A nameless valley in Mahakam.
Clang!
Clang!
Clang!
Blades flashed at the foot of the slope, seven figures moving nimbly among the monsters, flesh and blood flying.
One after another, ghouls and necrophages fell to silver blades and crimson sparks.
Vesemir and Allen stood shoulder to shoulder atop the steep slope, watching the young witchers battle below.
After days of relentless hunting, as long as they didn't encounter an alghoul or a devourer, Erni and his group were fully capable of independently taking on large groups of necrophages.
Individually, each could handle three ghouls with ease.
Together, the seven of them worked in seamless coordination, even capable of facing over fifty ghouls or necrophages.
If they encountered a lone alghoul, they could attempt to take it down as a team, watching each other's backs. They hadn't managed to kill one yet, but their improvement was undeniable.
As Vesemir put it, if they weren't lacking in common knowledge and only showed confidence when fighting these particular monsters, Erni and his team would already be more than capable of surviving alone on the Northern Continent. Then again, monster hunting wasn't much different from solving problems.
With the same few monsters to deal with every day, two master witchers overseeing them like high-ranking teachers correcting mistakes, it was only natural that their skills would improve rapidly.
Not to mention, Allen's assistance had given them an incredible edge.
If they had to fight different kinds of monsters, it might not be so easy for them.
Still, this didn't diminish their achievements. Most monsters in the Northern Continent were corpse-eaters—biting, clawing, with only a few odd tricks.
Once you mastered one, the rest became easier.
Besides, facing large groups of monsters was all about experience. Witchers always honed their skills by fighting one monster at a time, sharpening themselves through battle.
Once they cleared out this surge of ghouls and necrophages spawned by the summoning ritual and monster nests, Allen could confidently bring them along in high-intensity battles to ease his burden.
"Those lucky brats," Vesemir muttered, half envious, half pleased.
If only he'd had a commander like that back in the day...
He instinctively cut off the unseemly hint of jealousy in his thoughts.
Watching the young witchers grow so swiftly and effortlessly over the past days had repeatedly reminded him of his own youth.
He couldn't help it.
Allen had once made him feel the same way, but Allen was a monster in his own right—Vesemir couldn't compare.
And Allen was just one person, always frowning, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.
But Erni and his group were seven, constantly goofing around, carefree and cheerful. It made Vesemir nostalgic.
Most witchers, fresh out of their hellish trials, had that same kind of youthful recklessness.
He had been no different.
In the witcher trade, income, life, and reputation were all tied to strength.
Judging by Erni's group's rate of improvement, in less than ten years, they might be capable of hunting large monsters solo, becoming witcher masters.
Of course, Vesemir's achievements now far surpassed theirs, but to attain such power at their age was completely different from gaining it later in life.
Ten years.
By then, these young witchers would barely be twenty-three or twenty-four—standing at the pinnacle of their craft.
What kind of concept was that?!
Vesemir had been nearly fifty before he earned the title of witcher master.
For an ordinary human, that was practically the end of their lifespan.
He didn't know how to describe his feelings. If he were a traveler from another world like Allen, he might have said, 'Fame must come early. If it arrives too late, it's never as sweet.'
Well, everyone had their own fate. No use dwelling on it.
Vesemir shook his head.
When he was their age, he had learned more slowly under Sol's tutelage. The monsters he faced were weaker, and three or four contracts a month, killing a dozen drowners, was already a heavy workload.
Compared to now, in just a few days, the one with the lowest kill count, Spencer, had already slain at least twenty ghouls.
Not to mention, everyone knew why the Chief had approved Allen's Witcher Corps in the first place.
Vesemir let out a deep sigh, realizing Allen hadn't responded to him. He turned to look.
The boy, swords strapped to his back, had clearly forgotten to shave in the morning. His sharp jawline was shadowed with stubble, his brow furrowed, and his piercing blue eyes stared down at the battle below.
But his gaze was vacant, as if he wasn't seeing the fight at all.
"Allen…"
"Allen!"
Vesemir called out twice more before Allen snapped back to reality.
His cat-like blue pupils contracted slightly as he focused on the battlefield below. Seeing that Erni and the others were safe, he turned to Vesemir with a questioning look.
"Still thinking about Ban Ard?" Vesemir asked.
Allen nodded lightly.
His conversation with Tissaia de Vries that morning had been insightful, but the deeper connection between Sunny, Ortolan, and the Rissberg Group still needed uncovering.
And—
After leaving Tissaia's residence, the way Ortolan had paid particular attention to him felt more and more unsettling, like a venomous snake lurking in the grass, watching from the shadows.
He didn't believe Tissaia was deliberately covering for Ortolan.
Both in the original timeline and reality, she was a reliable person.
And given how abruptly he had asked his questions, she had no reason to hide or sugarcoat the truth. Yet at the same time, Allen wasn't convinced Ortolan was as harmless as she made him out to be.
A 'harmless old man who just likes to have fun?' He hadn't questioned it at first, but the more he thought about it, the more unnerving it became.
A scheming villain had a limit to their malice.
But a child with unchecked power? That kind of chaos had no bounds.
Especially when that child held unparalleled wealth, authority, and strength.
Come to think of it—
In the original story, Ortolan had indeed been described as an amoral, playful figure.
And sure, Tissaia was a good person—but had she truly seen Ortolan's real face?
In the original work, during the entire process of the Thanedd Coup, Tissaia de Vries possessed immense magical power and spellcraft, yet she was kept in the dark from start to finish by Vilgefortz and Philippa Eilhart. Soon after, she was betrayed by Vilgefortz, whom she had just rescued.
Later, after escaping Thanedd Island and going into hiding, she was reported by a servant and ultimately forced to take her own life in despair. So, Tissaia de Vries was a sorceress who was upright and followed the rules but lacked the ability to see through people.
Her words could only serve as a reference—specifically, as a reference for the image that Ortolan deliberately crafted for himself.
Of course, aside from his concerns over Ortolan's unusual attention, Allen was also contemplating the response the temple should have regarding Ban Ard.
Although Tissaia de Vries had been forthright in the morning, there were still some critical questions that Allen and Vesemir, due to Tissaia de Vries's position, were not in a convenient position to ask.
For instance, was Ortolan coveting Ban Ard's assets, which was why he chose to aid Sunny at this moment?
Or, did Ortolan have some unknown personal vendetta against Hen Gedymdeith?
------------------------
But these questions were extremely crucial, pointing directly at the core issues.
Allen tried to piece together some answers from Tissaia de Vries's responses earlier that morning.
"If only Lady Vera were here," he sighed internally. "She probably knows a lot, and unlike Tissaia de Vries, there wouldn't be so many restrictions when asking questions. She could even provide some valuable advice."
"Unfortunately, she just went to Toussaint. No matter what happens, she probably won't return to Kaer Morhen for another month or two."
After a moment of silence, a thought suddenly popped into Allen's mind.
"Maybe the other half of the messenger bird should've been given to Lady Vera…"
"Allen." Vesemir's voice interrupted him.
The Witcher master looked at the young man before him with a hint of pity. Unlike most young witchers, Allen wore a constantly worried expression. Vesemir ruffled his hair and sighed.
"You're a newly promoted witcher master who just came down the mountain. Why are you worrying so much about the school?"
"If Sunny wants to leave, let him leave. What does it matter?"
"Chief Sol may be unwilling to relocate the school, but that doesn't mean that just because the male mages of Ban Ard fled, we all have to stay holed up in Kaer Morhen."
"The School of the Wolf only has seventy or eighty members. Worst case, we go stay with the School of the Griffin at Kaer Siren for a few years or even split up for the winter…"
Vesemir paused, then squeezed out two words through his teeth:
"That works too…"
Uh…
That was indeed an option…
But…
Was it really possible?
Allen nodded and said, "I know. Erni and the others have gotten stronger, so there's no need to keep such a close eye on them. I was just thinking about it—doesn't take much effort."
"Mm." Vesemir nodded. "You've only just recovered from your weakness. Don't overwork yourself."
"Otherwise, Nenneke will start nagging at me again. You have no idea how that little girl was yesterday, she just wouldn't stop—"
Allen looked up at Vesemir, who was grumbling like an old man. A warmth spread in his chest, and just as he was about to say something—
"Ding!"
[Monster Group 'Ghoul' LV8, 'Rotfiend' LV27 Subjugation!]
[Reward Calculation: …]
[Final Rating: D (Loot Locked)]
[Acquired Loot: Ghoul Essence 29, Rotfiend Essence 8, Small Experience Orbs 3, Ghoul Chest 2, Rotfiend Chest 2]
[Earned Battle Points: 550]
A series of dense system notifications rang in his ears, cutting him off.
Allen instinctively looked toward the valley.
Severed heads rolled across the dark green grass, foul-smelling blood splattered everywhere.
For some reason, the young witchers loved imitating his method of beheading monsters instead of following Vesemir's method—severing tendons, dismembering limbs, and bleeding the creature dry to systematically eliminate its threat.
Allen beheaded monsters partly because he was used to using [Monster Hunt] and partly because beheading contributed to the "Execution Intimidation" score in the hunt's final rating—it actually had practical benefits.
But to be honest…
Vesemir's approach was the proper way to handle monsters, and it was also the most efficient.
Unfortunately, no matter how many times Allen and Vesemir had told Erni and the others about it, they just wouldn't listen.
They were careful when facing unfamiliar monsters, but when dealing with ghouls—creatures they were all too familiar with—they turned it into a competition, comparing their beheading counts.
If they followed Vesemir's method, they could've ended the fight at least ten minutes earlier. But after a few warnings, Allen couldn't be bothered anymore.
As Vesemir put it, "Once they suffer the consequences, they'll change their ways."
Allen believed him because Vesemir had also said, "Don't worry, I have plenty of experience."
Though Allen wasn't sure if that experience came from suffering losses himself or from teaching many stubborn witchers before.
"Erni, how many this time?"
"Killed seven, beheaded seven. What about you, Spencer?"
"Killed four, beheaded two…"
"Ice, what's with you… only two, and even those are—" Clay looked at the incomplete limbs on the ground in disbelief and moved closer to Ice.
Ice's face turned red, but instead of answering, he glared at Claral.
Claral ignored Ice and hummed a tune he had either heard somewhere or made up himself, with lyrics like "revenge must be taken" and "big mouths must die." Then, he shouted toward Allen:
"Captain, where are we hunting next?"
"Or do we have to track down ghoul activity ourselves?"
As soon as he finished speaking, the young witchers stopped their playful banter and looked nervously at Allen.
According to Vesemir's teachings, tracking monster trails required carefully analyzing scattered and indistinct tracks—sometimes animal, sometimes monster—and moving step by step without getting thrown off by sudden dips or waterways.
Using their sharp senses to detect the foul breath, bodily fluids, and food remnants of corpse-feeding monsters…
It was far less efficient than Allen simply closing his eyes, humming twice, pointing in a direction, and leading the charge.
Hearing Claral's question, Allen ignored the disputes among the young witchers and their barely concealed eagerness. Instead, he looked up at the sky.
The golden sun still hung high—it was still a while before dusk.
Allen quickly estimated the time in his mind, then shook his head. "Neither. Today's hunt ends here. Process the materials and regroup quickly."
"Huh?" The young witchers looked up at the sun almost simultaneously, their voices filled with confusion.
They usually hunted until the sun was about to set. Sometimes, even after sunset, they would continue hunting to train their ability to fight at night while using Cat's Eye potions.
Why were they stopping so early today?
However, after a moment of confusion, none of them dared to ask further. They were afraid that if they asked, the captain might change his mind.
Who wouldn't want an early break?
Of course, if they didn't ask, someone else would.
Vesemir glanced at the sky, then leaned closer to Allen with a puzzled expression. "We're stopping already?"
"The hunt for necrophages is over," Allen nodded. Then, after a pause, he added uncertainly, "I think I might have found a way for you all to quickly learn Battle Roar."
Vesemir:
"?"
"."
"!!!"
.....
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