Chapter Six: The Gradual Decline of the Demon Hunters

Long ago, a heretical mage named Cosimo Malaspina concocted a mutagenic elixir in the laboratory of Kaer Morhen’s tower. After Cosimo, his student Alzur—a mighty sorcerer renowned in history—continued to refine the potion. By controlling the stages of mutation with magic, Alzur succeeded in producing a great number of witchers.

But at some point after Alzur, the lineage was broken. The knowledge and power of magic vanished with it. Though the witchers still had herbs, the Trial of Grasses, and their laboratories, and though they knew the formula for the elixir, they no longer had any mages who could control the mutations.

Thus, the death rate of the Trial of Grasses remained high ever after.

Until now. The dusty flasks and jars, the retorts and kilns in the laboratory… have found new life in the hands of their new master, Victor.

Fifteen days after the first snow—a snowy night.

"Look, this bowl contains yesterday’s finely ground goosefoot mushrooms. After fermenting overnight with bear fat and formic acid, it turns into this. Now we mash up the endrega embryo, mix it evenly with the mushroom blend, then scald the mixture with freshly boiled dwarven spirits. After filtering out the juice, we chill it for a minute."

"Isn’t it beautiful?" Victor held up the chilled, crystal-clear green “Thunder” and offered it to Lambert, who had been waiting patiently at his side. Lowering his voice in deliberate imitation, he said, "Drink up, witcher. This is your destiny." Even if no one understood, it didn’t stop him from enjoying his own joke.

Lambert, by now nearly immune to the eccentric humor from far east of Zerrikania, ignored Victor’s odd tone.

He downed the so-called improved Thunder potion in one gulp. His face turned pale, pupils dilated with bloodshot veins, his breathing grew shallow, and his heart raced. Adrenaline surged, filling him with strength.

Feeling the potion’s effects ripple through his body, he punched the air in excitement. "Damn! I know I said it yesterday, but I’ll say it again today—by the gods, you little brat, you’re a bloody genius! No wonder the old man handed you the entire laboratory."

Victor merely smiled. After hearing it so often, he’d grown to enjoy Lambert’s coarse tongue. Truth be told, aside from his bad temper, sharp mouth, self-importance, and love of quarreling, Lambert was actually easy to get along with—at least, Victor thought so.

"The toxicity is reduced by about a quarter, but the effect hasn’t diminished. Vic, this stuff is incredible. Maybe you could make a few more bottles for old Lambert?"

"Of course. But including yesterday’s Blizzard potion, I’ll need a little help—some fresh ingredients… You understand?"

"Oh, Master Victor, you know, even though it’s freezing outside, old Lambert is always happy to serve you." As he said this, he bowed with exaggerated formality, like a butler addressing a nobleman.

Victor didn’t stand on ceremony either. Mimicking aristocratic grace, he delicately picked up a slip of paper with his fingertips and handed it over. "Here’s the list of required materials, butler Lambert. I’m counting on you."

One must admit, fate draws people together. Some you’ve just met, yet it feels as if you’ve known them for years; others you’ve known for years and still remain strangers. In the past half month, Victor’s connection with the two returning witchers had proven a significant bond.

Yawning, Victor stood up. "All right, time for bed."

"Hey! It’s still early. Can’t you whip up something else to amaze me?" The potion’s effects clearly left Lambert with excess energy.

Victor doused the flame and rinsed the filter’s residue. "No can do. I need at least six hours of sleep every day. At my age, I ought to sleep a full eight. Go find Eskel if you want to have some fun."

Rejected, Lambert couldn’t help but retort, "Fine, fine, go to bed, you milk-drinking brat!"

The words had no effect on Victor. "I’m proud to drink milk. Warm milk helps me sleep better, grow taller, and have thicker hair."

The key words in Victor’s reply gave Lambert pause. By the time he realized he was being mocked, Victor had already walked away.

"Dammit, milk really works? Hey, master of herbs, got any advice besides drinking milk?"

"How about half an hour of stretching before bed?"

…

With just two more people, Kaer Morhen felt so much more alive. While Victor and Lambert bantered in the alchemy lab, Eskel and Vesemir sat by the fire in the main hall, chatting.

"Victor, from Bell Town east of Zerrikania, is a remarkable youth. I can understand why the master trusts him enough to let him hunt alone. Apart from not being fully grown, he’s as capable as any adult."

Adjusting the logs in the hearth with tongs, Eskel returned to his armchair, took a swig of cream beer, and let out a contented belch. "His woodworking alone is extraordinary."

Vesemir didn’t respond. He couldn’t very well explain that this armchair had been cooked up in the backyard cauldron a few months ago. He remembered watching Victor toss in a pile of scraps, rotten wood, and weeds, only to stir them together and miraculously produce a beechwood recliner.

That scene truly made him marvel that living long enough meant you’d see everything eventually.

After that, Victor, clearly with a plan in mind, began an unstoppable campaign to replace all the furniture. In just a few days, the quality of life in the old keep leapt from poverty to middle class.

Life had certainly become more comfortable, but the presence of furniture fit for a noble residence required an explanation. So, before winter, the two agreed to attribute it to “Victor the woodworking expert.”

They even invented Bell Town, east of Zerrikania, as his birthplace. Since Ciri had brought him here, it was only fitting to say he was fulfilling the tradition that youths must venture out for several years—thus, there was no rush for him to return.

After all, people from Zerrikania were rare enough in these parts, let alone anyone from farther east. There was no way to verify the story.

Hearing the faint sounds of Victor and Lambert’s banter and then the door closing upstairs, Eskel smiled. "He’s a likable lad—talented, gifted, good-natured. Still, I can’t quite imagine why the master entrusted him with such confidence so soon."

Taking out a pipe, packing it with tobacco, and lighting it, Vesemir puffed leisurely. "Heh, it’s really just two reasons. The first, as you know—Ciri.

If you could have seen her face when she entrusted Victor to me, Geralt might have wanted to draw his sword on Victor, while Lambert would have teased Ciri for ages. They’d only lived together half a year, but I’d swear from her expression that Ciri would be willing to live with Victor until the world’s end."

Eskel raised his eyebrows. "Love? He’s just a boy!"

"When she brought him, I think she saw him only as a brother. But now they’re apart, who knows? Time shapes many things—Victor’s grown a head taller in just half a year."

Outside, the snowflakes thickened, and the sound of the wind howled faintly. Thanks to the newly replaced window frames and sashes, the hall—once drafty every winter—was now as warm as spring.

"And the second reason?"

Vesemir chuckled. "That happened on our very first day together. After reading the books about us on the shelf, he told me he respected us… respected our struggle against monsters."

Eskel froze, his hand halfway to his mug.

Vesemir continued, "Even though he refused to become a formal apprentice, when he said those words, I could feel his sincerity."

The fire crackled. Eskel took a sip of beer and wiped his mouth.

The fire crackled. Vesemir squinted, blowing smoke rings.

"Winter will pass quickly. What about next spring? Will you stay to keep training him, Master?"

"No. Though he hasn’t said as much, I have a feeling he’ll leave here come spring."