I'm not a Witcher anymore.

1271 October.

In the northern part of the continent, there is Kaer Mohan.

The morning light slanted through the broken window frame and into the stone chamber, cutting out several cold white streaks of light on the rough and mottled walls.

Zig opened his eyes and sat up from the wooden bed.

The mattress beneath him wasn't very thick; even through a layer of coarse cloth, he could still feel the chill seeping up little by little from between the bed frame and the stone wall.

He glanced around the house where he had lived for several years.

The four walls were made of rough stones, with most of the plaster peeling off, revealing pieces of rock that had been darkened by the passage of time.

Cracks spread along the corners of the walls and windows, like riverbeds left after a river has dried up.

The air was filled with dampness, dust, and the lingering musty smell from deep within the stone fortress.

Zig took a breath, feeling a slight chill in his chest.

Even though I've been in this world for several years, there are still some dreams I can't shake off.

There were no monsters, no castles, no cold stone walls, and no lingering chill wind on the training ground in my dream.

All I saw was the phone screen, the Qidian app, and that inexplicably posted message.

Then, everything ended.

When he opened his eyes again, he was already lying in Kaer Mohen's bed.

Zig twitched the corners of his mouth, a self-deprecating smile that even he couldn't quite explain, threw off the blanket, got out of bed, and bent down to put on the thick leather boots by the bedside.

After quickly getting dressed, he pushed open the door and walked into the corridor.

The few torches that used to hang on the wall had long since gone out, leaving only a few gray embers.

The morning light slanted in through the narrow window high up, barely illuminating the long, secluded stone corridor beneath our feet.

The wind slipped through the cracks, making the old wooden window at the end of the corridor creak softly.

As he went downstairs, passing by the familiar library, Zieg's steps slowed down.

The wooden door was half-closed.

A dim shadow hung over the room.

The candles in the niche on the wall had long since burned out, leaving only a ring of solidified wax dripping from the edge of the candlestick.

In the center of the room, an old man was fast asleep in a large, high-backed leather chair.

Vesemir was still wearing that faded old leather armor.

His long, slightly disheveled gray hair hung over his shoulders, and his snow-white beard covered his chest, rising and falling gently with his breath.

That face, weathered and marked by old wounds, looked especially weary in the dim light.

The thick wool blanket that was originally covering his shoulders had somehow slipped off and was now barely resting on his knees.

On the polished desk in front of him, there were more than a dozen thick ancient books piled up.

The pages are yellowed and curled, the edges are badly worn, and some parts are even cracked, but the writing on them is still clear.

Several sheets of parchment filled with notes were tucked inside, their edges already frayed from being turned over.

The old man's breathing sounded particularly distinct in the quiet library.

Deep and slow, occasionally interspersed with one or two soft snores.

Zig stood at the door, watched quietly for a moment, and then tiptoed inside.

He avoided several loose stone slabs, trying not to make a sound under his feet, and then went to the high-backed chair, bending down to pick up the blanket that was about to slip to the ground.

Just as his fingers were about to touch the edge of the blanket—

Vesemir suddenly opened his eyes.

Those amber eyes cleared up almost instantly, without the slightest trace of the drowsiness of someone just waking up from a dream.

Only when he saw that the person in front of him was Zieg did the old man's instinctive tension in his shoulders and back slowly relax.

"Professor Vesemir," Zieg whispered, "why are you asleep in your chair again?"

He gently covered him with the blanket again.

"Sleeping like this isn't good for your health. You should go back to your room and rest in bed."

Vesemir slowly sat up straight.

A slight rustling sound came from the stiff back as it left the leather chair.

He turned his neck, and his joints made a series of soft clicking sounds.

Then, the old witcher raised his hand and rubbed his shoulder before looking at Sieg.

"It's alright, child."

The old man smiled; his voice was aged, yet still steady.

"Older people can't sleep for very long anyway. A few hours of napping in a chair is enough."

He spoke casually, but the weariness in his eyes was still evident.

"Besides," Vesemir raised his calloused and scarred hand and gently patted the ancient books on the table, "these books won't reveal the answers themselves."

Rough fingertips pressed against the paper, producing a slight rustling sound.

Zig looked at the pile of ancient books that had been flipped through in a mess, but did not respond immediately.

He knew, of course, why Vesemir had been spending so much time lately holed up in this library.

It's not for any other reason.

It was simply because he would soon be participating in the Grass Trial.

That was the second phase of the Witcher Trials.

Ordinary apprentices can only truly step into this door if they endure the extremely painful drug modification and survive the subsequent mutations.

But this door is never one that can be easily crossed.

Even at the height of the Witcher Order's power, too many apprentices died on the trial platform, never to see their mutated rebirth.

The Kayle Mohammed of today is no longer the Kayle Mohammed of yesteryear.

Many rituals are incomplete, and many recipes have long been lost. All that can be found and traced are these old papers buried by time and dust.

Vesemir has been staying here almost every night these days.

He was looking for Zieg.

He would explore any possibility, even if it only increased the success rate of the Grass Trial by half a percent, it would be worth continuing to search.

Thinking of this, Zieg felt a slight tightness in his chest.

He didn't show his emotions on his face, but looked at the old man and said again, "You should still go and rest."

Upon hearing this, Vesemir seemed to want to say something, but in the end he could only wave his hand helplessly.

"Okay, okay."

The old man leaned back in his chair, his tone carrying a hint of helplessness at being watched by a younger person, yet he couldn't hide a gentle smile.

"After breakfast, I'll go back and lie down for a while. Is that alright, little one?"

"You keep your word."

"The Witcher never breaks his word."

A hint of a smile finally appeared in Vesemir's eyes.

Zieg nodded, turned and left the library, heading to the food storage room on the castle's lower level.

Not long after, he returned to the hall with breakfast.

A large bowl of steaming hot oatmeal porridge, cooked until thick and smooth, is topped with a few dried purple berries that have already been cooked until plump.

A plate of crispy venison with vegetables, the meat juices and oil coating the root vegetables on the side, making them glisten.

There were also two cups of steaming hot tea, their slightly bitter yet warm aroma slowly wafting through the morning chill.

The two sat on either side of a long, polished wooden table in the lobby on the first floor.

The firewood crackled in the fireplace, warming the first-floor hall. Snowflakes continued to fall outside the window, their fine white petals gradually covering the stone steps and courtyard outside the castle in white.

Vesemir didn't have a good appetite, but he still ate most of the breakfast in front of him.

After the meal, Zieg cleared away the dishes, turned around again, and looked at the old man sitting by the fireplace.

"Teacher Vesemir, you must rest this morning."

His tone wasn't harsh, but rather very serious.

"I will train according to plan. I won't neglect swordsmanship, physical fitness, or alchemy review. You don't need to keep an eye on me."

Vesemir looked up at him for a moment, then slowly nodded.

He wasn't worried about that at all.

As the longest-living person in Kaer Morhen, Vesemir has mentored far too many Witcher apprentices throughout his life.

Even Geralt, who is now quite famous in the northern kingdoms and is known as the "White Wolf," caused him a lot of trouble during his apprenticeship.

As for the other apprentices, needless to say.

There are always quite a few who slack off, skip training, and try to find loopholes.

In order to drag those brats out from behind the walls, stables, and kitchen, Vesemir has broken countless vines and whips over the years.

But Ziegler is different.

This child is the most worry-free one he has ever seen in all these years.

There's no need to rush, no need to hurry, no need to follow behind with a whip in hand.

He would meticulously plan his training, review, and daily routine, sometimes even pushing himself too hard, forcing Vesemir to advise him to take a break and not ruin his body.

"Go," the old witcher finally said.

Zig responded, and after getting ready, he put on a heavy fur cloak and headed towards the outer city training ground.

……

The chilly morning wind, carrying fine snowflakes, rushed towards me.

The chill crept into my collar, instantly waking me up completely.

The training ground outside the city was spacious and simple, with a dozen or so wooden stakes for practice standing around it.

Some of the wooden stakes had been repeatedly chopped and cracked, revealing whitish wood fibers.

Several old pieces of equipment lay forlornly buried in the snow, their iron parts covered with a thin layer of frost, gleaming a cold, hard grayish-white in the morning light.

Zieg walked straight into the armory.

More than ten training swords of varying lengths and styles were neatly arranged on the shelf.

The air carried a slightly astringent smell, a mixture of metal, leather, and aged wooden frames.

He reached out and took his most frequently used steel sword.

The sword was covered with fine scratches, all traces of years of training.

The blade remains sharp, the center of gravity is stable, and the weight in the hand feels like a part of the palm.

Zig returned to the arena with his sword and first warmed up his shoulders, back, and wrists.

Then, he gripped the sword horizontally with both hands, held the longsword above his head, and slowly pressed it backward.

The weight of the steel sword fell down his arm, gradually pulling his shoulder blades apart and expanding his chest.

A few faint cracking sounds came from deep within the joints, and were blown away by the wind into the morning chill.

After warming up, he switched to a one-handed grip.

The wrist moves from slow to fast, creating a few short and neat sword flowers.

The blade sliced ​​through the cold air, producing a low, whistling sound. The vibration traveled along the blade and bounced back into his palm, only to be firmly contained by his clenched fingers.

In just a few breaths, the steel sword's center of gravity was completely settled, as if it had always been meant to be held in his hand.

Zig stepped half a step apart, lowering his center of gravity.

He held the long sword at an angle to his side.

This is the starting stance for the Witcher's swordsmanship.

He took a breath of air that was so cold it was almost piercing his lungs, and then he moved.

The sword's edge tore through the thin mist above the snow, slashing out in succession.

Chop, cut, stab, pick, flick.

The movements flowed seamlessly, with no hesitation whatsoever. Wrist rotations, waist twists, step changes, and shoulder drops—each movement was so clean it seemed to have been ingrained in the bones.

The steel sword flashed coldly in his hand time and time again, and soon a series of dull and rapid thuds echoed on the wooden stake.

The wood chips kept falling.

Some splashed into the snow, while others were lifted by the wind from the sword, tracing short arcs in the morning light.

Vesemir once commented that Sieg's current swordsmanship was no less than that of most formal Witchers.

This is not meant to comfort you.

It is already a rare thing for an apprentice who has only trained for a few years to be able to master the basic swordsmanship of the Wolf School to this extent.

But Zieg himself knew very well that this was not enough.

Far from enough.

This is the world of Witcher.

Monsters lurk in the wilderness, bandits roam the woodlands, and deadly things are buried everywhere—in caves, ruins, castles, and on mountain paths.

Without sufficient strength, let alone protecting anything, even the most basic survival is just empty talk.

Fortunately, he did not come here empty-handed.

When he first transmigrated to this world, he also brought with him the "Book of Adventure" hidden deep in his mind.

After completing the final round of basic sword stances, Zieg stopped.

He planted his steel sword in the compacted snow at his feet, letting his breathing gradually calm down.

The rise and fall of his chest gradually slowed.

My heartbeat stabilized again.

Zig closed his eyes, a thought stirring within him.

The next moment, in the boundless darkness of his mind, a thick and ancient book slowly emerged.

It hangs there quietly, its cover a deep brown, as if tanned from the leather of some ancient creature.

The surface is covered with intricate and obscure patterns, and the edges gleam with a dark, old sheen, giving the whole book an indescribable sense of antiquity.

Zig made a mental contact.

The book of adventure opens silently.

On the parchment-like homepage, the table of contents quietly appears.

Most of the writing had faded, as if the years had worn away its luster, but two lines of text remained clear, with a faint glimmer flowing between the characters.

"The Page of Essence"

"The Page of Organization"

Zig's consciousness paused on the homepage for a moment before falling to the first line.

The next moment, the pages began to turn on their own.

A rustling sound spread through the depths of consciousness, like the rapid, light flapping of wings. Pale golden light streamed from the edges of the pages, finally settling on one particular page.

That page was covered with intricate yet orderly grid lines.

Within the originally blank grid, ink is rapidly flowing and converging, eventually condensing into lines of clear text.

"property"

Power: 5

Agility: 5

Physical condition: 5

Spirit: 5

Health: 50/50

Magic Power: 50/50

Note: The standard value for each attribute of an average adult male is 5.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

"Skill"

Sword Mastery: After years of rigorous training by the Wolf School's Grand Master, you have truly mastered the essence of the Wolf School's swordsmanship. Spinning, parrying, and precise slashing have become second nature to you. Even in the midst of a chaotic battle, you can reap the lives of your enemies with highly efficient and deadly swordsmanship.

Archery proficiency: In the cold winds of the Blue Mountains, you learned how to steadily draw your longbow. Within fifty paces, you can accurately hit your prey's vitals; the muscles in your arms have long been adapted to the rhythm of prolonged tension and sudden bursts of power.

Skilled Horseman: You are now adept at riding your mount through wilderness and rugged mountain paths. Even on a bumpy horse, you can maintain your balance, control the reins with ease, and have mastered the skills to soothe a frightened horse.

Alchemy Proficiency: Kaer Morhen's cauldron and furnace have given you a thorough understanding of the Wolf School's recipes for potions, bombs, and sword oils. You've not only mastered the heat, proportions, and order required to concoct them, but you've also grasped the core principles of alchemy—that by identifying the properties of materials, you can recombine them according to their potency and reactions to create the products you need.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

After viewing the "Page of Essence," Sieg slowly opened his eyes.

My gaze returned to what was ahead.

The steel sword was still stuck in the snow, with a thin layer of white smoke still clinging to its blade from the practice session.

As his thoughts shifted away from those cold numbers and words, the page that was originally covered in grids faded away, like wisps of smoke blown away by the wind.

The book's pages turned back to the first page, stopping with a short, rustling sound.

Zieg did not hesitate.

His consciousness swept over the second entry—"The Page of Storage".

The ancient book was turned again, finally stopping on a blank page.

At first glance, the page seemed to be completely blank, with no writing on it.

However, if you stare at it intently for a long time, you will have a strange illusion—it is not a simple blank space, but a bottomless darkness, as if there is an endless space hidden behind the whole paper.

Zig's mind stirred slightly.

The next moment, the steel sword stuck in the snow trembled slightly.

A faint silvery-white light emerged from the surface of the sword and quickly spread throughout the entire blade.

Immediately, the steel sword began to disintegrate from its tip into countless tiny specks of light.

Light dust continuously peeled off the sword.

Like a slender and quiet silver stream of stars.

They left the sword, passed through the snowflakes falling in the morning, and slowly flew towards Sieg's direction, finally disappearing into his palm and into the invisible, open pages of the book.

After the last speck of light was completely absorbed, the spot where the steel sword had been was now empty.

Only a shallow mark remained in the snow.

On the blank page deep in his mind, the image of a steel sword was slowly emerging.

It is not a simple outline.

The fine lines on the sword, the wear on the blade, and the inconspicuous old marks on the edge of the guard were all reproduced with perfect accuracy, as if the steel sword had not truly disappeared, but had simply been pressed deep into the pages of the paper, hanging there quietly.

Zieg looked at the pattern, a hint of understanding flashing in his eyes.

He raised his right hand, and his mind stirred again.

The steel sword pattern on the page glowed slightly.

Countless tiny specks of light emerged from that blank space, as if brushed out of the paper by an invisible hand.

They quickly gathered in front of his palm, first forming a slender, sharp edge, followed by the complete sword blade, guard, and hilt.

In the blink of an eye, the steel sword was back in his hand.

The cool, metallic touch pressed against my palm.

The familiar weight pressed down on my wrist, and the friction of the leather-wrapped hilt was exactly the same as before.

Zieg gripped his sword.

"It's really convenient."

This ability is indeed very convenient when used for storage and retrieval.

Unfortunately, while it's convenient, there's still very little we can actually use right now.

His consciousness returned to the first page of the Book of Adventures, his gaze sweeping over the remaining entries that were not yet lit up.

They were all gray, like old monuments shrouded in mist, offering no response whatsoever.

Zig tried to touch them one by one.

No matter which page you turn to, the same line of text always appears in the center of the page:

"Hint: You need to absorb the mysterious creations of the main world to unlock more chapters."

Zig looked at the line of text, his brows furrowing slightly.

This is indeed a problem.

Kael'thas Morhen, this ancient mountain fortress, contains a considerable amount of training equipment, old weapons, and various books for witchers.

However, when it comes to "mysterious creations," there are very few things that can be presented.

Ordinary steel swords won't do.

The training equipment is inadequate.

The same applies to books and blueprints that contain knowledge.

What truly moves a book is usually something that carries magic, destiny, or something beyond the rules of the mundane.

However, such items were almost entirely lost along with the Golden Age after the decline of the Witcher Order.

Zieg pondered for a moment, then slowly exhaled a breath of white air.

"Perhaps next time Teacher Vesemir leaves Kaer Morhen, I should go with him."

The outside world is bigger.

You'll naturally encounter more things.

With that thought in mind, he stopped lingering and with a thought, the Book of Adventure in his mind disappeared.

The thick, ancient book, as if scattered by ripples on water, silently sank back into the depths of darkness.

Zieg gripped his steel sword again, about to continue his morning practice, when he suddenly heard very light footsteps behind him.

The person who came clearly took a light step.

The soles of the boots made only a faint, short thud as they stepped on the thin snow.

Sieg thought it was Vesemir, who had rested enough, coming to check on his training.

But when he turned around, he didn't see the white-haired old witcher.

It was someone else.

The man was tall and slender, with broad but not bulky shoulders and back. His Wolf School leather armor was neatly and properly arranged, and he carried two swords on his back—a steel sword and a silver sword.

He stood in the dim morning light and snow dust, his long, gray hair falling over his shoulders, standing out starkly in the still chilly air.

His face could be described as handsome, but a few faint scars across it added a touch of composure and weathering to his handsome features, a result of years of hard work.

The most striking feature was still those eyes.

Amber cat eyes.

Those are the marks left by only demon hunters who have truly survived the trials of the grass and completed their mutation.

Seeing Zieg looking over, the other man's lips twitched, revealing a gentle smile.

"It seems I've returned just in time."

As he spoke, he raised his hand in greeting, his tone carrying a relaxed smile.

"When I was your age, I wasn't as self-disciplined as you. If it weren't for Vesemir watching me with his pointer, I probably would have practiced one less time."

Zig looked at the newcomer and smiled.

"Master Geralt."

The visitor was Geralt.

More than a year had passed, and the aura he carried from the outside world seemed even stronger.

It wasn't the smell of cosmetics and alcohol, but the wind, snow, dust, leather, herbs, and the weariness that only settles after a long journey.

Geralt stretched his wrists and casually drew the steel sword from his back.

The sword made a crisp, metallic clang as it was drawn from its sheath.

"How about it?" he said. "Play a few moves with me? Let me see how much you've improved over the years."

Zieg did not refuse.

"It is my honor to have the opportunity to exchange ideas with you."

He paused, and his grip on the sword tightened.

"However, please show mercy."

Geralt chuckled and shook his head.

"You're getting better and better at talking. Vesemir usually teaches you swordsmanship, he probably doesn't have time to teach this."

As soon as he finished speaking, he slightly parted his feet, raised his longsword diagonally, and assumed a seemingly casual stance that was actually ready to pounce at any moment.

That wasn't a threat meant to be flaunted.

Rather, it is a natural posture developed through experience.

"Come on, little guy," Geralt gestured with his chin, "let me see just how much you've improved this past year."

……

An hour later.

The snow on the training field was already a complete mess.

Everywhere were crisscrossing footprints, drag marks, and sword marks of varying lengths; in some places, the ground had been repeatedly trampled, exposing the blackened permafrost beneath.

Several wooden stakes also suffered damage, with many new cuts of varying depths appearing on their surfaces. Wood chips were scattered in the snow, like light-colored bone fragments torn apart by the wind.

Zig slowly lowered the tip of his sword, his chest heaving slightly, and a layer of fine sweat covering his forehead.

Geralt, on the other hand, had it much easier.

He flicked his wrist, smoothly sheathing the steel sword without any unnecessary movement.

"You've made very rapid progress, Zieg."

Geralt looked at him, his tone serious.

"Your footwork is steady, and your sword strikes are decisive. You've gone beyond just practicing swordsmanship; you're beginning to know when to advance, when to retreat, and when to save your power for the next move."

He paused, then added:

"In terms of swordsmanship alone, you are now on par with some formal Witcher."

This is not a consolation, nor is it a casual compliment from an elder.

Sieg could tell that Geralt was telling the truth.

But Geralt's tone gradually turned somber.

He walked to the edge of the training ground and sat down on a stone platform covered with a thin layer of snow. His gaze went beyond the broken walls of the ancient castle and towards the distant, undulating snow-capped mountains and forests.

"However, you should also understand one thing."

The wind swept down from above, ruffling the white hair on his forehead.

"The outside world is far more dangerous than what you see in Kyle Mohammad."

"Bandits, soldiers, monsters, sorcerers, nobles, lords, mercenaries... often, the truly deadly things don't just pounce on you."

"It might be dressed in human skin and silk, or it might be sitting behind a table, smiling as it negotiates with you."

Zieg didn't interrupt, he just listened quietly.

Geralt continued:

"Swordsmanship alone is not enough."

"You need to know how to use hand seals and alchemy. You need to learn when to take medicine, when to go around, when to retreat, and when to pretend you didn't see anything."

Geralt looked at the snow line in the distance and lowered his voice.

"The Witcher survives to the end not just because of the sword in his hand."

"More importantly, you need to know when to take action and when to stay away from trouble."

Zieg looked at him but didn't rush to respond.

Geralt's gaze, however, gradually drifted into the distance.

A hint of weariness flickered in those amber eyes, as if they had suddenly seen something else through the snow.

It wasn't Kaer Morhen, nor the training grounds, nor the ancient castle before us that still bore the marks of the old era.

Rather, it was the wider, dirtier world below the mountain.

There was war, corpses, shrewd deals between the powerful, and things that had been crushed and could never be picked up again.

Zieg vaguely sensed the heaviness in the air, but did not ask any further questions.

A moment later, Geralt seemed to have broken free from those memories.

He took a breath of cold air, bringing his thoughts back to the present, and the somber expression on his face faded slightly.

"It's nothing."

He waved his hand, his tone softening again.

"It just reminded me of some unpleasant old stories."

After saying that, he stood up and patted Zieg on the shoulder.

That hand was rough and sturdy, bearing calluses and the strength left from years of wielding a sword.

"That's enough for today's practice."

"Taking a break now and then isn't a bad thing. With your usual energy, even if Vesemir saw it, he probably wouldn't bother to say anything to you."

As Geralt spoke, a rare hint of relaxation appeared in his eyes.

"Walk."

"I brought you something when I came back this time."

He didn't keep us in suspense for long; he simply raised a slight smile at the corner of his mouth.

"You'll like it."

After saying that, he patted Sieg on the shoulder, turned and walked towards the castle. Sieg followed him.

……

By the time night truly enveloped Kaer Mohen, the ancient mountain fortress had completely sunk into deep darkness.

Only the lobby remained lit.

Dozens of candles burned quietly on iron candlesticks, their flames flickering slightly as a cold breeze occasionally slipped through the cracks in the door, casting restless shadows on the ancient stone wall.

The firewood in the fireplace was burning brightly, the orange flames licking the blackened wood and crackling, dispelling much of the chill that had accumulated in the stone hall all day.

A heavy oak table sits in the center of the hall.

On the table was a dinner that could be considered quite lavish, though it was a rare treat.

Sieg really put some thought into celebrating Geralt's return today.

The large plate of smoked wild boar slices was pan-fried to perfection, with a slightly charred surface and the fat rendered out by the fire, giving it a dark brown sheen.

A clay pot is simmering with rabbit soup. Carrots, onions, and herbs are cooked until soft and tender. When the lid is lifted, a rich aroma of meat, thyme, and rosemary wafts out.

There was also a basket of freshly baked rye bread next to it.

With its dark color and hard crust, it naturally couldn't compare to the finely sifted white bread in the city, but in this ancient castle far from towns and markets, it was already a precious thing.

When the bread is broken open, it is still warm inside, and the rough and rich aroma of wheat, mixed with the smell of wood smoke from the fireplace, slowly spreads in the air.

In the center of the table was a large jug of light ale flavored with honey.

The wine swirled gently in the three ceramic cups, its surface glowing a warm golden color when illuminated by the candlelight.

The three sat around the table.

As Geralt drank, he recounted his experiences from the past year or so down in the mountains. He didn't talk much, nor did he try to show off, but every story he told carried the scent of wind, snow, dust, blood, and distant towns.

Vesemir listened quietly, occasionally interjecting a word or two;

Zieger mostly remained silent, listening attentively and memorizing the scattered but important information.

The atmosphere at the dinner was quite warm.

But beneath that warmth, there was always an inexplicable sense of melancholy.

When the last bit of ale in his glass was gone and most of the food on the table had been eaten, Sieg got up to clear the dishes and prepare to take them to the kitchen to wash. But he had just stacked the dishes together when Geralt called out to him.

"Wait, Zieg."

Zig stopped what he was doing and turned to look.

Geralt had already bent down and taken a small cloth bag from the leather backpack beside him, placing it on the table.

The creature was wrapped in several layers of thick linen and carefully tied with thin rope, clearly indicating that its owner had taken great care of it during the journey.

"Take a look at this first."

Geralt gestured with his chin, indicating that he should open it.

"I brought this for you."

Upon hearing this, Zig put the bowls and plates back on the table, walked to the long table, and reached out to untie the knot on the cloth bag.

Layers of linen were slowly unfolded.

What was finally revealed was a green chalcedony amulet.

The amulet was only the size of a thumb, but its color was excellent, a clear and warm apple green.

The surface is finely polished, the cut is rounded, and there is not a single rough spot on the edge.

Even more strangely, if you look closely, there seems to be a very faint ray of light slowly flowing deep inside the gemstone, like a drop of spring water sealed inside, quietly reflecting the firelight.

And just as Zieg's finger touched it—

Deep in my mind, that long-dormant book of adventure resurfaced.

The book's pages are turned.

The golden lettering burned onto the paper like flames, so bright it was almost blinding.

"Hint: A mysterious artifact has been discovered. Absorbing it will unlock more chapters. Absorb it now?"

Zig's heart skipped a beat.

But his expression didn't lose control; his gaze merely paused briefly on the amulet before he spoke in a low voice:

"This thing... doesn't look like an ordinary amulet."

"this?"

Geralt glanced at it, his tone quite casual.

"A gift from a friend."

After he finished speaking, he picked up his glass and slowly drank the remaining wine, as if he were talking about a trivial matter that was not worth mentioning.

"I don't need it anymore. You keep it; it might actually save you some trouble."

"Don't overthink it, just accept it."

Zig held the amulet, his fingertips able to clearly feel its warm and delicate texture.

But his heart was far from as calm as it appeared.

Because he recognized it.

If he remembered correctly, this chalcedony amulet was the magical item that Fringilla Vigo had given to Geralt.

That sorceress from the Toussaint court was not only exceptionally beautiful, but also possessed remarkable skills and cunning.

She put a lot of effort into making this amulet, and it wasn't just to please anyone.

In the original story, as far as he knew, this thing actually came in very handy later on.

It could even be said that it saved Geralt's life at the most critical moment.

This very item was now casually placed in front of Geralt.

Zig looked at the warm, green color in his palm, and his throat tightened slightly.

He didn't let his surging emotions show on his face; he simply put the amulet away steadily and spoke earnestly:

"Thank you, Geralt."

"I will keep it safe."

Geralt waved his hand.

"There's nothing to thank me for."

After speaking, he stood up and stretched his shoulders, back, and arms, which were a little stiff from sitting for so long.

"Alright, it's getting late. Take your things back and look at them at your leisure. Vesemir and I have some things to discuss."

He paused, then added:

"You've been practicing all day, it's time for you to rest."

Zig could tell that there was an intention to get rid of him in those words.

He didn't ask any more questions, just nodded, wrapped the amulet back in the linen, and put it in his hand.

"Then I'll go back to my room first."

"Goodnight, Geralt, Professor Vesemir."

Gerald nodded.

Goodnight, child.

Vesemir looked at him and responded gently.

Zieg turned and left the hall.

The sound of boots clattering on the stone floor gradually faded into the dim corridor until it disappeared completely.

The hall fell silent again.

The firewood in the fireplace was still burning, and the flames reflected on the faces of the two witchers, flickering and casting shimmering light on their subtle expressions.

After a long silence, Vesemir finally spoke:

"We deliberately sent that child away—"

The old man looked up at Geralt.

"Is there something you want to talk to me about in private?"

Geralt did not answer immediately.

He stood before the fireplace, silently watching the flames lick the charred wood, his amber cat-like eyes appearing exceptionally deep in the firelight.

After a moment, he took a deep breath, and his voice became calm.

"Yes."

"Vesemir, I need your help."

……

Clutching the chalcedony amulet, Sieg strode through the dimly lit corridor and returned to his room on the upper level of the castle.

He closed the heavy wooden door, and only after confirming that there were no footsteps following outside did he bolt it.

There was only one candle lit in the room.

The faint firelight illuminated a small area around the edge of the desk, while the rest remained shrouded in darkness.

Zig walked to the table and sat down, gently placing the amulet wrapped in linen on the table. He then unwrapped the amulet and held it in his palm again.

The apple green color appeared even more warm and inviting under the candlelight.

The faint, flowing light deep within the gemstone wasn't dazzling, but it exuded an unusual sense of mystery.

At the same time, a faint yet distinct warmth slowly seeped out from my palm, as if a quiet vitality was hidden within it.

The void trembled slightly.

That thick, ancient book of adventure solidified once again in the depths of my consciousness.

The pages of the book turned on their own.

Lines of golden text slowly emerged, as if engraved stroke by stroke on a blank page by an invisible pen, with a faint light flowing around the edges.

"Hint: A mysterious artifact has been discovered. Absorbing it will unlock more chapters. Absorb it now?"

Zieg held his breath and gave a silent but firm permission deep in his mind.

The thick, ancient book of adventure deep in my mind suddenly jolted.

The light emanating from between the pages was no longer the pale golden glow of before, but a softer, purer milky white radiance.

It spread silently, like a warm tide washing over the depths of consciousness, illuminating the entire darkness.

At the same time, the amulet in Zig's palm trembled slightly.

A wisp of extremely fine emerald green light slowly emerged from the depths of the chalcedony.

The light wasn't dazzling; rather, it was like some kind of spirituality that had been compressed deep within the gemstone, finally being drawn out.

It wandered along the edge of the amulet for a moment, then, as if drawn by an irresistible force, it plunged straight into Zig's palm, flowing down his arm and into his mind.

Then came the second strand.

The third strand.

More and more emerald light streams emanated from the chalcedony, intertwining and weaving together, as fine as spring streams, yet possessing an indescribable vitality and resilience. They continuously detached from the gemstone itself, flowing into the adventure book that quietly floated in the darkness.

Zig could clearly feel something being drawn away from the amulet, bit by bit.

It's not the material.

It is not a physical form either.

Rather, it is something deeper, the core that truly distinguishes it from ordinary things.

The amulet in his palm began to heat up slightly.

But the warmth didn't last long.

As the emerald luster was continuously extracted, the faint spirituality that was originally hidden deep within the gemstone also rapidly weakened.

That clear and bright apple green gradually lost its luster, becoming dull and quiet, no longer possessing the strange texture that seemed to have a faint light flowing inside.

The whole process lasted about a minute.

As the last ray of emerald light completely disappeared into the pages of the book, the milky white radiance in my mind slowly receded and sank back into the gaps between the pages of that heavy book.

The amulet stopped vibrating.

It lay quietly in Zig's palm.

Zig lowered his head and took a closer look at it.

From the outside, this green chalcedony amulet looks almost unchanged.

It remains warm and smooth, still exquisite, still a beautiful gemstone that has been carefully polished.

If one hadn't witnessed it with their own eyes just now, no one else would have noticed any difference between it and the previous one.

But Zieg knew things were different now.

The gentle power that was originally hidden within has been completely extinguished.

All that remains now is a beautifully crafted piece of green chalcedony jewelry made of superior materials.

Beautiful, but devoid of spirit.

Zieg focused his mind again.

The Book of Adventure was suspended in that boundless darkness, its heavy cover and spine trembling slightly, as if it had just swallowed some long-awaited nourishment, causing his own heartbeat to quicken a little.

A line of golden text suddenly appeared.

"The Lost Chapter Has Been Awakened: The Pages of All Realms"

Above the homepage directory, amidst the previously dark and silent text, a line of text was suddenly illuminated again.

The text didn't simply light up.

It's more like something that was sleeping deep within the pages of a book has been awakened.

The faint light seeped slowly through the yellowed parchment, making the words exceptionally clear.

Pages of All Realms

Zig's consciousness fell on that line of text.

The ancient books then turned on their own.

The pages rustled rapidly in the darkness, like countless birds flapping their wings at the same time.

Tiny golden rays flickered and danced between the pages, finally settling on the newly opened chapter.

On the left-hand page, the first thing that catches the eye is an illustration that takes up most of the page.

But the scene was so realistic that it almost didn't look like a painting anymore.

It's more like a real fragment that was sealed directly into the pages of a book.

The image shows a village on fire.

Flames erupted from the roof, doors, windows, and gaps in the wooden beams, their color not uniform but a mixture of orange-red, deep red, and black smoke, swirling upwards in layers.

The entire village was twisted in the fire, like iron deformed by the high temperature.

Many corpses lay scattered haphazardly in the streets.

Some were clutching their throats, their blood already drained away;

Some had crude arrows stuck in their chests, clearly having struggled before they died;

There was also a female corpse curled up, her arms tightly protecting the child in her arms, but both of them were already dead.

The blood, soaking into the mud, was reflected in the firelight as a filthy, sticky, dark red.

But it wasn't humans who created all of this.

It's a goblin.

Those short, ugly, filthy green-skinned monsters were moving quickly and erratically among the ruins and corpses.

They have short, thick limbs, hunched backs, and mouths that are wide open, almost splitting to their ears.

Its dark green skin, covered in grime, old wounds, and unsightly scars, looked particularly menacing in the firelight.

The weapons they carried were also ridiculously haphazard.

Sharpened wooden sticks, short clubs wrapped with stones, rusty broken knives, farm tools snatched from villagers or guards... Yet this very group of things leaped, screamed, and searched for survivors amidst the flames and pools of blood, emitting bursts of sharp, piercing, and almost manic laughter.

Further away, even more tiny green shadows are hidden at the edge of the forest and in the shadows where the firelight cannot reach.

The scene is clearly still, yet it still makes you feel that everything within it is continuing.

The flames seemed to still be burning, the roof beams seemed to still be cracking, and the smells of blood, burnt food, and smoke seemed to be about to burst out of the pages. The monsters' shrill howls and snickers also seemed to still echo behind the flames.

Zieg stared silently at that page.

A moment later, his gaze shifted to the right.

Within the blank grid, ink is rapidly emerging, like countless tiny streams meandering and converging on the paper, eventually transforming into several neat and clear lines of text:

"New Player Quest: First Entry into an Unlocked Dungeon World"

"The dungeon world 'Goblin Slayer' has been unlocked. Enter now?"

"Note: Time will stop in the main world after entering the instance world; it will return to normal upon returning to the main world."

"It's this world..."

Zieg spoke in a low voice, his gaze still fixed on the gruesome illustration.

Goblin Slayer.

Of course he knows this place.

In other worlds, goblins might just be the cheapest trash.

But here, it's different.

Cunning, cruel, gregarious, and reproduces rapidly.

What's worse is that they never care about manners or rules.

If one underestimates the danger, death is almost inevitable.

But precisely because of this, this is the trial that Sieg needs most right now.

During his years in Kaer Morhen, he had mastered almost every swordsmanship, alchemy, and training method the Wolf School could teach to mortals.

But the more this was the case, the clearer he became about one thing—the path of the Witcher ultimately had its limits.

Even someone like Geralt can get hurt, bleed, and be driven to the brink of death;

Even those seemingly high and mighty sorcerers can be dragged down into the mud at certain times.

But he knew exactly what would happen next.

Within two years at most, Kayle Mohammed will no longer be safe.

If he didn't want to turn into ice shards in the future frost, and didn't want to see Vesemir die at the hands of the Wild Hunt, this book of adventures was the only opportunity he could grasp at the moment.

Zig slowly exhaled.

That breath was very long.

The lingering warmth in the room, combined with the chill of the mountain night, filled his lungs, gradually calming his violently beating heart.

Once his breathing had stabilized, his gaze also became completely fixed.

Now that we've seen the way, there's no reason to keep standing still.

After making the decision, Zieg immediately began preparations.

He got up from the table, walked to the wardrobe, and opened the slightly heavy wooden door.

Inside hung a set of Wolf School standard leather armor.

The dark brown tanned leather was layered on top of each other, with the thickest layer pressed down on the chest and abdomen. Inside, there was a layer of light chainmail to protect against close-range punctures and tears.

The shoulder and elbow pads are inlaid with fine metal rivets, the edges of which have been darkened by time and wear, but they are still firmly in place.

This leather armor isn't exactly new.

In some places, you can still see traces of delicate repairs.

But precisely because of this, it is more like a real life-saving item than a decoration to be hung on the wall for people to admire.

Zig put on the leather armor.

The leather made a low, short rustling sound as it rubbed against the body, and the straps were tightened one by one and fastened in sequence.

Once the last buckle is secured, that steady and familiar weight falls back onto the shoulders, back, chest, and abdomen, like a shell that has finally been tightly fastened.

Then, he bent down and opened the wooden box under the bed.

The first thing taken out was the steel sword.

Next came two short swords and a small round shield.

These are the things he uses most often in his daily training and when facing enemies; none of them are fancy or superfluous.

Zieg gently clenched his fingers, and with a slight thought, several weapons instantly turned into fine dust in his palm, silently disappearing into the pages of the Book of Adventure.

Then he took out the hardwood war bow.

The bow arm has clean lines, and the grip has long been polished to a shine by the palms.

It accompanied Zig in practicing in the cold winds of the Blue Mountains for so long that every time he pulled the string, every time he aimed, every time he released his finger, his body had become so familiar with it that he didn't need to think about it anymore.

He trusted this bow more than the cumbersome, slow-loading crossbow.

At least, when danger is truly imminent, it will respond to his hand faster than many complex mechanisms.

Zig then picked up the quiver full of arrows.

The arrowheads gleamed with a thin, cold light in the candlelight, and were tucked away into the depths of the book's pages.

After the weapons were put away, he stood in the center of the room and looked around again.

The bed, table, cabinet, candle, and the wooden frame by the window covered in a thin layer of dust.

Nothing was missed.

But just as his gaze swept over his side, Zieg paused slightly.

The leather clips that were usually used to hang medicine were now empty.

My fingertips unconsciously brushed over it; the leather was rough and dry, hanging loosely at my waist.

That sense of emptiness alerted Sieg almost instantly—a Witcher without alchemy potions is, in the end, just a mortal wearing leather armor and carrying a weapon.

Thinking of this, he immediately turned around and went out.

The dimly lit stone steps led downwards.

The entire castle was shrouded in night, the corridors were empty and silent, and only his own footsteps echoed softly between the stone walls and the vaulted ceiling.

Vesemir and Geralt had obviously gone back to rest, and even in the hall, only the faint red light cast by the embers of the fireplace remained.

Zig went straight to the alchemy laboratory on the first basement floor.

The moment the heavy wooden door was pushed open, a complex aroma of herbs, minerals, alcohol, and various alchemical reagents wafted out.

The smell wasn't pleasant, even a bit pungent, yet it was so familiar it brought a sense of peace.

He lit a candle.

The candlelight flickered and lit up a corner of the room.

The shelves along the wall were filled with all sorts of bottles and jars:

Glass bottles filled with different colored liquids, ceramic jars containing powder, sealed rare materials, and prescription sheets pressed in a corner, their edges curled and yellowed.

The worktable was scattered with a distillation apparatus, mortar and pestle, measuring cup, tongs, crucible and empty medicine bottles, as if someone had just been working here all night a few days ago.

By candlelight, Zieg found out his most frequently used equipment.

Distillation apparatus, mortar and pestle, precision measuring instruments, empty medicine bottles, small crucibles...

These things may seem unremarkable on their own, but for a witcher who needs to move between wilderness and ruins, their value is no less than that of a sharp weapon.

Often, if you can concoct potions, sword oil, and bombs, you can survive; if you can't, you might be the one who dies in the next battle.

Zieg was about to put these tools back into the book when his gaze suddenly fell on the innermost part of the worktable.

There was a small goatskin bag pressed down there.

It was buried under several rolls of old parchment, and would have been almost unnoticed if I hadn't come specifically to retrieve the alchemy equipment.

Zig reached out and picked it up, untied the straps, and poured the contents into his palm.

Several cold, dazzling lights immediately shone under the candlelight.

Two diamonds.

A ruby.

There is also a piece of agate with a beautiful color.

Zieg was slightly taken aback.

He recognized the origin of these things at a glance.

This is the money that Geralt's Aunt Tonnick gave to Yennefer in the original story, and it was the reward he received for risking his life to lift the curse of the vampire bird.

"How did I get here...?"

Zieg muttered to himself, the jewel in his palm flickering in the candlelight.

The next moment, he came up with the most reasonable explanation.

Nannick secretly kept the gemstone.

In her view, Yennefer had never lacked money for abortions and infertility treatments for wealthy women;

The one who truly needs to keep money close at hand is the Witcher, who is always roaming between the wilderness and monsters.

After Geralt discovered this, he most likely guessed who was behind it.

He never spoke of this kind of affection, so he simply put the item in a corner of the laboratory and left it there quietly.

Zig hesitated for only a moment before closing his five fingers.

He put the gem back into the parchment pouch and then placed it in the archive of his book of adventures.

"Since this bag of gems was left here..."

He let out a soft breath.

"Then I'll take it as a gift from fate."

This is not just about money.

It is also a sentiment.

A sentiment that was silently left in a corner, yet truly existed.

Zieg added the remaining alchemy equipment to the book before turning and leaving the laboratory.

The corridor remained dark and gloomy.

Moonlight streamed in through the narrow, high window, casting intermittent, pale white patches of light on the stone floor.

The entire Kaer Mohen was as silent as a stone mound half-buried in the snow-capped mountains at night, with only the wind occasionally passing through the broken window cracks, bringing a very faint whistling sound.

Zig avoided the familiar scents and returned to his room.

After bolting the door, he sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed.

His breathing gradually slowed down.

Consciousness sank back into my mind.

The Book of Adventures opens, stopping at the 'Page of All Realms'.

The painting of the village, soaked in flames, smoke, and blood, still lay quietly on the paper, so real that it seemed as if the heat and the smell of burning flesh were just a step away from hitting his face.

The text on the right is still hanging there:

"The dungeon world 'Goblin Slayer' has been unlocked. Enter now?"

Zieg's gaze lingered on that line of text.

Without hesitation.

They did not back down.

His will settled firmly in the center of that burning painting.

Just as he made his choice—

Everything around them suddenly collapsed.

The room wasn't actually broken.

Rather, the originally clear boundary between reality and consciousness was suddenly torn apart by some higher-level force.

Zig suddenly felt a bright light appear before his eyes.

That was no ordinary light, but thousands upon thousands of streams of light suddenly exploded, blindingly white and chaotic to the point of violence.

Although her body was still sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bed, the space around her had been distorted and stretched, turning into countless fleeting shadows that were rapidly receding backward.

Walls, desk, window, candlelight...

Everything familiar has lost its original shape, like a thin cloth stretched out, or a reflection caught in a rushing torrent.

Immediately afterwards, a blinding white light completely engulfed everything.

Zig felt his body being forcibly dragged by some irresistible force, passing through layer after layer of invisible spatial folds.

The wind howled sharply in my ears, like countless blades simultaneously grazing my eardrums.

Time itself became blurred at that moment.

It felt like only a fleeting moment had passed.

It was also like a journey so long that one could forget where they originally were.

Then, everything came to an abrupt end.

The pulling force suddenly disappeared.

The howling wind subsided.

Zig's feet touched solid ground again. His body swayed slightly due to inertia, but he quickly regained his balance.

Before he could even open his eyes, a flood of unfamiliar yet vivid senses rushed over him.

The first thing that hits you is the smell.

The aroma of freshly baked bread, the smoky fragrance of charred meat oozing from the charcoal fire, the pungent smell of horse manure, the sour odor of leather soaked in sweat, and the pungent smoky smell of unburnt charcoal all rushed into my nostrils.

Then came the sound.

The shouts of vendors, the heated arguments during bargaining, the rumbling of horse-drawn cartwheels rolling over stone slabs, and the continuous hammering from the blacksmith's shop further away all mingled together, pressing in from all directions.

Zieg slowly opened his eyes.

What comes into view is a town square that is bustling with activity.