Chapter Sixteen: The Legendary Organization Makes a Grand Entrance

Victor felt no psychological burden about selling virility potions—after all, he was spreading joy and love. He was sure Angoulême didn’t either; that wild girl was lacking in many respects, but at least she had a sense of justice. But that wasn’t her fault—it was the fault of the times, this damned era having forged her into what she was.

In any case, since he had decided to recuperate for a while in Vergen, finding a sales agent became the most pressing task, and Zoltan was undoubtedly the best intermediary in town—no second place.

The reason he hadn’t come to see Lambert off today wasn’t because of a lack of friendship, but because after drinking with Lambert at his farewell party yesterday, he’d been dragged off to another table and ended up drinking himself into oblivion.

After the fierce battles at Brenna against Nilfgaard and the defense of Vergen against Kaedwen, war heroes like him were now warmly welcomed by the people of Aedirn. His daily life was either spent in taverns or on the way to one.

So when the Phantom Brigade came knocking at his door, he was lying on the floor, fast asleep.

...

The rise of the Phantom Brigade was still shrouded in countless inexplicable mysteries, but considering it was founded by the Sage of the Sacred Flame, no matter how unbelievable their deeds may sound, they were not entirely unacceptable.

Some scholars took a reserved stance, believing the Brigade had not been founded by the Sage, but rather chosen and supported by them. After all, the Brigade’s actions had sometimes been controversial, and linking such deeds to the Sage’s flawless reputation would be a stain upon it.

Most records agree that the Brigade’s first public activity was in the city of Vergen in Upper Aedirn, beginning with the visit of the Golden Eagle Angoulême to Zoltan Chivay.

But this version too was questioned by many, since rumors in Vergen claimed that the Brigade’s debut was to sell virility potions… a tale whose tone did not match the more dignified stories told elsewhere.

Excerpt from “Chronicles of Medieval Rangers, Volume V”

...

Zoltan’s home, like many others, was a cave dwelling carved into the mountainside. This dwarf, with his lush beard and punk hairstyle, was an incurable optimist, a staunch altruist, a lover of strong drink and bawdy songs.

Victor knew all this because he had long been acquainted with Zoltan—indeed, before he ever met Victor in person, Zoltan had already won his approval as Geralt’s loyal friend in the game.

Shaken awake from sleep, Zoltan displayed the dwarves’ famed lack of concern for propriety, not even asking why Victor and Angoulême were there. “Hey, lad, you’re here! Where’s Lambert?”

The girl brought over a glass of cold water. Victor hauled Zoltan upright and sat him in a chair. “He’s long gone. Angoulême and I just got back from seeing him off.”

Zoltan downed the water in one gulp. “Oh no! Damn it! I overslept.”

“Don’t worry,” Victor said. “Lambert understood. He said he’s sorry he couldn’t make it to your engagement, but next time he passes through Vergen, he’ll definitely come for a drink.”

“Hah, Witchers are all good folk. I just don’t get why you humans don’t like them.”

Victor spread his hands. “I share your confusion,” he replied, and both shared a laugh.

The mood was perfect. Victor was just about to exchange a few more pleasantries before gently broaching the main topic.

But Angoulême suddenly blurted, “Zoltan, this is the Phantom Brigade’s first mission! We need your help!”

The abrupt way she cut in froze the atmosphere. Victor was left floundering, unsure how to steer the conversation back on track.

Fortunately, Zoltan burst out laughing. “Hahahaha! So the White Wolf’s hansa has changed its name to the Phantom Brigade?”

The old dwarf clearly cared about Angoulême and easily caught onto her train of thought.

Angoulême’s face shone with confidence. “That’s right, and we’ve got a new code of conduct—it’s super cool, listen: The Phantom Brigade, walking the mortal world, serving justice and punishing evil!”

Zoltan was even more delighted. “Oh, it even rhymes! I can tell right away this is a most extraordinary secret society.” He shot Victor a thumbs-up, absolutely convinced that Angoulême couldn’t have come up with that herself.

Victor, meanwhile, felt shame gnawing at him… To soothe Angoulême, he’d made up something on the spot, only for her to bounce it right back at him. Clearly, Angoulême needed more guidance: the mission statement of a secret organization wasn’t meant to be blurted out everywhere.

But Angoulême continued heedlessly, “From now on, in private, I’ll call him Captain. I’ve also got a new surname—Corleone. Isn’t that impressive? Sounds strong and mighty! The Captain gave me his own surname, so from now on, I’m Angoulême Corleone.”

At this, Zoltan’s brows drew together. He glanced at Victor. “Even the surname? You…”

The girl interrupted, “Victor says that the name Corleone will become renowned throughout the world because of us…”

Zoltan was subdued by the look of longing on her face. After considering a moment, he nodded. “All right, I understand. So—” He puffed up his chest and belly, putting on a solemn air. “Members of the Phantom Brigade, Victor and Angoulême of House Corleone, what brings you to my home today?”

...

Though the interlude had been short yet mortifying, now that the conversation was back on track, Victor the realist wasted no time. He laid his cards on the table, making his advantages and prospects clear.

He planted his elbows on the table, fingers laced under his chin, his gaze sharp. “Zoltan, I have a formula for a product that will have no trouble selling. I want someone to help me distribute it. Can you introduce me to friends who might be interested? That way, everyone can make a tidy profit!”

But rather than the delight Victor expected, the dwarf’s expression turned grave. His brows knit tightly, lips pressed together, as if confronted with some weighty problem.

This was clearly not a good sign. Victor fell silent, wondering if he’d said something wrong or if there was some unknown factor at play.

At last, Zoltan exhaled and said seriously, “I’m a dwarf with plenty of experience, so I’ll say it straight: If it’s weed powder, I can’t help. I don’t want anything to do with that stuff, and I advise you to steer clear as well. I know a lot of young folks think it’s harmless these days, but…”

“What’s wrong with weed powder?” Angoulême cut in indignantly, ready to defend her leader at a moment’s notice.

Victor, realizing the situation was about to get complicated, quickly interjected, “Angoulême, be quiet… Zoltan, you misunderstood—it’s not weed powder! It’s absolutely not that sort of thing!” He hurried to clarify, knowing that letting Angoulême continue would only deepen the misunderstanding.

At his words, both Angoulême and Zoltan looked astonished, as if Victor had just declared something utterly incredible.

Damn it! Birds of a feather flock together—so both of you thought I was peddling weed powder?

Victor took a calming breath. “It’s a virility potion! To be precise, a virility elixir! A tonic to help men regain their vigor—a secret weapon for restoring manhood!”

“Oh…” Angoulême realized she’d spoken foolishly and slumped back into her chair.

“Uh… sorry,” Zoltan apologized, now that he understood the mistake. He tried to explain, “Virility potions are profitable, but they’re hard to make and the effects aren’t always reliable. You spoke so confidently, with that schemer’s look, so I misunderstood.”

But there was no need for more words—some things are best seen for oneself, some products gain loyal customers after just one try.

Victor pulled out six vials from his herb pouch and pressed them into Zoltan’s hands. “Trust me—let your friends who need it give it a try. They’ll soon be calling me ‘Master Victor.’”