Chapter Thirty-Seven: An Old Friend Who Seems Familiar

After leaving White Berry Orchard Village and spending a night in the wild on the outskirts, Victor finally arrived at his travel destination by noon the next day.

Vizima—the capital of Temeria, the kingdom’s largest city—rests on the shores of Lake Vizima, formed by the confluence of a tributary of the Pontar River and the Ismena River.

Thanks to thriving land and water routes and its superior geographic location, the city reaps astonishing profits from trade. But for that very reason, the Catriona Plague did not overlook this place.

The plague’s devastation led to several districts being sealed off and the city gates strictly controlled. Victor was blocked outside the gates; without a permit, he couldn’t enter Vizima.

The edict had been issued by Mayor Velerad ten days earlier. By now, Angoulême should already be inside, purchasing a house and preparing their base as they had agreed before parting.

Victor surveyed the towering, solid city walls and the guards in bright armor. In broad daylight, it was hardly the time to attempt that ancient art of bribery, so he reluctantly turned toward the city’s outskirts. Such a large city could not be entirely cut off from the outside world; there had to be ways in.

If this were a game, the quest now triggered would probably be called “Obtain a Permit to Enter Vizima.”

Around the four main city gates, satellite towns had naturally sprung up, dominated by wooden, thatched-roof cottages. These were home to people who either could not afford to live inside the city or disliked the scent of Vizima’s slums.

When Victor pushed open the door to the tavern outside the eastern gate, he was assaulted by a mix of smoke, meat, vomit, the stench of urine, sweat, and cheap perfume. He wrinkled his nose instinctively and touched his face, his gaze meeting that of a woman sitting in the corner.

In that instant, Victor’s attention was seized by her. She looked to be about twenty, her eyes a striking green, eyebrows fine and assertive, a head of short, efficient red hair parted at the bangs. Her slender face and delicate nose composed the features of a neutral beauty that would have fit the aesthetic standards of the twenty-first century.

But as his eyes drifted lower, it was clear her physique was anything but neutral. She wore lake-green traveling clothes and carried a satchel of herbs slung across her chest. Was she a doctor?

Realizing it was impolite to stare, Victor gave her a silent nod of apology then scanned the room. Every rectangular table was crowded with peasants, drunkards, and ruffians—some guests could only stand against the walls. Strangely, the seats around and opposite that woman remained empty.

The tavern’s staff bustled about. A provocatively dressed barmaid bantered with a few patrons; one reached out to grope her, earning a playful slap, while another, more conservatively dressed barmaid hurried by with food and drink.

Victor didn’t bother them, instead heading straight for the kitchen. He knocked twice on the doorframe, addressing the man who seemed to be the proprietor. “Sir… is there anywhere to stay?”

The innkeeper, squat and pig-like, was squatting by the stove roasting a suckling pig. He wiped his sweat, flicked it to the floor, and turned with impatience. “Are you blind? Of course there’s no room.

Listen, if you want food or drink, talk to the barmaids—yes, the shameless one with her bosom bouncing around for all to see. I don’t believe you could miss her, but you’d best keep your hands to yourself. Look all you want, but if you try anything, I guarantee you’ll be in serious trouble.

If you understand, get out! You little bastard.”

A dull thud sounded as coins landed on the meat, bouncing lightly off the innkeeper’s face—one after another, they rang out crisply as they hit the floor. Five golden orens transformed the man’s expression from anger to a broad smile.

He shifted the pig away from the flames and stooped to gather the coins, a greasy grin overtaking his rough features. “Ah… an honorable gentleman. What can Old Limp Leg do for you?”

“I’ve got money and I want to get into the city. Do you know how I might obtain a permit?” Victor asked.

Old Limp Leg bit into a coin, eyes narrowing as he sized Victor up. The young man’s face was marked by four scars, his gear—leather under a dusty cloak, a steel sword at his side—suggested an average mercenary. But orens didn’t lie.

After a moment’s thought, Old Limp Leg held up five fingers and waggled them. Five more coins were tossed his way. Seeing how readily the cloaked guest paid, the innkeeper almost regretted not asking for ten.

Still, a small-timer’s wisdom is knowing when to stop. “As for permits, if you’re devout enough, the priests of the Eternal Fire can help you.”

Then, lowering his voice, he added, “Or, if you just want into the city, you might visit the ‘merchants’—they have their own ways. At night, you’ll find them in the row of houses near the moat. But make sure your sword is sharp enough.”

Another coin struck his face.

“One last thing, that red-haired woman outside—who is she? The one sitting alone in the corner.”

At first Old Limp Leg looked confused, then realization dawned. “Ah! That’s Miss Shani, a doctor at Saint Lebioda’s Hospital in the Temple District. We all respect her. Without her, many more would have died of the plague.”

Victor nodded. A few well-aimed orens ensured the innkeeper’s silence. He helped himself to four braised duck legs, a round loaf of bread, and a bottle of wine from the pantry.

Lowering his hood to reveal his hair and pulling his Wolf School medallion from under his shirt, he left the kitchen and approached Shani’s table. “May I sit here?” he asked politely.

…

Hearing his question, the doctor arched her elegant brows, sizing up this newcomer—clearly not a local, since townsfolk usually kept their distance out of respect. The young man bore four scars on his face—not handsome, but not unpleasant either.

Wait… that medallion…!?

Victor, standing, read her expression and took her silence as assent, seating himself naturally opposite the lady. Instantly, a large hand clapped down on his shoulder.

The hand belonged to a brawny bruiser, the tavern’s resident bouncer. “Miss Shani, shall I throw him out?” he asked.

She waved him off gently, and the hand withdrew. Victor never glanced at the bouncer, his focus entirely on the doctor before him.

Shani—a name no game player ever forgets. Aside from her unexpectedly youthful appearance and the initial shock of seeing her in person, this was exactly how Shani should be. Thankfully, she hadn’t abruptly changed into someone with ebony skin...

“Is there something you want from me? Most people wouldn’t deliberately sit opposite me when they see the empty seats around me,” she said, lifting her cup. Victor caught a faint scent of roses.

“Well… I just wanted a place to eat, and this happened to be free. Is that answer acceptable?” Victor smiled, biting into a duck leg.

She chuckled softly. “Yes, that’ll do. I’m not particularly bothered, after all—I’ve smelled far worse things.”

Then her green eyes fixed on his, curiosity glinting. “But I have a question. That medallion—where did you get it? Don’t tell me you’re a witcher.”

“An apprentice. I’m a Wolf School witcher-in-training. Haven’t mutated yet. You ask because you’ve seen something like this before?”

Victor hooked the medallion with his little finger, the wolf’s head bared in a snarl.

Shani paused for a moment, then nodded. “Yes… I have a friend who wears the same medallion.”

“Let me guess—Geralt of Rivia, right?”