The Witcher: Serpent School Witcher's Otherworldly Journey

The midday sun cast thin shadows of the camp fence, and Kilyam shielded his eyes from the blinding white light by placing his gloved hand above his brow.

Thirty yards away, the last heatwave of early autumn distorted the air, making distant scenery appear as if boiling water. Seven enormous military banners hung limply in the lifeless air, as if even the wind had been killed by the heat. They were the pride of Temeria; the silver lilies against the deep blue background looked listless, like a group of court maids wilted by the sun. And in the very center, beneath the gold-edged royal banner, a makeshift palace newly built from massive spruce logs crackled slightly under the scorching sun, the oozing resin emitting a strong, pungent aroma that mingled with the sweat of the surrounding soldiers and the smell of leather preservatives, creating a unique, nauseating "scent of war."

Kiliam squinted, his amber pupils contracting to needle-like size like a cat's, as he counted the tents.

"One, two, three...that's Maripo's emblem...that's Eland's..."

Within his immediate vicinity, he saw seven different noble banners, three of which were embroidered with intricate family crests in gold thread, shimmering dazzlingly in the sunlight. This meant that more than half of Temuria's high-ranking nobles were gathered here. This was not a simple border skirmish, nor was it a purge of the Squirrel Party guerrillas.

This is war. A real war, one that could even determine the fate of the North. After all, if these nobles all die here, Temuria will be truly weakened.

Strangely, despite his keen senses, the Witcher hadn't detected any obvious signs of such a large-scale troop movement before they approached the Pontal Valley. The fact that an army of several thousand could be moved so secretly meant that the commander, the King of Temuria, not only possessed exceptional leadership skills but also had a very clear strategic objective that he didn't want outsiders to know.

"You're saying His Majesty is unwilling to see us?"

The soldier who had brought Giliam to see the king suddenly raised his voice, startling the crows in the oak tree. He stared intently at the finely dressed attendant, unable to believe what he was hearing.

The Witcher didn't speak; he simply observed as usual.

He noticed the soldier's grip on the spear. It was a standard Temerian spear, the tip gleaming, but a deep groove a third of the way down the shaft—a mark left by long hours of handling. The soldier's right index finger was gripped tightly in this groove, his knuckles white from the force. This was muscle memory, an unconscious reaction only a spearman who had experienced at least three life-or-death battles possessed. Only those who had seen blood knew that on the battlefield, a firm grip on a weapon was more effective than prayer.

The soldier had a recently healed scar on his left cheek, resembling an ugly centipede extending from his earlobe to the corner of his mouth. It twisted slightly with his astonished expression, adding a touch of ferocity and vicissitude to his otherwise youthful twenty-year-old face.

Despite his young age, he appeared to be highly experienced in combat; this was Kiriam's assessment of the soldier.

How interesting. In the end, the soldier who had just led the group didn't bring him himself, but instead found the youngest member of the team.

However, he wondered why the army here looked so elite, as he had assumed that most of Temuria's forces were engaged in defending against an attack from Nilfgaard.

As his thoughts were churning, the attendant stepped forward.

It was a strong, almost aggressive fragrance, a cloying mix of myrrh, ambergris, and some southern flower that Kiliam couldn't name. He'd smelled this perfume in the upscale brothels of Novigrad, usually used by older clients to mask their body odor. In a military camp reeking of sweat and rust, the scent seemed utterly out of place, like a silk flower stuck in a pile of dog excrement.

The man in the silver-embroidered coat had a pearl-encrusted dagger at his waist, more of an ornament than a weapon. His fingers showed no calluses from combat training; his nails were neatly trimmed and polished to an almost reflective shine. Those hands had probably never held anything more dangerous than a paper cutter in their lives.

Compared to the young soldier next to him covered in scars, the feeling of being pampered and privileged seemed to be released all at once.

The attendant covered his mouth and nose with a velvet handkerchief, glancing at the mud on Kilyam with some disdain, as if examining a lump of horse manure trampled into a carpet.

"His Majesty is about to receive the envoy from Soden; that is the real important matter." His voice came from behind the handkerchief, muffled, yet still carrying a deliberately arrogant tone.

He peeked out from behind his handkerchief and looked Kilyam up and down. His gaze slowly climbed from Kilyam's mud-caked boots to his sun-baked face, finally lingering for a second on his amber vertical pupils before looking away with disgust.

"As for you... the swamp on the east side of the camp needs to be cleared. Two water ghosts for one Oren."

When the price was mentioned, a flash of disgust crossed the squire's eyes. Although he was half a head shorter than Giliam, he tried his best to stand on tiptoe, raise his chin, and point his nostrils at the Witcher, as if he could intimidate this mutant from the bottom of society with his imposing presence.

"Two water ghosts...and one Oren?"

Kiliam repeated the price, his voice as calm as still water, but a sense of absurdity welled up inside him.

Two water ghosts and one Oren?

Kiliam hadn't received such a cheap commission in a long time. Even in Velen, that godforsaken backwater, the stingiest village chief would offer a water ghost for an oren just to protect the village's livestock. But in this royal military camp, a place brimming with military supplies and spoils of war, the price was so low that even a beggar would shake his head in disbelief.

Perhaps in the end, such work wouldn't even cover the cost of maintaining his silver sword.

If he accepts this commission, he will not only have to face the claws of the water demons, but also the wear and tear on his weapon. The blood and bodily fluids of these scavenging creatures are extremely corrosive, especially to a silver sword.

Silver, a metal deadly to monsters born from the convergence of celestial bodies, is inherently a very soft and fragile material. To ensure its combat effectiveness, modern witchers' silver swords are typically plated with a thick layer of silver over a steel core, or mixed with meteorite iron and special alchemical solvents during smelting. Even so, every strike against bone, every parry, inflicts irreversible damage on the blade.

[Unless I only use a steel sword, and then coat it with Asherkin oil or cannibalistic bio-oil made from high-purity sulfur, dog oil, and silver-containing substances...] Kiliam pondered to himself, [But that would reduce combat efficiency, and Asherkin oil is too expensive. The cost of the 'blackening powder' and 'Mandala root' required for cannibalistic bio-oil is far more than a few Orens.]

Although legend has it that during the Golden Age, before the Witcher Order's complete break with the Brotherhood of Sorcerers, the devastating power of silver weapons against monsters stemmed primarily from the ancient, magical runes engraved on the blades, rather than the inherent properties of the metal itself, it is said that Witchers of that era could kill a griffin with even a runic wooden club.

But that's a legend from hundreds of years ago. Today, most of the rune-forging techniques have been lost, and those that remain are mostly incomplete. Modern witchers can only survive by relying on simple silver-plated weapons and deadly sword oil.

Witchers can defeat a well-trained army and slay monsters that strike fear into the hearts of ordinary people, but they are not gods. They need to eat, repair their armor, buy herbs, and even save money for retirement. Without weapons and when their energy is depleted, they can be hacked to death by angry mobs wielding pitchforks or bandits on the roadside.

In this respect, they are no different from ordinary people, and may even be more economically vulnerable.

Worrying about your lifeblood, your companion, for a few Orens? That's not just cheap; that's suicide. Neither fragile silver swords nor precious alchemical materials should be wasted on cheap and readily available water ghosts.