Chapter 83: What Is Called Enlightenment Is Merely a Misunderstanding

He took two vials of healing potion from the herb pouch and administered them to Angoulême and himself.

Watching the two witchers finish off the vampire woman was truly a delight, and it allowed him to deeply understand why Eskel once said that, given the choice, he would always prefer to fight many against one.

Serrett cast the Sign of Yrden, touching the ground, and a pale violet circle of etheric magic spread out beneath his feet. The vampire woman, forced into the circle, was immediately affected—her movements slowed, losing the ghostly speed she had possessed before.

The etheric magic circle created by the Sign of Yrden not only slowed enemies, but also revealed invisible, vaporous, or spectral creatures—the same effect as the Moon Dust bomb.

The vampire woman, slowed and desperate to escape Yrden’s range, was met head-on by the burly witcher, who simply and brutally activated the Sign of Quen and collided fiercely with her. Quen absorbed the blows from her claws, and his silver sword pierced her body.

For a split second, time seemed to freeze. Then, with a powerful twist of his waist, the giant dragged the blade sideways, performing a full crosswise cut as he stepped back.

She clasped her hands over her abdomen, trying to stem the flow of blood and organs, but everyone present watched her silently, knowing well that such a wound was hopeless.

At last she collapsed to her knees, and Serrett stabbed her through the heart from behind.

He withdrew his silver sword as she let out a final, hoarse moan, then crumpled to the ground and died.

What followed was the witchers’ traditional surgical work. Victor, relieved, turned to Ox, who had stayed behind to guard him.

Ox’s face had been smiling from the beginning, as though he were delighted for reasons unknown. When he noticed Victor watching him, he didn’t mind at all; instead, he grew even more excited and waved in greeting. “Hey, Victor, hello! I’m Ox of the Viper School. I’ve wanted to chat with you for a long time. By the way, your bombs are amazing—truly worthy of a Wolf School apprentice. I’ve never seen a Dancing Star as powerful as yours.”

Victor was momentarily stunned—not just because Ox was a chatterbox, but also because his words contained so much information.

The three of them knew his name and that he was a witcher apprentice, which wasn’t surprising; many in the city did. The issue was that they also knew his true school, which meant they had investigated him privately. And the Dancing Star Ox mentioned clearly wasn’t the luxury version used today.

Thinking back, Victor remembered the last time he used a Dancing Star bomb—it was in the Vizima cemetery against ghouls. Suddenly, he realized that the fleeting sense of being watched back then must have been Ox. “You were in the Vizima cemetery a month ago!?”

Ox, wrapped in a headscarf and looking sharp yet talkative, clapped his hands. “Ha, I knew it! You really did notice me then. I’d heard a witcher was dealing with ghouls, so I went to watch the show. When you were surrounded, I was about to jump in and help, but luckily I didn’t make it in time—I got to see your true skills. That Dancing Star was dazzling!”

Ox went on, but Victor paid little attention.

The two witchers who had just dispatched the monster were busy with the vampire woman; Serrett was still working on her, while the imposing giant was already striding over.

He pulled back his hood, revealing a bald head. “Ox, shut up. Victor, how are your wounds? And hers?”

He was clearly the authoritative one among the three, and his southern-accented reprimand made Ox fall silent immediately.

“I’m fine, just need a little rest—no lasting effects,” Victor smiled, flexing to show he was alright. “But Angoulême might need a more thorough check.”

Two crossed scars marked the giant’s bald head. “Good, then take her back for treatment.” He extended his big hand toward Victor.

Victor handed over three vials of vampire blood, which the witcher apprentice received in his palm.

His features were deep-set, as if carved from granite. “Once you’ve settled her, come find us at the levee in the slums. I’m sure you have many questions, and so do I—but now isn’t the time. Go take care of your friend.”

Victor nodded, stowed the vampire blood in his herb pouch, hoisted Angoulême onto his back, and spoke solemnly, “Thank you, truly.”

The witcher apprentice left, carrying the girl.

…

Bleeding from seven orifices looked terrifying, but Victor knew Angoulême’s wounds weren’t serious—a period of rest would suffice.

He brought her home, settled her back onto her bed, wiped her face, and made her drink another potion. Victor stroked Catherine’s feathers—the hawk was now familiar enough to allow his touch. “Watch over Angoulême; if anything happens, slap her face to wake her.”

Then Victor went to his own room, wiped his face, drank a potion, and stepped out to seek the three witchers.

Shani arrived first, opening the door.

Victor and Angoulême had gone out to hunt monsters in the afternoon; now night had just begun, the perfect time for his elder sister, just finished with work, to drop by.

…

After checking Angoulême’s condition and tucking her in, Doctor Shani left the room, arms crossed, glaring at Victor in the hallway.

Though he felt he hadn’t done anything wrong, Victor still shifted his gaze guiltily—the wooden floor seemed blackened in places, perhaps it was time for a thorough cleaning.

Shani clicked her tongue in irritation, took a few steps forward, grabbed his hand, and led him downstairs, her tone indignant. “Don’t worry. She’s not seriously hurt; she’ll recover soon. Now come to my room—you need to be checked too.”

Victor knew his own condition was surely better than Angoulême’s, but there was no need to argue with someone who cared about him.

Seated in the room, the doctor carefully examined the witcher apprentice’s eyes, eardrums, nasal passages, tongue, and listened to his heart and lungs.

It was worth noting that in this era, stethoscopes didn’t exist—doctors listened directly with their ear pressed to the chest. Victor decided then and there to add inventing the stethoscope to his schedule; its principle wasn’t complex, just nobody had thought of it yet.

The check was quickly completed. “It seems you have no major problems. You’re much sturdier than Angoulême—be careful next time.” Shani hesitated, then finally asked, “Why must you become a witcher? As an alchemist, you could easily live a stable life.”

Victor smiled. He’d anticipated this question ever since Dandelion had raised it; Shani was bound to ask eventually, as were all who cared about him.

He shrugged and pulled a silly face. “Maybe it’s hard for others to understand, but this is my choice. Some things simply need someone to do them, don’t they?”

Having just witnessed the witchers’ signs again in the sewers, Victor saw his heart clearly—he wanted extraordinary power, like a child wants toys, a young man wants women, an adult wants everything—so simple.

Shani fell silent at his answer, staring at Victor’s face for so long he began to wonder if he’d said something wrong.

Then she leaned back in her chair, sighing softly. “I understand. Doctors suffer, too, but since I chose this, I’ll keep going. You… have made your choice as well.”

Her response made Victor suspect she had filled in the blanks or misunderstood, but he didn’t know how to explain it to her.

Perhaps people of this era mostly saw witchers as wretched and tainted. But Victor saw only advantages: a body nearly immune to disease, a long lifespan allowing him to do as he pleased, and basic supernatural powers. So he felt there was little reason to hesitate about becoming a witcher. As for infertility, it might matter to some in the Middle Ages, but as someone who had lived three lives, Victor didn’t care, and with alchemy as a safety net, he could always research ways to cultivate offspring if he changed his mind.

Most crucially, now that he had found a way to increase his mental strength through “joy,” with time, his previous boast to Angoulême of being her “invincible” support would no longer be just empty words.

But all these reasons were known only to Victor. To others, he could choose not to become a witcher—a life many despised—yet he insisted, unwaveringly. Such behavior was seen as self-sacrificing, a spirit of service worthy of respect.

Shaken by Victor’s “resolve,” Shani’s gaze toward the witcher apprentice softened. “So you’re going to the slums to find those three witchers now?”

“Yes. They helped me, and we have much to discuss.” Victor stood.

Shani handed him the cloak. “Will it be dangerous?”

“No. They just saved Angoulême and me; there’s no reason for conflict.”

“Then I’ll stay here and look after the girl. Go on, and come back soon!”

Victor nodded. “I’m heading out.”

Shani smiled. “Take care on the road.”