Chapter Sixty-Eight: The Daughter Brings a Man Home

As summer gradually withdrew and autumn approached with measured steps, the oppressive clouds over Vizima—the Catriona plague—began to dissipate along with the falling temperatures.

“In the blink of an eye, the Phantom Brigade has spent a month in this city, enjoying peace and tranquility. Yet, neither of them could have imagined that this was merely the calm before the storm—their grand, tumultuous adventures over mountain and sea were about to begin…”

“If you’d just stay quiet, no one would think you’re mute. And I’ve warned you already: stop making those absurd narrations when I’m not paying attention.” It was Victor who spoke, standing before a cauldron, stirring vigorously as he performed cosmetic surgery on the handsome Foltest depicted on a coin.

Springing from the lounge chair, Angoulême complained, “But it’s just so boring! Nothing has happened all month. Look, it’s already the afternoon—another dull day about to pass.”

“What’s so bad about a peaceful life? Or do you need me to cut off your allowance and send you out to make your own way before you’ll appreciate happiness?” With Victor’s retort, Angoulême collapsed back onto the chair, utterly deflated.

Seeing her like this, Victor couldn’t help but both laugh and sigh. “Alright, isn’t Gryphon and his friends—the Brotherhood, or whatever they call themselves—holding underground boxing matches lately? I’ll let you go watch tonight. You have a hundred orens you may use for betting. Go and have some fun.”

Watching Angoulême skip out the door, delighted, Victor couldn’t have known that his quiet life in Vizima was about to come to an end.

...

Unlike ordinary witchers, Victor Corleone was not troubled by a lack of coin, so he never minded the absence of monsters to hunt.

Sword training, alchemy, study—he had spent this time in tranquil contentment. Much like in Vergen, he’d made many friends here, some even with diametrically opposed views—like Siegfried and Yaevinn—but he navigated all circles with ease, often spending his leisure hours at the Hairy Bear Tavern, and sometimes resting at the establishment across the street.

His friendship with Shani had also deepened. Recently, she’d visit at least twice a week, and as he escorted her home more often, Victor had grown increasingly annoyed by her landlady’s habit of eyeing him like a potential thief.

Though Shani assured him the old woman meant no harm, once Victor learned she was a follower of the Prophet Lebioda, he quickly procured a copy of Lebioda’s sayings for Shani to pass on. Thereafter, he became, in the landlady’s words, “a gentle and kind-hearted boy.”

For this, Shani gave Victor a friendly kiss on the cheek—a gesture of pure camaraderie—to reward his deft handling of the landlady, whose well-intentioned nagging Shani found troublesome, though she was too polite to say so.

Peaceful days passed swiftly; in the blink of an eye, a month was gone. In terms of comfort and livability, Vizima was by far the best place Victor had known since entering the witcher’s world. If Lambert were here, he would likely have kicked the door open, demanding to know if Victor planned to settle down for good.

Yet even without Lambert, fate would not let Victor’s contentment last.

...

That night, as usual, Victor was in the basement alchemy lab brewing potions. This batch was destined for the Ram Gang in the morning—formulas whose quality was reliably “subpar,” shelf life “short,” and quantity “limited.” These three “nots” were the secret to his ongoing good relations with the gang.

Humming a cheerful tune—“La la la, Demacia!”—Victor was interrupted by Angoulême, freshly returned from her outing. “Captain! There’s something I want to tell you.”

“Oh, my dear Angoulême, why do you look so serious? Don’t tell me you broke our agreement and lost more than a hundred orens.” Though interrupted, Victor’s mood remained buoyant, a wide smile on his face.

“No… It’s like this. Today at the Hairy Bear, I ran into a friend,” Angoulême began, swallowing nervously. “He lost his purse and almost got beaten by the owner for not being able to pay for his drinks. So I covered his tab. Then he said he had nowhere to stay, so I brought him here—he’s at the door now.”

At this, Victor frowned. In all honesty, he doubted Angoulême had any decent friends—perhaps one of those who’d escaped the brothel with her? Such people usually had little ability, plenty of bad habits, and brought endless trouble.

Still, he quickly smoothed his expression. No matter what, Angoulême’s friends were now his concern. Since he’d taken her in, he had to accept her past as well, even if that meant dealing with unsavory companions. At least he should meet the fellow before passing judgment.

Victor’s expression grew thoughtful. If things got out of hand, he’d seen enough similar cases to know that a few hundred orens would either chase the friend off or reveal their true colors.

Meanwhile, Angoulême had been watching Victor’s face closely. After living together so long, she could read even his smallest expressions, and this time his reactions were as transparent as glass.

First, he’d been displeased, then reconsidered; at the very least, he was willing to meet the person, so she remained silent, wearing an earnest look as she waited for his response.

With a soft clang, the stirring rod tapped twice against the cauldron’s rim. Victor set aside his alchemy, took a pair of sunglasses from the shelf, and sat at the long table, arms crossed. “Alright, since you’ve brought him here, I won’t play the villain. I’ll at least meet him. Bring him in.”

Nodding, Angoulême bounded upstairs to open the door, all smiles. As her friend came downstairs, Victor’s first impression was poor. The man, of medium build and with slicked hair and a polished appearance, was more handsome than many elves, radiating a melancholy, world-weary charm.

Ah, the old fatherly instinct flared—Victor felt an urge to draw his sword. It wasn’t that the man was so much more attractive than himself, but rather that he gave off an aura of unreliability—a kindred spirit’s intuition, like a king encountering a rival prince.

Yes, just as Angoulême could sense malice, men often judged other men accurately at a glance. This one was clearly a libertine, a parasite, a man with wandering hands and no self-control.

The newcomer, for his part, hadn’t expected that the “Captain” Angoulême spoke of would be even younger than she was. Though the boy’s manner was poised and his sunglasses gave him an air of authority, no matter how he looked, he was clearly not an adult. Even the man, usually glib and silver-tongued, was momentarily at a loss for words.

Victor sat behind the table, sunglasses reflecting the faint firelight, elbows propped on the tabletop, fingers interlaced beneath his chin, his voice low.

“I’m Victor Corleone, Captain of the Phantom Brigade, from Bell Town, east of Zerrikania. Your name?”

The slick young man hesitated, unsure whether to deploy his usual tales and deceptions. Shrouded in shadow, the young man before him was clearly not someone to be trifled with.