The Witcher: Serpent School Witcher's Otherworldly Journey

The heavy, rough canvas curtain, soaked with the rain of early spring, was unceremoniously lifted by a large hand encased in a glove, and then fell heavily back down with a dull "thud" as the tall figure left.

That brief gap was enough to let in the nauseating real smells of the Temurian camp—the rusty smell of fermenting blood, the sour stench of thousands of men who hadn't bathed for weeks, the stench of warhorses excreting in the mud and being repeatedly trampled by boots, and the sour smell of cheap, inferior ale mixed with vomit.

Of course, there was also the cold night wind, carrying the smell of burnt wood and rotting flesh wafting from the direction of the Château de La Valédi.

When the canvas curtain was finally drawn shut, barely keeping out the noisy and crude real world belonging to humans, the chilling aura unique to the Serpent School, like a cold-blooded reptile lurking in the shadows, carrying a mixture of preservatives and highly poisonous herbs, was finally completely shut out from this warm tent.

Triss Meligold stood frozen in place, like a fine marble sculpture sculpted by Novigrad's finest artisans. She remained motionless for a full half minute, even deliberately slowing her breathing.

It wasn't until her keen hearing—the sorceress's senses were always enhanced by magic—that she confirmed the footsteps outside had completely faded away. The footsteps were so light, almost blending into the wind, that she wouldn't have been able to distinguish them from the chaotic camp noise had she not been on high alert beforehand.

Only then did the beautiful sorceress let out a long breath, as if a great burden had been lifted from her shoulders.

Her signature red hair, as fiery as autumn flames, shimmered with a fiery yet restless glow under the light of the bronze enchanted brazier in the center of the tent, which was enchanted with an eternal flame. The air was filled with her distinctive scent of rose and slightly tart cherry, a fragrance that usually made the surroundings enchanting and ambiguous, but at this moment, it was diluted by an almost tangible anxiety.

This sorceress, who could always captivate nobles with a languid glance at court balls, now showed no trace of composure. Her brows were tightly furrowed, creating an unyielding furrow of worry on her smooth forehead.

Triss strode quickly to the heavy mahogany table in the center of the tent, her movements so hurried that the hem of her expensive dark green silk robe rustled on the Persian carpet like a restless snake.

Her fair and well-maintained fingers lightly brushed across the table, arranging several dark purple alchemical crystals, with what appeared to be nebula-like patterns inside, in a strict pentagram formation along the edge of the table.

As her red lips parted slightly, ancient, obscure, and strangely rhythmic Elvish incantations flowed from her lips. The sound didn't belong to a frequency naturally produced by human vocal cords; it was more like the hollow echo of wind passing through ancient ruins. A faint buzzing sound, like the simultaneous flapping of thousands of bees' wings, suddenly filled the tent, and even the air began to distort as magic converged.

Immediately afterwards, a pale blue magical barrier, its surface shimmering with runic light, spread rapidly along the inner wall of the tent like ripples in water. It silently swallowed up the sounds of the wind, the shouts of the soldiers, and the neighing of the warhorses outside, completely isolating the entire interior space from external physical detection and even the highest level of magical perception, creating two separate worlds that did not interfere with each other.

This is no simple trick. It is a high-level soundproofing and counter-surveillance barrier that consumes an extreme amount of Chaos magic. In Geralt's memory, such a high level of protection is usually only used when King Foltest holds a top-secret military conference concerning the survival of the nation of Temeria, or when the secretive and ambitious "Sorcerer's Guild" is conducting those clandestine internal talks on Thanedd Island.

Geralt strolled leisurely to the low table that had been used as a makeshift bar, and picked up the rough tin pot. The pot had been polished to a shine, but the rim was dented in several unsightly marks. He casually poured himself half a glass of cloudy ale, the liquid splashing dully against the bottom of the tin.

"Is it really necessary to be so paranoid, Triss?" he said, trying to ease the tension. "You're acting like a hen that's caught a fox's scent. If you're going to put on this show, at least tell me if your crystals can detect even that loud fart Vesemir let out in Kaer Morhen."

In this tent filled with magical glow and the scent of expensive perfume, the Witcher seemed like an incongruous intruder. His mud-stained leather armor, the scabs of blood on his boots, the two swords on his back gleaming coldly in the firelight, and his golden cat-like eyes that seemed to see through any disguise—all clashed with the tent's refined elegance. He was like a wolf that had been inadvertently led into a court salon, covered in forest mud and the winds of the wilderness.

But wolves always have a keen sense of smell; he knew Triss all too well. That incredibly energy-consuming and magically depleting blue barrier wasn't just for keeping out the soldiers outside the tents, whose minds were consumed by nothing but cheap beer and camp prostitutes. It was more like an external manifestation of Triss's deep-seated unease, insecurity, or even fear of the unknown. On the chessboard of the gods, a truly composed player doesn't flip over and scrutinize every single one of their pieces.

—On the other side of the tent, Triss, while fiddling with the crystal on the table, glanced at Geralt quickly, almost stealthily, with her azure eyes, half-hidden by long eyelashes.

She was observing whether he had noticed.

The focus wasn't on whether he noticed the barrier, but rather on whether he noticed her.

The thought came so naturally that Triss herself didn't immediately realize its existence. But it was there, standing alongside those cold deductions about the Serpent School, about Nilfgaard, about the Assassins, occupying a corner in her mind that she was unwilling to acknowledge yet unwilling to erase.

Half of the reason she set up such a large barrier was genuine; she needed an absolutely safe space to discuss the next topic with Geralt. But what about the other half? The other half was that she wanted Geralt to see the seriousness with which she was setting up the barrier, to see the slight trembling of her fingers, and to see that she wasn't even in the mood to use her usual flirting techniques to liven things up tonight.

She wanted him to worry about her.

Just like she was worried about him.

"If it's for Giliam, there's no need to waste your magic." Geralt's voice carried a hint of protectiveness between witchers, even as he tried to make his tone sound like he was talking about the weather or commenting on which horse in the stable needed its horseshoes replaced.

"He's a witcher, Triss. He's not one of those spies for Dixter who likes to hide behind tapestries and eavesdrop on politicians' whispers, or who can trade a few names for fiefdoms in Redania. He's only interested in three things: his commission, his sword, and how to save his life. Political intrigue? That's more boring to him than a water ghost's excrement."

Hearing this, Triss felt a pang of pain in the softest part of her heart.

He was protecting that snake-faction witcher, and doing so more naturally than he was protecting her.

"Boring?" Triss repeated the word in a voice that sounded almost like she was grinding her teeth, as if Geralt had just uttered some kind of blasphemous insult. "Geralt, you're talking about a man who can kill an earl at his dinner table in three heartbeats with a short blade smeared with mandrake venom. You call that boring? Then tell me, what is interesting?"

Geralt shrugged. "He wouldn't do that kind of thing. He hunts monsters too, just like I took the job of cleaning up the female ghouls in the mill from that fat village chief in Maripo. The only difference is that his clients might wear silk, and mine might wear linen."

"No, Geralt. It's that you don't understand. Or rather, it's that you subconsciously refuse to understand that not all witchers are like you."

Triss whirled around, bracing herself against the heavy mahogany table with both hands, leaning forward. Her full breasts trembled with the intense emotions surging within her, and her beautiful eyes held a deep concern for the unknown storm, as well as a sharp, razor-sharp insight characteristic of a shrewd politician.

This made Geralt's gaze involuntarily shift towards the fair skin.

"Those people you raise in Kaer Morhen, no matter how unruly their tempers, always retain that small, clean spot in their hearts, the one Vesemir forged with his wooden sword." Her voice lowered, carrying a complex, unspoken sigh. "And you always use that clean spot to measure others. This is your strength, Geralt, and also your most fatal flaw."

"Then tell me, Triss, what exactly are you guarding against?" Geralt placed the tin cup on the table, the metal clanging against the wood with a dull thud. "You're going to all this trouble for more than just a snake-faction witcher passing through the camp. How many years have we known each other? The Triss Merigold I know wouldn't burn the whole room down just because a snake has appeared in the shadows."

This statement startled Triss.

She knew what her white wolf meant; he was asking her what was wrong. He was using his clumsy, awkward way of asking if she was afraid of something or worried about something.

On any other night, she might have gone down those steps, letting herself sink into those broad, warm arms, letting the specters of political intrigue and the Serpent School temporarily dissipate in the alcohol and body heat. But not tonight. Tonight, her fear was real, her worries were real—and what truly unbearable for her was that at the heart of her fear and worry was the man standing before her, drinking cheap ale.

Therefore, she had no choice but to show her sharper side to the public.

"I'm not just guarding against eavesdroppers, Geralt. I'm guarding against some undercurrent surging wildly deep beneath the earth, one we may have no control over what's going on! Do you really think a living, breathing, rigorously trained Serpent School Witcher just happened to appear in King Foltest's Kingsguard camp at this critical juncture, when the entire North is like a powder keg ready to explode? Do you really think this is a mere coincidence? Even the worst bard wouldn't dare write such a clumsy script!"

Geralt's hand, which was reaching for the wine glass, paused slightly. His fingers froze in mid-air for about a second before naturally grasping the chipped pewter glass. The rough pads of his fingers rubbed against the cold metal surface, producing a very faint sound.

“He has his reasons. We’re all the same, Triss. We all take commissions, wallowing in stinking sewers and those disgusting things that even your sorcerer’s books wouldn’t bother to record for a few blood- and mud-stained orens.” Geralt lowered his eyes, looking at the murky ale in his glass, his tone as flat as stagnant water. “I’ve met him on the road. We’ve fought side by side, dealing with some… very troublesome problems. I know his skills, and I know his bottom line.”

I know what kind of person he is, and I know what he has done for me. Geralt added silently and heavily in his heart.

In an instant, White Wolf's thoughts, like a runaway horse, ignored the warmth and fragrance of the tent, and were violently dragged back to the south by an extreme cold storm from the depths of his memory. Dragged back to that land scorched by war, dragged back to that moment when even he himself felt despair and suffocation.

That's the Wild Hunt.

The horizon was torn apart by the aurora borealis, and the biting frost froze the rivers and blood. Ghostly knights, riding skeletal warhorses and clad in heavy frost armor, relentlessly pursued them like an inescapable nightmare. Geralt closed his eyes, as if he could still smell the ozone and icy scent in the air, a harbinger of the apocalypse.

He thought of Yennefer. The relentless pursuit of the Wild Hunt and the torment of spatial warps had weakened her considerably. She was like a frightened, grumpy child, her magic depleted, even standing a struggle was a luxury.

That was the darkest moment in Geralt's life. When, in the depths of despair, he willingly bowed his head to the King of the Wild Hunt, wearing a skull mask, exchanging his wounded soul and eternal enslavement for Yennefer's freedom... who took on that hot potato? Who, in that mad world, protected that woman who could die at any moment?

It's the Serpent School. It's Letho, it's Oakes, it's Serret, and it's Giliam.

Those were the Serpent School witchers, their eyes cold and their actions ruthless, despised by the world as "cold-blooded killers." Geralt still clearly remembers Gillian's gaze at that time; those dark golden vertical pupils held no pity, only disgust for trouble and absolute pragmatism. Gillian had complained in the rudest southern accent that sorceresses were nothing but a burden that brought misfortune, even suggesting abandoning her by the roadside to fend for herself.

But in the days that followed, on the perilous borders of the Nilfgaardian Empire, facing countless attacks from imperial patrols and monsters, it was Giliam's steel sword, coated with deadly poison, that repeatedly stood in Yennefer's way. It was they who, with their pungent antidotes and crude herbal remedies, snatched Yennefer's life from the jaws of death.

For a proud, even somewhat cynical, Wolf Hunter, this was a debt of gratitude heavier than the Blue Mountains. Witchers never owe others anything, especially not a debt of life and death. Geralt would rather believe he would be bitten in the throat by an ordinary ghoul tomorrow than believe that a man who had risked his life to protect Yennefer and kept his promise in his most desperate moment would become a ruthless political assassin, manipulated like a dog by politicians.

But can he tell Triss all this?

Geralt's Adam's apple bobbed laboredly. He looked up, his cat-like eyes gazing intently at Triss. The sorceress was currently overwhelmed with worry and anxiety, preoccupied with his safety and the crumbling state of Temeria. In this tent bathed in blue light, in this moment of agonizing uncertainty, to mention the name "Yennefer," to recall how he had once sold his soul to the Wild Hunt for another woman, forging an unbreakable bond with the Serpent School...

That would break her.

The brave white wolf fell silent.