Chapter Sixty-Six: Who Watches in the Night Wind

The ancient history of the Vigemar Cemetery can be traced back to the era of elven dominion; its advantageous location connects the city’s temple district with the trade quarter. Within the graveyard, apart from the scattered tombstones, there are also numerous hexagonal ruins that seem to be the remnants of temples or small chapels.

Before the sun set, the witcher apprentice, pursuing the trail of ghouls, ventured deep into the cemetery and finally arrived at a vast underground crypt. Though he could not see clearly inside from the entrance, the profound darkness gaped like the maw of some fiend, ready to devour any creature that dared to step within.

Without hesitation, Victor followed his instincts and retreated to the very site where he had dispatched five ghouls the previous night, carefully resetting his traps.

Then, kindling a blazing campfire, he knelt down, thighs together, hips pressed low, hands resting upon his legs, and began to meditate in the formal witcher posture. Master Vesemir had once said that meditation helps a person gain self-insight, perceive shortcomings, and even deepen one’s understanding and application of Signs during the process.

Unfortunately, none of these benefits were presently relevant to Victor. His meditation was little more than an outward form; he couldn’t even focus his mind on the flames before him. In truth, he was simply reflecting on the day’s events.

...

That morning, his dealings with Lance Mitt had not gone as smoothly as expected. The man either lacked discernment or knew too much; he had no interest in follicle regeneration, no thoughts of scar-reduction, and being still youthful and vigorous, he knew well he needed neither hair tonic nor scar ointment nor virility elixirs.

What he needed most was healing potions.

The Fire Lizard Gang, that organization which had risen like a comet, seemed to have the backing of powerful interests from above; though newcomers, they were not easily handled. Amidst the rampant plague of Catriona, friction between them and the Ram Gang was inevitable, but both sides exercised restraint, knowing it was not yet the time for open warfare.

Still, small-scale skirmishes were unavoidable. In such cases, healing potions proved invaluable. Though both gangs had their own herbalists, none could compare to the rapid effect and potent efficacy of alchemical products.

Alas, capable alchemists disdained involvement in such underworld conflicts, either relying on their own power for protection or enjoying the patronage of nobles.

So, when Victor revealed he had access to certain supplies, Lance Mitt readily agreed: selling a few forbidden items was fine, but in exchange, Victor had to provide a set amount of healing potions. The more the better, and he would pay a generous premium.

...

That afternoon, Victor visited the knightly order and poured out his woes to the Rose Knight, successfully obtaining two crossbows. These weapons did not need to be returned, but each bore a distinctive mark denoting their origin. Siegfried warned him to report any damage or loss promptly, as such ranged arms were strictly regulated in the city.

Next, the youth played courier to the banker’s residence. Mr. Golan Vivaldi was reluctant but opened his door to accept the letter. Yaeven had said no reply was necessary, so Victor left immediately after delivering it, guessing that the previous correspondence had not gone well—this one likely carried the tone of an ultimatum.

Since the wild girl Angouleme was still nowhere to be seen, and Miss Shani would not be visiting today, the witcher apprentice ate dinner early and entered the cemetery before dusk to search for the source of the monsters.

As he pondered, a familiar stench wafted on the breeze, breaking his meditative state. Though he had only encountered the smell for the first time the previous day, its foulness was unforgettable, nauseating to the very core.

The sound of monstrous snarling came from the direction of the crypt; it seemed his earlier assessment had been correct. The new arrivals had likely once haunted the outskirts of Marshwood Village, but, driven by recent shortages, had somehow discovered a route into the city’s sewers.

In other words, the closer one ventured to the crypt, the greater the chance of stumbling upon a ghoul’s feast.

Rising, Victor grasped his silver sword, already coated in necrophage oil. He had not drunk any potions, but stood within the circle of a dozen bear traps he had set around the campfire—a position of absolute tactical advantage that filled him with unshakable confidence.

As their stench thickened from faint to tangible, the ghouls’ eyes met his, confirming he was delectable prey. If they hailed from the northeast, they might have exclaimed, “Well, well! How polite can you be! You smell absolutely delicious!”

...

At the same time...

“Victor! Run!” Ciri awoke from her dream, drenched in sweat, crying out in panic. She had dreamt of her beloved little brother Victor, beset by six ghouls in a cold and desolate graveyard.

Though the vision was hazy and Victor’s appearance had changed—he had grown much taller—she still recognized that honest face. He was her dearest brother, and he was in grave danger.

Snatching a towel from the bedside to wipe away the cold sweat, she knew her respite was over. Thanks to the help of the unicorn, she had once saved both Geralt and Yennefer from death and escaped to this world, but the Wild Hunt’s pursuit had not ceased. They still hunted her relentlessly.

Leaping from her bed, she donned her leather armor and left the room.

It was now the year 2077, a near-future world right out of a cyberpunk painting. In the living room, a bearded middle-aged man, strikingly reminiscent of Keanu Reeves, sat watching television—a face so handsome it made countless girls swoon and gamers cry, “Take my money—just release the game!”

“Are you leaving?” he asked, brushing his beard with his fully metallic left arm.

Ciri slung Giweavell—her sword—across her back. “It’s my brother. He may be in danger. I don’t know what’s happened to him, but my journey must begin anew.”

Keanu Reeves smiled kindly. “Brave little girl, I hope this time you cross into the right place. And if you have the chance, you’re always welcome to visit.”

“I will. Thank you, sir.”

...

Suddenly, Victor felt a chill, as if, for a fleeting instant, someone had been watching him. But the sensation vanished as quickly as it came.

He raised his silver sword and brought it down hard. The last ghoul, trapped and howling, had its skull pierced through, granting the cruel creature release.

“Not a sound—monster-slaying does not trigger any strange noises,” Victor thought.

Withdrawing his sword, the apprentice made a circuit, slicing off the ghouls’ ears as bounty tokens, then piling the remains together, dousing them with oil, and burning them.

Returning to the campfire, he sat formally and took a deep breath. Victor reached into his herb pouch, letting his mind sense its expanded volume. “It’s definitely much bigger now—proof my spirit is growing stronger. If before it was a meter cubed, now it’s one and a half meters on each side—three point three seven five cubic meters of might. I can store much more in the future.”

As the fire died down and he hastily tidied the scene, Victor prepared to hurry to the “Thirsty Thigh” before curfew.

That morning, Griffin had reminded him, and Victor was shocked to realize he hadn’t noticed the faint odor of corpses still clinging to him—a dangerous sort of complacency.

Even as a witcher, the youth aspired to be the witcher of a new era, not the sort who wallowed in corpses, reeking of death, with tangled beards and lice-ridden hair, but one who bathed daily, kept himself immaculate, and whose hair and beard were always carefully groomed—a gentleman witcher in all things.