The Witcher: Serpent School Witcher's Otherworldly Journey

Velen isn't far from Rondale, where Giliam is currently located; both are within Temeria. Furthermore, it's practically adjacent to Vizima, the Temeria capital. This is why Letho came here to find the Temeria king before planning to assassinate him.

Rondale is not a pleasant city, especially in the early morning.

The tower of this Temurian border fortress, like an upright dagger against the leaden sky, guards the vital passage to the capital, connecting the Velen Marsh and the Pontal Valley. To the south lies the lifeless Velen Marsh, and to the north, the rushing Pontal River.

Twenty years ago, the Nilfgaardian "White Flame" cavalry was cut off here by the Northern Alliance. Today, the scars left by the catapults still remain on those blackened granite walls, like festering sores that are not healing properly.

As the first rays of dawn pierced the walls of Rondale, the muddy path leading to Velen was already strewn with barbed barriers. The Witcher squinted his cat-like eyes, watching the things hanging from the city gate.

Five corpses hung from the crossbeam, with hastily written wooden signs around their necks that read: "Assassin's Accomplice".

The Temerian soldiers, who were ordered to search, were yawning and didn't notice that one of the corpses' fingers was still twitching slightly.

It was an elf with pointed ears.

The superior reflexes of non-human races allowed his muscles to continue their unconscious and sorrowful struggle even after his cervical spine was broken.

Despite this, no humanoid creature or even its own kind would pay any attention to it when it passed by. The tense atmosphere in the city meant that these elves, who might just be ordinary civilians, could be mistaken for members of the Squirrel Gang at any time.

They could only watch as the corpses of their kin drifted in the air, while in their shattered pupils, a figure carrying two swords was reflected as he traversed the swamp shrouded in morning mist.

Not long ago, an assassin infiltrated the audience chamber of the royal city of Vizima and nearly plunged a blade into Foltest's chest. It is said that the assassin almost succeeded; three of the king's royal guards died, and Foltest himself was said to have narrowly escaped having his throat slit by a finger's width.

The identity of the assassin remains a subject of much debate. Some say he was a member of the Squirrel Party, while others say he was a spy for the Southern Empire.

The only certainty is that King Foltest of Temeria, having already been assassinated once, is now extremely fearful and sees everyone as an assassin sent to kill him. Perhaps at this moment, it wouldn't be a good thing for a witcher with extraordinary eyes to cross the border of the capital, Vizima, to reach Velen.

The gates of Rondale reeked of a mixture of horse manure and pickled herring. Beneath the heavily guarded gates, three soldiers wearing blue lily emblems were inspecting the goods of caravans one by one. Suddenly, a Redanian spice merchant's packhorse was startled, instantly attracting more than a dozen gleaming halberds.

Kiriam frowned as he indifferently observed the tense atmosphere.

"I can only hope that Letso will use my poison after I cross Vizima... so as not to ruin my journey."

Although he didn't support Letho's actions, Giliam was extremely confident in the poison he had created. Even without inflicting any wounds, mere contact with the skin would allow it to seep into the body through osmosis, causing death within fifteen minutes. And with Letho's skill and serpentine cunning, if he came within three meters of Foltest, the Temeria king's heart would turn into a still stone.

After slowly exhaling, Kiriam returned to his secluded cabin immediately after completing his resupply purchases in Rondale.

The lit lamp crackled and popped, and a few sparks, burning in the heated air, were swept into the air. These were a few light-attracting flying insects that got too close to the flames and were completely ignited.

Giliam drew the two swords from his back. Unlike the other members of the Serpent School who preferred to use two daggers or other oddly shaped weapons, he was a witcher who followed tradition.

The steel sword hissed as it was drawn, like a viper flicking its tongue. Its blade gleamed like autumn water, exuding a chilling aura like ice from a deep winter pool. Four fingers wide, it was both nimble and deadly when wielded, a weapon for slaughtering humans. Kilyam's thumb brushed across the raised, snake-like scales on the blade, the toxins seeping in during the constant folding and forging gleaming with an oily sheen.

The spiraling quenching patterns on the sword's spine suddenly lit up, a sign that the water demon marrow, imprisoned by the Axii sign, was being revitalized. Kiliam recalled the seventeen full moon nights he had spent lurking in the swamp, waiting for the moment when the ghoul king's tendon fibers resonated with the sword. Now, that elasticity derived from the monster was causing the blade to bend strangely with each strike, like the jawbone of a viper opening and closing with deadly precision.

The other silver sword emitted a trembling sound like a dying dragon when drawn. It was longer and wider, almost six fingers wide, to ensure its superiority against large monsters. The blade had eight facets along its sharp edges, and the sharp tip, combined with the exquisite silver plating, left no doubt that it could pierce even the hardest scales of a forked-tailed dragon without any resistance.

During his apprenticeship, Giliam witnessed firsthand how an arrogant blacksmith was devoured by the marrow of a petrified chicken-snake, only managing to solidify it after he learned to use the instantaneous high temperature created by the Igni sign. At this moment, the pterosaur venom sac hidden in the hilt of the sword was pulsating, pumping deadly fluids into the bloodstream like a second heart. If he encountered a forked-tailed dragon again, Giliam was confident he could end the fight within fifteen breaths.

Both swords were forged by Gillian himself. Ever since the Serpent School's stronghold, Götterdell Fortress, was completely destroyed by the previous usurper emperor of Nilfgaard, the Serpent School witchers who refused to cooperate with the usurper were slaughtered by a mob instigated by the Nilfgaardian army. A great deal of information about the school's equipment and knowledge about the Wild Hunt vanished without a trace.

Even if Emhyr Emreis were to successfully reclaim his throne, it wouldn't be enough to force the nobles, who had profited immensely from the bloody plunder, to relinquish their "normal gains." Perhaps this knowledge, useless to the nobles, would end up in the hands of a merchant aspiring to be a collector, or be purchased by an interested sorcerer, or perhaps be used as toilet paper. In any case, it wouldn't be returned to the Witcher simply because of an emperor's decree.

The Serpent School demon hunters, whose size is even smaller than some large mercenary groups, are not qualified to negotiate with the Emperor of Nilfgaard for the redemption of this knowledge. Being beaten up like a beggar is the best outcome they can hope for in Nilfgaard.

What did you say? The great Nilfgaardian Empire has no beggars? You'd better pray you don't die on the Empire's territory!

In this damned world, if you want to take back what belongs to you, you either need a lot of money or a lot of swords.

Therefore, these two quite excellent weapons were personally crafted by Giliam himself after he collected many precious materials during his travels and studied the strengths of various weapons. His superb forging skills earned him considerable fame not only among the Witchers of the Serpent School but also among other schools.

So much so that occasionally, witchers from other schools would ask him to craft some equipment, but unfortunately, the traditions of all witcher schools are now somewhat fragmented. Only their school's tradition has been preserved relatively intact.

This was largely due to his emphasis on knowledge and his obsessive study during the period before the destruction of Gesvid. This almost fanatical thirst for knowledge also won the favor of Iva the Evil Eye, the founder of the school who was still alive at the time, who personally led him on the path of pursuing the Wild Hunt.

Leto and his group had no idea about this; much of the equipment they wore was their own masterpiece... Next time, I'll have to charge them even more for maintenance.

He was deeply fascinated by the Wild Hunt's knowledge, which was almost entirely different from that of this world, and wished he could capture a living Ghost Rider for his own research.

The thought of the Wild Hunt made Giliam's eyes light up; his dark amber eyes became even deeper, as if there was unyielding blood spreading within his pupils.

In Kiliam's alchemy crucible, sulfur crystals from Mahakam, a mineral from the depths of the dwarven mines, were churning violently with the juice of the bulltongue grass.

When he added three drops of petrified lizard venom sac extract to the boiling mixture, the dark green liquid instantly solidified into the gelatinous texture characteristic of the "Thunder" potion. This was a modified formula that could keep a Witcher's muscle fibers in an overclocked state for ten minutes, at the cost of accelerating kidney crystallization. However, this was considered a relatively low-toxicity toxin for a Witcher.

There are also twelve bottles of "white honey" in an oak box on the left side of the worktable.

Kiliam used silver tweezers to pick up half a witch mushroom, a fungus that grows at the feet of the dead and can neutralize most neurotoxins.

The vampire's throat bone, ground into powder in a cast iron mortar, is the core ingredient for making the "Swallow" potion.

"Swallow, Thunder, um... and most importantly, white honey to counteract the poison. That means we have a basic supply of the potion."

The Witcher's potions are deadly poisons to ordinary people, and even for Witchers themselves, they are not beverages to be consumed indiscriminately. There have been instances of Witchers drinking all the potions they carried in one go in an attempt to gain a greater advantage in battle.

That's right, the royal griffin on the other side had almost all its feathers cut off by the witcher in no time. However, its face, which looked like a spoiled egg, was clearly poisoned and could not be saved no matter how much white honey it drank.

Of course, besides these, Giliam also possesses some potions as secret weapons, created from knowledge he gained during his past travels. But let's set aside their effects for now; a witcher always needs some trump cards, doesn't he?

And then there are bombs. Gunpowder was Giliam's favorite byproduct of alchemy; no one could resist the power to instantly blast a fully armed squad to the ground without requiring their own magic. Add a bit of phosphorus, and the soldiers would be engulfed in flames, never to rise again.

He stroked the dents on the "Dragon's Dream" shell, the saltpeter smuggled from the cellars of the Tritog Palace mixed with the ashes of the tomb witch, which could triple the blast radius.

After securing the potion and bomb to an easily accessible spot on his body, Kiliam hesitated for a moment before inserting a dagger with an eerie green hue into the special sheath he kept in front of his chest. This was the weapon that Iva the Evil Eye had given him before his final journey; the man with the sinister eye seemed to know his life was coming to an end and had given him this dagger that he always carried with him.

The emerald blade gleamed with a phosphorescent glow in the pre-dawn darkness. Kilyam's Adam's apple bobbed, and in a daze, he saw again that torrential rainy morning—on his face.

"The Wild Hunt's armor can deflect a steel sword, but it can't stop a venomous fang that pierces through the gaps in the ribs." The one-eyed old witcher's throat rumbled with laughter like a broken bellows. "Don't fucking look like you're attending a funeral, kid. I'll live to see the day you get completely fooled by a sorceress."

"You're always right...and always wrong." Giliam's knuckles etched a bluish-white mark on the dagger hilt, and a sudden gust of cold wind carrying the scent of decaying leaves swept into the laboratory.

The sound of the torrential rain in his memory overlapped with reality, and he seemed to see Iva again, hunched over, climbing onto the saddle three times before finally succeeding. The arm that could once twist the neck of a petrified chicken snake with its bare hands was now unable to even hold onto the reins. Witchers have long lifespans, but they are always getting injured.

The old Witcher was severely wounded, yet Ivar still embarked on his journey to find the Wild Hunt, as if searching for the end of his life...

The clatter of hooves pulled Kilyam back to reality. The chestnut warhorse, nicknamed "Cabbage," was pawing at the bluestone slabs outside the laboratory, a movement that caused the alchemical material bags hanging on either side of the saddle to rattle dangerously.

He quickly stepped forward and restrained the restless mount.

"Eat your radish." He stuffed the last half of the Orsenfort radish into the horse's mouth, and the Quen sign that gathered at his fingertips stroked the scabbed wounds on its body. The subtle electric current made his companion feel much more comfortable.

As the warm, wet tongue of the cabbage licked his palm, Kiliam suddenly remembered a snowy night twenty years ago in the Amel Mountains, when Letho used the same sign to dig him out of a pile of frozen wolf carcasses.

Despite their primary tactical approach being agile combat, they are all exceptionally talented in the Quen sign, rivaling the now almost extinct Griffin Witchers in both strength and control.

It's ridiculous, really. Are they supposed to protect something like knights? Especially that guy Letso, what is he protecting?

The morning mist began to condense into frost in the forest. The moment Kilyam flipped and mounted the saddle, the remaining laboratory heat from the gaps in his chainmail was immediately drawn away.

Suddenly, the cabbage reared up and neighed. Kiliam instinctively gripped his sword hilt, only to find that it was just morning dew dripping onto the horse's ear. He gave a self-deprecating twitch; this very instinct that had allowed him to survive the Witcher Trials now seemed like an ironic reflection. As the entire school crumbled in the torrent of time, keen senses were nothing more than instruments of torture that prolonged suffering.

"Then let the pain rage on." He tightened the reins sharply, and as the warhorse reared up in pain, the laboratory door slammed shut behind him. In the instant the morning light pierced the thin mist in the forest, Kilyam's figure seemed to be split in two, the chainmail-covered part speeding away into the Velen swamp, while the long shadow trailing behind him concealed the Serpent School's longsword, as if ready to devour its prey at any moment.

The puddles ahead reflected the hazy sky, and for a fleeting moment, a phantom of the Wild Hunt seemed to flash by. Kiliam's pupils contracted sharply into serpentine slits, his left hand already gripping the silver sword on his back. But the next second, the phantom shattered into countless shimmering fragments, like the faces of all his companions in his memory, ultimately distorted and disintegrated in the bronze mirror of time.

The sound of horses' hooves startled a flock of blood crows. As their black wings swept across the treetops, the fluttering feathers seemed to reflect the flames of the Serpent School's fortress that had burned twenty years ago. Back then, they had forty-seven Witcher apprentices. Now, every marker on the map pointing to their comrades was either a grave in the swamp or a guillotine leading to a political conspiracy.

"At least this time, let me see the truth at the end of the road." He whispered to the howling morning wind, the alchemical potion clanging against the inside of his breastplate with a crisp, mournful sound. As the first rays of sunlight pierced the clouds, the dewdrops on the Witcher's chainmail refracted rainbow-like halos, as if countless shattered vows were evaporating and dissipating.

"If you encounter the Wild Hunt, plunge this poison-laced dagger into their bodies, Giliam!"

Iva departed wearing light armor, but Kilyam couldn't quite recall the other's expression at the time. He only remembered that the once-renowned master of the Viper School of Witcher was now gray-haired, and his habitually carried flame-shaped longsword had to be obediently hung on his horse.

Perhaps it's because too much time has passed, or perhaps I'm unwilling to accept the other person's death; in any case, I just can't remember.

The hazy memory made Giliam grip the dagger tighter.

"These brainless fanatics! They're all rushing to their deaths."

He cursed loudly, took a deep breath, and patted the two bulging bags hanging on the horse's back.

"Alright, cabbage, let's go."

He reached out and stroked the cabbage's head, which seemed somewhat disgruntled from the heavy luggage, before feeding it a fresh radish. With the reins raised high, Kilyam, clad in armor of chainmail and thick leather, and wielding two sharp swords, galloped away into the distance.