The Witcher: Serpent School Witcher's Otherworldly Journey

"The white wolf you mentioned," Kilyam suddenly spoke, his voice low but silencing everyone present, "I've heard of the removal of Princess Yada's curse. The curse of the vampire bird causes the caster's blood to coexist with the cursed. Removing such a curse isn't something an ordinary witcher can do."

He glanced at the attendant. He knew this kind of person all too well; like all the minor nobles of the North, he probably hadn't read as many books as he'd killed water ghosts. As long as the story was scary enough, and he hinted that the "white wolf" was one of his kind, this man's knees would be much weaker than his mouth.

"Do you know how he lifted it?"

The attendant was somewhat bewildered by this sudden question. "This...this is naturally because that master possesses extraordinary magical power..."

“Mana?” Giliam let out a short, cold laugh. “Witchers aren’t sorcerers. We don’t have any magic. All we have are bodies, two swords, and a very unfriendly attitude towards death.”

He turned slightly to the side, as if recalling a distant past event, but in reality, he was rapidly crafting his words in his mind. He had only heard a few versions of the story about Princess Yada in the tavern, and each version was different. Some said that the white wolf broke the curse with a magic sign, some said it was with a rare herb, and a drunken dwarf swore that the white wolf lulled the vampire bird to sleep by singing.

The truth is not important. What is important is that even the court officials probably only have a superficial understanding of these palace secrets.

"A vampire bird," Kiliam's voice deepened, taking on a deliberately sinister quality, "Do you know what that is? Not the beautiful, winged monsters your court poets describe. It's a mass of nearly eight hundred pounds of muscle and bone, covered in a keratinous carapace that even crossbow bolts can't pierce, and its claws are this long..."

He stretched out his hand, thumb and forefinger spread apart, indicating a clearly exaggerated size.

"...It can tear through a full suit of plate armor like parchment. What's even more terrifying is its speed, faster than a charging warhorse, and completely silent. You stand still, and before you can even hear the wind, your head is no longer on your neck. The claw marks it left in the cellars of Vizima Castle are still there, and the entire granite block was gouged out three inches deep."

The attendant's Adam's apple bobbed, and he gripped his handkerchief tighter. Several soldiers passing by also stopped and pricked up their ears to listen.

The story about the granite being dug three inches deep was obviously made up, but these people wouldn't go to the cellars of Vigemar Castle to verify it.

"After the white wolf entered the castle," he continued, his tone growing increasingly flat, creating a chilling contrast with the horror of the story, "he was all alone. No helpers, no backup, not even his silver sword."

"You...you didn't bring a sword?" The attendant's voice lowered unconsciously, as if afraid that the vampire bird would jump out of the story.

"No." Giliam shook his head slightly, his expression as solemn as a tombstone. "Because he couldn't kill it. If he killed the vampire bird, the princess would die too; the curse binds them together. So he chose a method that no witcher would choose."

He paused to make sure everyone was listening.

"He locked himself in the vampire bird's nest and stood beside the stone coffin all night. He had no weapons, no armor, only a few vials of potions that could barely withstand the severe injuries. Every fifteen minutes, the creature would pounce on him, its eight hundred pounds of weight slamming into him, its claws slashing from his shoulders down to his waist. He endured it without fighting back, because fighting back would mean killing the princess."

"All night long."

Kiliam held up one finger.

"From sunset to the third rooster crow. Do you know how long that is? About eight hours. For eight hours, he was repeatedly torn apart by an eight-hundred-pound monster, like a bone being gnawed on by wild dogs, and all he did was stand still."

Of course, he didn't know the full story. Perhaps the White Wolf had actually hidden, perhaps he had used a sign for protection, or perhaps the whole thing hadn't been as horrific as it seemed. But what Giliam needed wasn't the truth, but the effect. He needed to make this squire understand one thing: Witchers weren't ordinary mercenaries; you couldn't hire them for a pittance.

"The next morning, when the king's guards opened the castle gates," Kilyam's voice dropped to almost a whisper, "they found the white wolf leaning against the wall, his flesh almost ripped off. Six ribs were broken, and the bone in his left arm pierced his skin at the elbow. It took the accompanying sorcerer three days and three nights of magic to pull him back from the brink of death. It is said that the sorcerer said something afterwards."

He looked into the eyes of the attendant.

She said, "This man should have died. He didn't die, not because he was strong enough, but because he was so stubborn that even Death couldn't get to him."

Of course, he made that up too. But he found that he had done a pretty good job, as if some guy named Henry had given him a lot of inspiration.

The attendant's mouth was agape, and he forgot to close it. The soldiers eavesdropping behind him were also shocked, and one of the older ones subconsciously made a gesture to ward off evil spirits in front of his chest.

"That was a true witcher." Giliam calmed his voice, as if he had just finished telling a bedtime story. "He almost lost his life to save a princess. And you just now humiliated his fellow witch by offering half an Oren and a water ghost."

His voice didn't rise, but every word was like a nail, hammering into the attendant's ears.

"If he heard what you said here, I'm not sure what he would do. The White Wolf..." He paused deliberately, a meaningful expression on his face, "How should I put it, he's not as easy to talk to as I am. He has less patience for humans than for monsters. I heard that the last nobleman who angered him was blown off the city wall by his 'magic,' breaking both his legs and a spine. Of course, that's just a rumor."

"But there's one thing I'm sure of," he added at the end.

"He definitely won't kill those water ghosts for you."

Silence fell like a boulder among everyone.

The soldier's eyes were slightly red, whether from the bright sunlight or something else, it was hard to tell. The attendant's lips trembled a few times, and his borrowed arrogance finally showed a visible crack.

"You...you dare disobey His Majesty's orders?" He made a final struggle, his voice already noticeably weaker. "These are the orders of His Majesty Foltest, King of Temuria and Soden, Ruler of Pontal and Mahakam!"

“It wasn’t His Majesty’s order,” Kiriam corrected him. “It was your order. You’re just hiding behind His Majesty’s name like a mouse in the shadow of a lion.”

He shook his head, turned and left.

Giliam had only taken half a step when he turned back, deliberately letting his mutated pupils contract in the shadows. "Or is it that the Temurian treasury is so empty that it has to cut back on soldiers' pay, to the point that it can't even pay the farmers' wages?"

The attendant's face instantly turned a deep purplish-red, the emerald inlaid in his belt swaying with each heavy breath. "Mutant, watch your words!" His shrill voice startled the raven atop the flagpole. "If it weren't for His Majesty's orders, you bastards would be on the gallows right now..."

"How dare you disobey His Majesty's command? This is the command of His Majesty Foltest, King of Temuria and Soden, Ruler of Pontal and Mahakan!"

The attendant, like a monkey with its tail held high, arrogantly tried to intimidate Kiliam with his long list of prestigious titles. He didn't want to give the witcher any chance to refuse; otherwise, if this trivial matter disturbed the king's bad mood, or if trouble arose because the water source wasn't properly cleaned, he might lose his position.

Thinking of this, he immediately turned his head and cast a fierce look at the soldier next to him, signaling with his eyes for the other to speak up for him.

"Uh... well..." The soldier was caught in the middle, looking completely flustered. He glanced at his officer, whose face was flushed, then at the expressionless witcher, and finally could only bite the bullet and say, "I think... obeying His Majesty's orders is the right thing to do, sir."

He gripped his spear tighter, staring intently at the Witcher, but this was more of a professional instinct than hostility. Now that there were no extra rewards, he had to keep his paid job.

Soldiers who had just seemed to be on his side immediately turned against him—such things were commonplace in Kiliam's long life of wandering. Everyone compromised for survival, and the Witcher didn't blame him. In this world, loyalty was a luxury; most people couldn't even afford dinner, let alone loyalty.

He glanced around. Squads of Temerian infantry, clad in fine plate armor, patrolled past him, their steel armor creaking and scraping with each step. In the distance, a massive siege tower, covered in iron plating, was under construction, the hammers clanging loudly. The atmosphere of war was thick with tension. Kilyam had no doubt that if he dared to draw his sword, even by an inch, these soldiers would swarm him like disturbed bees and hack him to pieces.

"Alright, but isn't two water ghosts for one oren too cheap? Your Majesty may not understand how hard this job is. Even the poorest farmers in Velen are willing to pay at least three orens for one water ghost to ensure their safety while working in the summer."

"Could it be... that you think His Majesty doesn't understand the people's livelihood? And didn't you just say that the farmers were offering two orens per animal?" The attendant frowned.

"That was during the normal season. I just believed that His Majesty would be willing to protect the lives of his soldiers, just as farmers would protect their crops in the summer."

"What do you mean by that?"

"The meaning is simple." Giliam stroked his chin. "The white wolf I mentioned earlier is in this camp right now, isn't he? The master witcher by His Majesty's side. If I accept this commission, I'll report to him after it's done, and casually mention the price..."

He deliberately dragged out his words.

"What do you think he'll think? The price of one and a half Oren and one water ghost, set in the king's palace. Will he believe it's His Majesty's will, or that some attendant pulled some strings?"

The attendant's face changed. Not flushed, but turned pale.

“Given his temperament,” Kiliam continued hammering at the nail, “he’ll probably go directly to His Majesty to verify. That’s how witchers are; we don’t know much about court etiquette, and we prefer to say things face-to-face. What if His Majesty finds out someone is using his name to embezzle commission funds…”

He didn't finish his sentence, but what he left unsaid carried more weight than what he actually said.

The attendant's eyelids twitched. He suddenly realized that this mud-covered mutant had dug a pit for him, and he was already standing on the edge of it.

If the witcher actually goes to the white wolf, and the white wolf actually goes to the king, then the nature of the matter changes completely. This is no longer a bargaining between a sergeant and a witcher, but someone embezzling military funds right under the king's nose.

Foltest may have had a chaotic private life and wasn't exactly courteous to nobles, but he was undeniably beloved by his soldiers. While he couldn't live and eat with them, he was at least fair in his rewards and punishments and never mistreated them. To create such a scandal on the eve of war—forget his position as a sergeant, his very life would be in question.

And the king is still furious! This damned castle! Why isn't that old bastard La Valéry dead yet!

Adding insult to injury to Foltest at this critical juncture is simply asking for trouble.

"Moreover," Kiliam added slowly, "I'm sure the soldiers in the camp are also curious about the price this lord pays for protecting their water supply. After all, they draw water from that river every day. If the water ghost problem isn't handled properly, diarrhea is a minor issue compared to a plague. When word gets out, the soldiers will probably be very interested... in personally verifying it with His Majesty."

This was said to the soldiers around him who were listening intently. Sure enough, several passing infantrymen exchanged a knowing glance. They, too, were of peasant origin, and they remembered the money their village had contributed when they pooled their resources to exterminate the water ghosts. Their village chief had quoted ten orens per ghost, a far cry from what the attendant had said. Back then, the village chief had even levied extra taxes to make ends meet.

If their village chief hadn't lied to them, then this scoundrel in fine clothes was definitely not taking their lives seriously.

The attendant panicked completely. He felt the gazes of the surrounding soldiers piercing him like red-hot iron spikes.

"Okay... alright."

His voice sounded like it was being squeezed out one word at a time from between his teeth, each word trembling with a heart bleeding.

"It's just one water ghost, San Oren! Hurry...hurry! I promised you!" He wiped the cold sweat from his forehead and waved a handkerchief. "You! Soldier! Take him to the river! Don't let him get in the way here!"

He only wanted to squeeze a little money out of this meager budget to buy a good bottle of wine and get revenge on the annoying Witcher, but he didn't want this trivial matter to be reported to Foltest.

As the soldiers suspected, Foltest was indeed a king who valued both rewards and punishments. Even nobles would not forgive subordinates who caused trouble on the eve of war.

......

Hopefully there are enough water ghosts near the camp...

Although three orens still weren't a huge sum, it was his limit for now. This amount was enough for him to buy some silver powder to repair the minor nicks in the blade, a genuine Redanian stout to ease the fatigue of the long journey, and a few bite-sized pieces of dark bread as provisions.

In the distance, the massive siege engine's framework was half-completed, and the enormous ram was being hoisted onto it. At the current construction speed, the siege would begin in two or three days at most. He was confident he could earn fifty orens from that reed marsh before the war even started.

But what truly worried him was the purpose of this army.

The army, personally led by the king, marched at an astonishing speed. He heard almost no rumors about the war in the villages and taverns they passed through, indicating that the army not only suppressed information but also moved so quickly that rumors didn't even have time to spread.

This abnormally slow march made him somewhat worried that his journey to Velen might be affected. If the Pontal River was completely blocked, he would have to take a long, circuitous route.

For a witcher, gathering intelligence is a survival instinct. But directly inquiring about the marching route in such a heavily guarded army is practically suicidal. The squire was already quite annoyed with him, and Kyriam didn't want to be branded a Nilfgaardian spy and imprisoned in a water dungeon full of rats.

Learning to be cautious is always the first lesson for a qualified witcher.

"Hmm...it seems I can go find that so-called 'other Witcher Master' to inquire about the situation." Kilyam thought to himself as he followed the soldiers toward the riverbank.

In a military camp, rank-and-file soldiers may know nothing about strategy, but gossip about "two mutants with cat eyes" will definitely spread rapidly among those energetic and incredibly bored soldiers.

The legendary white-haired witcher wasn't too hard to find out about. Although he usually stayed by the king's side, it was said that he sometimes discussed dragons in the king's warlock advisor's tent.

Such rumors confirmed to Kilyam that the guy was indeed here at that moment.