Chapter 82: The Human Body Has Its Limits

The thrown torch indeed caught the vampire woman’s attention. Her past hunting experience had taught her that in darkness, humans were easy prey. Instinctively, her half-mist form swatted the torch aside, sending it clattering to the ground. But the brief flare of light concealed the real threat. By the time she glimpsed two round objects flying toward her, it was far too late.

A deafening explosion erupted—then her shrill, agonized scream. The silver dust of Moon’s Dust invaded her semi-mist body, driving her to madness with pain. The burning effect of the Dancing Star set her ablaze, transforming her into a moving torch. In a heartbeat, the once fearsome vampire woman was reduced to a grotesque, charred figure.

Seeing this, Victor and Angoulême advanced without hesitation, swords drawn, ready to finish the job. The witcher apprentice had repeatedly warned them beforehand: show no mercy, kill her quickly, or risk a deadly counterattack in her last moments. If she escaped, they’d have little chance of repeating the trick.

Sensing her life was in danger, the vampire woman suddenly rolled to a corner, smothering much of the Dancing Star’s flames. But as she landed, there was a sharp snap—her right ankle was caught fast in a bear trap. Immobilized, blinded by silver-burnt eyes, she could only rely on her ears to track their footsteps—yet for her, mere direction was enough.

Her chest swelled as she drew a long, shuddering breath. Thanks to the Cat potion’s night vision, the Phantom troupe’s two members clearly saw her action. Victor felt a surge of dread, Angoulême even more keenly so—she halted at once. But both reacted too late.

A monstrous, inhuman shriek burst from the vampire’s throat, echoing through the circular chamber, amplifying its power. In the game, Victor recalled, this scream would only make witchers clutch their heads as if suffering, but otherwise left them unscathed; the books he’d read hadn’t especially warned of it either, so he was utterly unprepared.

But the sonic shockwave that witchers could endure was devastating to ordinary mortals. The difference in resilience between their mutated bodies and normal ones was worlds apart. As the scream reverberated, Angoulême staggered, blood streaming from her ears, nose, and eyes before she collapsed. Victor dropped to his knees, pounding headache rendering him unable to use his potions, left defenseless.

He barely outlasted her. His vision blurred, warm blood trickling from ear, nose, and eyes. Only his robust constitution kept him conscious—but if the shriek continued, the entire troupe would soon be doomed.

In desperation, his hand brushed something cold—fallen from the girl’s grasp.

By Melitele above! It was the crossbow gifted by the Rose Knight, the one Angoulême always kept at her hip.

Forcing his trembling arm to rise, he aligned the sights, ignoring the throbbing in his temples and the blood clouding his vision. Hot blood dripped onto his hand as he snarled, “Shut the hell up!”

With a faint thud, the bolt embedded itself in the vampire’s throat. The monstrous shriek crumpled into a low, ragged growl.

That single shot saved them from annihilation. Victor remained kneeling, gasping for air, eyes fixed on the vampire woman: blinded, bleeding from her eyes, a crossbow bolt through her neck, her entire body ravaged by flame and silver.

She ceased her wailing, now fumbling at the bear trap shackling her leg, unable to see, unable to sense her enemies’ positions, still writhing in the burning agony of silver.

Suppressing pain and anger, Victor took a few deep breaths to regain his composure, holstered the crossbow at his waist, and, bleeding from every orifice, gathered the similarly stricken Angoulême and began a slow retreat.

A mutual destruction would help no one; the battered Phantom troupe could not afford casualties. Even though the monster was trapped, the witcher apprentice dared not risk provoking her further, fearing in her death throes she’d become berserk like a ghoul, tearing free to attack.

Focusing every sense on the monster’s movements and feeling the steady pulse of his companion, the apprentice slowly backed toward the chamber’s entrance. Almost at safety—just a step more and they’d reach the corridor, and with the vampire so gravely wounded, she wouldn’t risk pursuit.

They just had to get out, then return better prepared to show her the depths of outsiders’ cunning.

Yet his steps faltered. Ice clamped around his heart as he realized he’d backed straight into a towering figure. Could it be—the vampire woman had a blood demon ally?

...

“I’ve learned one thing in my short life: the more cunning and calculated a man is, the likelier he’ll fall to some unforeseen disaster—unless he is more than merely human...”
—Excerpt from “The Firekeeper Sage’s Bizarre Adventures, Chapter 82”

...

Turning halfway, Victor’s heart nearly gave out in despair. Blocking the way were not one, but three—three fully armored... witchers!

Despair turned to astonishment. The Cat potion’s effects had not yet faded, so the youth could see their amber, slit eyes—gleaming, just like his own. On their backs were paired longswords, the signature gear of witchers.

The burly one in the center towered over the apprentice, his chest at Victor’s head. In accented Common with the southern Nilfgaardian lilt, he rumbled, “Interesting. I thought we were too late, but it seems we're just in time to collect the bodies.”

Stepping aside, the big man shielded Angoulême and Victor, watching the vampire as her vision slowly returned. His two companions advanced as well, forming a human barricade in front of the wounded duo.

Surveying the vampire woman’s pitiful state, the burly man remarked with genuine admiration, “I never imagined you’d manage this much!” Then, turning to his companions, “Ox, keep Victor and his little friend safe. Serrit, let’s finish it.”

His voice, rough as gravel, sounded to Victor like the sweetest music. The one called Serrit said nothing, simply drew his silver sword and moved forward alongside the big man.

The vampire, having finally pried open the bear trap and regaining some vision, saw her enemies approach. Robbed of her mist form by the silver, her ranged shriek neutralized by the crossbow, she could only scramble up to the ceiling and dart above them, then pounce.

“Aard.” The big man’s hand traced a Sign; wind gathered in his palm, and with a blast he sent the vampire woman crashing into the wall. Bricks and dust rained down in the sewer’s echo.

It was a breathtaking sight. Victor drew a deep breath—so this was the witcher’s unique battle magic, the Sign known as Aard. Someday, he vowed...

Even with overwhelming advantage, the big man and Serrit didn’t get reckless, but cautiously closed in from both sides.

At that moment, Victor knew for certain: the hunt would soon be over.