident, Vic. You shouldn't blame yourself. If he had been willing to surrender earlier and accept your employment, he could have bought more food to help the children."

"But from his perspective, we were stripping him of his freedom. Just as he said to me, we are all the same. Along the way, I have said 'no' to many people, so saying 'no' to me was his freedom too. His crime did not warrant death." Victor’s voice was very soft.

"He killed nearly a hundred people!" Angoulême raised her voice.

The young man shook his head. "That may not have been his intent... He must have lost himself when he did it. You sensed it too, didn't you? He was normal when he mimicked you. His madness was because of me."

"But you, leader, you’re fine. No signs of madness at all."

"Perhaps it is because I have never killed anyone before... never."

The girl rubbed her ears. "Is that why you wanted to leave me in Novigrad and go alone?"

"That’s right. In the past, I never did the killing myself because whenever I had the chance, a voice would encourage me to do it. The volume of the voice correlated with the intensity of the killing intent—the more I wanted to kill someone, the clearer and louder that unknown voice became."

As he said this, Victor reached out and touched the letters on the wall.

"In a way, Dijkstra’s joke was the truth. The 'Butcher of Novigrad' is still alive; the one who died was merely an inferior imitation."

"But Vic, you killed 'Dudu' and you're fine?"

"When I killed him, I didn't think of him as a person..."