Chapter Thirty-Four: The Secret Lethal Technique of the Wolf Sect

Last autumn, in the quiet hours of afternoon tea at the Kaelmerhan Library.

“So… Vesemir, do you mean that witchers don’t usually carry bombs with them?”

“Of course not, child! Why would you have such a strange notion? Saltpeter is rare and expensive, and if a bomb is mishandled, it could explode. Carrying them for long periods means they’re likely to become damp. Such things are only prepared temporarily when needed.”

“Oh… I thought the typical witcher fought holding a sword in one hand, while the other hand cast signs and threw bombs…”

The old witcher blinked, a look of reminiscence flickering across his face before he shook his head and laughed heartily. “Ah… In fierce combat, using the Igni sign to light a fuse and hurling a ‘beehive’ bomb to take on many foes at once—such a fighting style is indeed powerful, but it’s hardly the norm.”

“But there was once a witcher master who excelled at such multi-faceted attacks. He left us with the masterpiece ‘Art Is Explosion.’ It was after reading about that book that I assumed all witchers fought like that.”

“Heh, child, you have a good memory! But when mentioning the title, you shouldn’t forget the subtitle—I added that myself—about the master’s ultimate fate.”

“…” Remembering that subtitle, Victor was left speechless.

“We witchers are professionals, so we must consider both cost and safety. After that master, the ‘exploding sword’ became a thing of legend. In truth, most of the time, our swords are more than enough.”

…

“Secret Technique—Explosion!”

Victor reached into his herb pouch with his left hand, pulled out a ‘beehive’ bomb, and hurled it straight at Sir Thales while simultaneously rolling backward.

“Bang—!!”

The thunderous roar behind him sent birds fleeing and shook loose leaves from the forest canopy.

Ordinarily, the crude, impure black powder would have limited effect, and without a sealed iron casing, the bomb’s power would be even less. But for Victor, who had mastered incredible alchemy, such concerns were trivial.

His method was straightforward: mix black powder according to the ideal ratios from memory, toss it into a cauldron and stir for purification, rest for three hours to recover, then add iron ingots and continue stirring to produce sealed iron-cased bombs. The two-stage process took seven hours and cost about forty crowns, yielding two fist-sized “beehives.”

As for not being able to use the Igni sign to ignite the fuse during intense combat, Victor simply lit the fuses himself and kept the bombs in his herb pouch, thus reviving the long-lost secret of the Wolf School.

As he rolled away, he saw clearly that Thales had no idea what was coming. The beehive exploded at point-blank range before the knight. Victor refused to believe any normal man could function after that.

He pushed himself up with his hands, gritting his teeth against the pain from his fractured leg and internal injuries. But when the smoke cleared, what he saw left him stunned: the White Rose Knight still stood, his armor battered but his form unyielding.

Shock did not hinder action. The young man forced himself up, calmly reaching into the herb pouch again—if once wasn’t enough, he’d simply try again.

Perhaps Thales, too, was shaken by the force of the secret technique; he did not advance, but stood his ground, facing off against the witcher apprentice from a distance.

Moments later, just as Victor hesitated to limp forward and throw another bomb, there was a heavy “clang”—the sound of armored knees hitting the ground. Then, like a toppled statue, Thales collapsed and moved no more.

Victor couldn’t help but feel both amused and exasperated. So it was a “death while standing”—even in death, you try to intimidate others? Is this the best you can do?

He hobbled over and kicked the knight’s sword far away, then drove the tip of his Mahakam sword through a gap in the armor, pinning Thales’s elbow to the ground, making sure the knight was truly motionless.

Eliminating the risk of a feigned death and ambush, Victor finally relaxed enough to turn Thales over and lift his visor… only to be shocked once more—the knight was still alive, bleeding from every orifice, but deeply unconscious.

That strange “song of slaughter” once more whispered in his ear. Victor raised his sword, hesitating as a chill ran down his spine.

In that moment of indecision, the cry of a hawk pierced the air and the rustling of bushes followed.

“Captain! What happened?”

Hearing the wild girl’s familiar, comforting voice, Victor’s tension eased, and his legs nearly gave out beneath him. Angoulême came dashing from behind and caught him just in time.

Seeing Victor’s bloodied face and Thales lying prone, the girl immediately understood everything. In a fury, she drew her sword to finish the knight. But remembering Victor’s warning that killing this man would bring trouble, she held back, waiting for his instruction.

“Do it! There’s no turning back now.” With his last ounce of strength, Victor’s voice was faint but resolute.

When the sword pierced his skull, Thales convulsed violently for a while, then finally lost all interest in the world.

Gently laying Victor down, Angoulême watched as he closed his eyes, and suddenly tears streamed down her face. She wailed in panic, “Captain… No… don’t die… please, don’t leave me alone!”

“Stop shaking me, you fool!” Victor, who had wanted to rest for a moment, was forced to open his eyes and scold her softly; otherwise, her shaking might worsen his internal injuries.

“Don’t worry. I’m badly hurt, but death is still a long way off… A little potion and some sleep, and I’ll be fine in a few days.”

“Potion, right, the potion! Captain, do you still have the lifesaving potion I drank before? That was miraculous—my wounds closed and I felt warm all over as soon as I drank it.”

“Hmph, wishful thinking! There’s no such thing as a free miracle. My grandmother only gave me three vials—two went to Ciri, and the last I used myself during lockjaw. Still, I have some I made, not as good, but enough for simple healing.” Saying this, he pulled two vials from his herb pouch, bit off the stoppers, and drank them down. “It’s not perfect, but it’ll do.”

Watching Angoulême earnestly waiting for further instructions, Victor couldn’t help but feel his frustration fade away. He patted the grass beside him. “Come, lie down here as well. The sunlight by the lakeshore is lovely right now.”

“Oh, stop joking, Captain! What now?” Angoulême was exasperated; Victor’s flaw was his tendency to make jokes only he understood, or to do inappropriate things when the mood struck him.

The body of Sir Thales still lay nearby. The thunderous blast might well have been heard by passersby, and now the captain wanted her to lie down and sunbathe. If he weren’t so badly injured, she’d have grabbed him by the collar and reminded him this was a crime scene!

Seeing her anxiety, Victor sighed in regret—if only for a few minutes, the wild girl could have enjoyed the sunlight by the crystal lake.

“Don’t worry. Relax! Set down your bag of alchemy materials. You rode here, didn’t you? Did you leave anything important at the inn?”

Already used to Victor’s seamless shifts from childishness to composure, Angoulême replied without hesitation, “No, I followed your letter and changed inns every few days. Today was move-out day anyway.”

Thinking she’d understood his plan, Angoulême moved to help Victor up. “So, you want us to escape together, Captain?”

Only to have her outstretched hand slapped away by the young man.