The Witcher: Serpent School Witcher's Otherworldly Journey

Kiliam stopped, sensing no obvious malice, only the overwhelming smell of alcohol and the stench of a prank.

"Why? Because of his teeth that haven't even fully grown in yet? Arrows on the battlefield don't show mercy just to young people." Kilyam raised an eyebrow.

"With this!" Kennett chuckled as he pulled a leather cord from Newboy's neck. Hanging from it was a rather old-looking amulet, made of what looked like some cheap bone or stone, with crooked runes engraved on it.

"This kid says it's a treasure he got from a priestess he conquered. That white wolf saw it too, but he stammered and wouldn't give a straight answer, saying something like 'this thing does have magical fluctuations.' Pshaw, that amnesiac guy has almost forgotten what his stallion's name is. I think he's just a pretentious charlatan, all talk and no action!"

Poholt brandished the amulet in front of Giliam: "You're an expert in magic too, so take a look and see if this thing can actually stop arrows. If it can, we'll bet on this kid and make a fortune. If it can't..."

He let out a chilling chuckle, the kind of indifference to life that only someone who has spent years licking blood off the blade could have: "Then let's just let him die in the first volley of arrows. Anyway, he won't need the money that way."

Kiriam looked into the young man's eyes, which were filled with hope yet fear. Newboy had clearly been either drunk or completely misled by these seasoned veterans to dare make such a suicidal vow.

"M-Master," Newboy stammered, his voice trembling, "Master Geralt said it has power...is that true? A priestess gave it to me, and she said that as long as I carry it, no blade can harm me..."

Kiliam did not answer immediately. He slowly reached out, but did not touch the amulet; instead, he hovered his gloved fingers above it.

The Serpent Clan Witcher's badge vibrated slightly on his chest, so faintly it was almost negligible. Giliam narrowed his eyes, his dark golden pupils instantly shrinking to needles. Through his mutated senses, he saw a faint aura of magic.

There was indeed a faint trace of magic remaining on that thing, but it wasn't a powerful spell to protect against arrows, not even as strong as the lowest-level Quen sign. What was attached to it was merely a blessing spell used to calm the mind or relieve minor pain, usually a cheap product sold by mediocre rural wizards to women suffering from menstrual cramps or elderly people who couldn't sleep.

"There is indeed magic in this," Giliam said calmly.

Looking into Newboy's expectant eyes, a familiar sense of absurdity welled up inside him. In the Snake School's training, their mentors had repeatedly taught them that truth was the only weapon, and lies would only hasten their demise. But looking at this young man, consumed by fear, would it really make sense to simply tell him, "This is garbage; you're dead tomorrow"?

Geralt chose to remain ambiguous, likely out of his overflowing sympathy. He probably thought that since reality was already so cruel, why deprive the child of his last glimmer of hope before death? Perhaps on the battlefield, he could survive through bravery—who knows?

However, Kiriam himself was not so romantic. He withdrew his hand, a barely perceptible sneer curling at the corner of his mouth.

"Ha! I knew it!" Newboy sprang to his feet, his face flushed with excitement, not even bothering to wipe his snot bubbles. "I knew she loved me! She's a real treasure!"

Poholt and Kennett exchanged a glance and burst into laughter, the sound shaking the surrounding tents.

"...This magic might help you pass away peacefully when you are shot by an arrow, without too much pain."

Kiriam finished the sentence expressionlessly, his voice not loud, but it sounded like a bucket of ice water poured over Newboy's head.

The young man's smile froze on his face instantly, his complexion turning deathly pale at a visible speed. He gripped the amulet tightly in his hand, his knuckles turning white from the force.

"Wh...what?"

"This is my assessment." Giliam pulled his cloak tighter, revealing the characteristics of a Serpent Witcher—a near-brutal realism.

"If I were you, kid, I'd try to hide behind Poholt's backside, which's thicker than a city wall, when we charge tomorrow morning, instead of expecting this broken bone to shield you from the La Valédi family's crossbows."

The raiders erupted in laughter, and Poholt laughed until tears streamed down his face, pounding his thigh in frustration. "Did you hear that, Newboy?! This is expert advice! 'Die peacefully'! Hahahaha!"

"But...but Master Geralt said..." Newboy's face turned ashen, clutching the amulet tightly in his hand as if it were his last lifeline.

Geralt probably just didn't want to shatter a fool's dream on this damn night.

"Don't listen to him!" Kennett continued to egg him on. "The Serpent Faction never tells the truth! Newboy, since the master says it has magic, just go for it! Think of all the gold coins you'll win! Think of all the beautiful, white-breasted noble ladies waiting for you! That's how a man should live! It's better to die on the battlefield than to die in bed!"

Kiliam shook his head. These bastards from Klinfield hadn't changed. They were a bunch of scoundrels who would sell their souls to the devil for gold and send their teammates to hell for fun. But in this chaotic military camp, these scoundrels were the ones who lived the most comfortable lives.

"Good luck to you all, especially you, newcomer." Giliam ignored the commotion behind him and turned to leave.

Behind him came again Poholt's voice urging him to drink, and Newboy's desperate yet tinged with a hint of despair, his neurotic explanations. The boy was still trying to convince himself, trying to believe that beautiful lie.

If it were in the past, if it were the young Giliam who had just emerged from the Tir-Tosha Mountains and still believed he could change the world with his sword, he might have simply drawn his sword and destroyed the amulet, forced the boy to wear the armor, and even broken Poholt's nose for it.

But he has now learned not to interfere in other people's fates.

In this battlefield where everyone is actively seeking death and no one has a choice, trying to save a fool who is determined to die or blinded by greed will often only lead to your own demise.

This is the Serpent School's philosophy of survival: reserve love for a limited number of people, observe everything from the shadows, and deliver the fatal blow only when the sword must be drawn.

Moreover, he has more important things to do now than that fool.

"I hope I can get a free dinner too... in the warlock's tent."