The Witcher: Serpent School Witcher's Otherworldly Journey

"Isn't that our champion of pile drivers, the famous Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf!?"

Geralt paused slightly at the familiar, husky voice. With a nod, Gillian was led into the tent by the soldiers. His scales gleamed like moss in the firelight. The man, whose expression, now seemingly fixed with a mocking grin after the mutation, removed his wolfskin hood, revealing a smile rarely seen on a witcher.

"Gilliam... I really hope to see you and Lambert bickering. If you could come to Kaer Morhen this winter, Vesemir would be very happy." Geralt put down his wine glass and stepped forward. "The old man has been saying three times this year that the fireplace in Kaer Morhen is getting emptier and emptier, and he can't even find anyone to argue with when he's drunk."

"And then maintain your swords for a whole winter, you bunch of savage sword-wielding bastards?" Giliam tapped the dagger at his waist. "A Wolf School witcher has two, Eskel has two, Lambert has two, and that old man Vesemir has at least four, because he always feels that all the swords will betray him at the crucial moment. How many do I need to get my hands on before I can even have a sip of East of East from Toussaint?"

"Then you may be disappointed. Even if you don't take care of yourself, it will be difficult to find this kind of red wine in the North, which even the king may not be able to afford."

Geralt's stiff lips twitched slightly. He had experienced the venomous tongue of this fellow Serpent Faction member firsthand last year when they fought the Wild Hunt together in the Velen Swamp. Back then, when the Ghost Rider tore open a spatial rift around the Hanged Man's Tree, it was Giliam who sealed the exit with honeycomb bombs mixed with magic-resistant gold. Heaven knows how this guy, who always talked about "cost-effectiveness," ended up carrying alchemical materials worth five hundred crowns.

However, given that he knew that the Anti-Magic Stone could affect the Wild Hunt's spells, it seems that the claim that Iva the Evil Eye, the founder of the Serpent School, possessed unparalleled knowledge of the Wild Hunt was not unfounded. It's just a pity that Gesvid, the Serpent School's stronghold, is now in ruins; otherwise, Geralt would definitely have gone to take a good look.

That fortress, which once stood in a valley somewhere in the south, was said to have a collection of books so rich that even scholars from the University of Newcastle would be envious. Unfortunately, now only ruins remain, surrounded by weeds and thorns. When Kilyam mentions that place, his eyes always become distant, like a wanderer who thinks of his hometown but finds himself unable to return.

At the end of that journey, thanks to the disruption of the Wild Hunt magic by the Demonbane, the team successfully split into two groups.

Geralt, believing himself to be the enemy's target, asked Gigliam to take Yennefer across the Yaruga River to Cintra, which was now under Nilfgaardian rule—a crazy but reasonable decision. Cintra, as the Empire's front line in the northern kingdoms, was garrisoned with a large army and sorcerers; even the Wild Hunt, as powerful as it was, could not directly confront such a force. At least in everyone's perception at the time, the Empire's armed forces were enough to deter any pursuers.

Geralt, on the other hand, fled alone to Vizima, which was closer to them, intending to rely on the power of Temeria to deter the Wild Hunt.

Fortunately, the Wild Hunt stopped at Lake Vizima for some unknown reason, and Geralt hid in the waterways for a long time until spring arrived before daring to enter the city of Vizima and escape his savage life.

Therefore, Geralt was very grateful to Gillian for not only helping him escape from the crisis of the Wild Hunt, but also for the Snake School Witchers safely sending Yennefer to Nilfgaard.

Although he was unaware that this trip to Nilfgaard would cause a deeper ideological split between Giliam and his companions…

"Although it's not the East of Toussaint..." Gillian suddenly leaned closer to the ceramic bowl on Geralt's table and took a deep sniff. A lingering scent of elderflower still lingered, clearly indicating that our amorous white wolf was on a date with some woman just moments before he entered.

"Don't tell me that Foltest's quartermaster is so extravagant on the front lines that he'd stew meat in red wine. The last time I ate at Aden's camp, the bowl of soup they gave me didn't have a single piece of meat in it; it was all bloated rye biscuits."

"No."

Geralt pushed one of the bowls across the table. "It's made with pine resin and corpse oil. You know, during the Siege of Vizimar, even rats were selling for the price of venison. Perhaps our King suddenly developed a liking for this flavor after that. Foltest has many flaws, but frugality is definitely not one of them—he just has some strange preferences when it comes to enjoyment. I heard he recently started adding a small spoonful of dwarven spirit to his breakfast, saying it helps clear his head."

"Ha! Geralt, your damn sense of humor hasn't changed at all."

The two hands struck each other in mid-air, and the Witcher's enhanced bones emitted a faint clicking sound. Such a sound was almost non-existent to ordinary people, but to the other Witcher's ears, it was as clear as confirming some ancient code.

Gillian could feel that Geralt's body was still as robust as before; the calluses on his palms were even thicker than a year ago, and the old wound on his hand from the petrified lizard's tail had completely healed, leaving only a light-colored scar. It seemed that Geralt had done quite well during their separation, at least he hadn't been smashed into a pulp by a stone troll in some remote village's muddy ground.

"You're... Gillian, it seems you brought back more than just acrimony from Nilfgaard." Geralt's gaze swept over the bulge beneath Gillian's bracers, where at least three poisoned steel spikes were concealed. He could even discern the ejection mechanism of those spikes was hidden inside the forearm, an ingenious design requiring a specific angle to trigger, clearly the work of Imperial craftsmen; the blacksmiths of the North couldn't produce that level of precision.

"It was the Emperor's severance pay." Giliam unceremoniously sat down in the spot still fragrant with the aroma and fanned the air with his palm. "He gave us two choices: join the Empire as the Royal Guard, or take the bounty and leave Nilfgaard immediately. Both were respectable choices; you have to admit Emhyr is someone who knows how to hide a knife in a velvet pouch. But clearly some nobles misunderstood their master's intentions, or perhaps they felt that having a venomous snake outside their control was too dangerous."

"So you were attacked too... what about Yennefer?"

Gillian glanced at a screen inside the tent for a moment, and couldn't help but chuckle to himself. Only when he was with familiar witchers like Geralt could he reveal emotions that weren't usually cold.

"Just some old tricks the Imperial nobles always use. They like to scheme when they have nothing better to do," Kilyam shrugged. "Three hooded fellows sneaked into my inn on the third night after I left Nilfgaard's capital. They were pretty amateurish; they hadn't even removed the stop bell. I could tell what was going to happen from the sound of them climbing the stairs on the second floor. Later, I found a ring with the coat of arms of a marquis's family on one of them—I kept it; it might come in handy someday. Emhyr wasn't directly involved, so Yennefer will be fine... But shouldn't you be concerned about me?"

"You look perfectly healthy, and you're even carrying two swords..." Geralt said, pretending to carefully examine the Serpent Witcher from head to toe.

"I imagine you're living much better than Lambert; at least you shouldn't have to sleep in the stables."

"If his mouth weren't so foul, I might have been willing to take him in for a few days, but the only drink I could offer was horse urine."

Kiriam extended a finger and swept it across the room, which made the two of them smile knowingly once again.

"Lambert can make straw softer than the Novigrad madam's bed. Last year on the border of Cordwin, he even made a hammock out of sirens' hair in a ghoul's lair. He called it the 'Gorgon Hammock,' claiming that lying on it would turn nightmares into sweet dreams. I slept on the wooden crate next to him for half the night, and after confirming that I was having nightmares, I never went near that thing again."

Geralt's lips twitched slightly, a rare smile on his face, which had been mutated and sculpted like a stone sculpture. The crackling of the burning pine resin in the fire pit cast their shadows onto the canvas tent, adding a touch of warmth to the two men carrying swords and looking menacing.

The shadows of the two witchers, like magnified wolf outlines, swayed with the undulations of the fabric, while the shadow of someone behind the screen sat quietly; clearly, the sorceress wasn't actually reading the book in her hands.

"If he learns to keep quiet in the dung heap," Kilyam suddenly lowered his voice, making a snake-like flicking motion with his fingertips across his neck, "he might live to see his first gray hair."

"If he still has hair by then!"

Geralt just wanted a beer in his hand at that moment; even if it wasn't a Vizima Champion, a bit of rye beer would be nice.