The mountain hollow fell silent for a moment before erupting into chaos.
"Dragon!!!"
Several young witchers leaped off the stone platform, exclaiming in unison.
A dragon!
A creature of legend, capable of incinerating an entire city with a single breath of fire. A favorite of magic, standing at the pinnacle of power in the world and in every knight's tale.
And it wasn't just real dragons—any monster with "dragon" in its name, or any creature classified as a draconic beast in monster studies, such as forktail dragons, basilisk lizards, cockatrices, royal wyverns, or dracolizards…
Every single one of them stood at the top tier of large monsters in terms of power.
And yet, when examined closely, these creatures were merely dragon beasts. No matter how one evaluated them, they were leagues apart from a true dragon.
"The Chief's Trial of the Grasses potion was made using a dragon?" Allen was stunned for several seconds after hearing this.
To be honest…
Although the mutations caused by the Trial of the Grasses differed based on the ingredients used, there was no fundamental power gap between witchers from the Wolf, Griffin, Bear, or Viper schools. Their differences lay in areas of specialization.
Those with greater strength lacked agility and sign potency…
Those with powerful signs were weaker in swordsmanship and raw strength…
Ultimately, a witcher's strength depended not on their mutation but on their personal talent and training.
But a dragon…
A dragon was a different matter altogether. In a way, it embodied raw power and magic itself. Thus, Allen's shock was no less than that of Erni, Claral, and the others.
Vesemir had anticipated their astonishment.
Once the excitement had cooled a little, he leisurely patted the nonexistent dust off his black wide-brimmed hat and continued: "To be precise, it shouldn't be called the Trial of the Grasses…"
"When Alzur arrived in this world with humanity, one of the three earliest human kingdoms, the Dezmod Dynasty, had a king who delivered the 'Witcher's Speech…'"
"Master Vesemir, what exactly did Alzur say?" Ice was curious.
"Yes, what did he say?" Clay and Hughes chimed in.
Legends described his voice as the call of a hunting horn and his words as the rhetoric of a master orator.
Even Allen was interested, despite not usually caring for such things.
Seeing their curiosity, Vesemir coughed twice, clearing his throat: "Your Majesty, we live in an extremely harsh world."
"It is filled with countless terrifying and sinister beasts. No matter how strong or weak, all living things are nothing but their prey. These creatures are the offspring of nightmares!"
"But there is a way!"
"If we break free from the chains of a cowardly council, we can create something new!"
"Hunters who combine strength, speed, and agility—well-equipped and capable of subduing any foe."
"Bards will sing of their achievements for generations to come because, sometimes…"
Vesemir paused for a second, his molten gold eyes scanning each witcher around him. Then, in a low, deadly voice, he said: "Only a monster can fight a monster."
The cadence of Vesemir's speech, the rise and fall of emotion, left everyone stunned—it was nothing like his usual lecture style.
Especially the final sentence. It sent shivers down their spines.
Recalling Vesemir's origins, Allen suspected this was a story once told to him by Sol, the Chief of the Dragon School, when he was still an apprentice on his travels.
"And then?" Erni pressed.
Vesemir hesitated for a moment, then continued: "Then, with the support of the Dezmod Dynasty's king, Alzur and Cosimo Malaspina obtained an experimental site, an abundance of magical materials, and… raw materials."
"Raw materials? What do you mean—" Hughes started to ask, but Erni and Claral, who had gone pale, quickly tugged at his sleeve.
Vesemir sighed. "Yes, the raw materials were humans. Large numbers of humans."
A heavy silence fell over the young witchers.
"Back to the main point."
Not wanting the somber atmosphere to linger, Vesemir shifted the topic: "Setting aside those unfortunate souls who died immediately due to their age."
"The first batches of children perished either from potion rejection or during monster hunts. If you count from there, Erland and Arnaghad belonged to the third or fourth generations of witchers."
"But once the experiments saw some degree of success, Alzur and Cosimo Malaspina realized that the resulting witchers fell far short of their expectations."
"In their vision, witchers were meant to be akin to sorcerers—born with immense magical potential while possessing physical attributes, strength, and agility that far surpassed ordinary humans."
"Yet, the early batches of witchers had only meager magical abilities. Their mana reserves barely allowed them to perform simple cantrips."
"The research hit a dead end…"
"The Brotherhood of Sorcerers had always opposed such inhumane experimentation, and their voices gained the upper hand."
"It was at that moment…"
Vesemir paused, taking off his black wide-brimmed hat and playing with it between his fingers.
"Perhaps Alzur suddenly recalled his own words—the very ones he had spoken to convince humanity's rulers in the king's palace."
"In the end, he remembered one crucial phrase—"
"Only a monster can fight a monster."
"That led to an obvious conclusion…"
"The strongest witchers could only be created from the remains of the strongest monsters?" Allen's mind clicked into place.
Vesemir nodded. "Exactly. The most powerful monsters often possessed the greatest magical strength, and at that time, magic was the supreme force."
"With the backing of the Brotherhood of Sorcerers and the greatest human kingdom, Alzur and Cosimo Malaspina had access to the most comprehensive collection of monster materials in the Northern Continent, including the rarest and strongest creatures."
"And if they didn't have them, well—Alzur and Cosimo Malaspina were powerful sorcerers themselves. Initially, they compromised to ensure their apprentices—no, their test subjects—had a higher survival rate."
"But once they realized their original approach wasn't viable, the sorcerers immediately overhauled the formula. The first thing they thought of was a creature with immense physical power and overwhelming magical abilities—a dragon."
"The results were obviously disastrous," Allen murmured. He could almost smell the blood behind Vesemir's words.
A simple phrase like "overhauled the formula" concealed countless deaths…
"Indeed." Vesemir placed his black wide-brimmed hat back on his head, gazing into the distant Mahakam mountain range.
After a long silence, he took a deep breath and said: "I don't know how many experiments were conducted, but in the end, only the Chief of the Dragon School, Sol, survived."
"Alzur and Cosimo Malaspina ultimately abandoned the idea of using the strongest monster materials for mutations. Instead, they shifted their focus to increasing the stability of the potion and the overall strength of witchers."
Silence once again filled the mountain hollow.
"So… how was Chief Sol different from Grandmaster Erland and Arnaghad?" asked the youngest witcher, Spencer.
Vesemir, still lost in the grim history of the witchers, hesitated slightly before answering:
"It's hard to say. Under normal circumstances, Chief Sol fought just like a Wolf School witcher."
"After all, every witcher's combat techniques can be traced back to him."
"As for the true difference brought by dragon-based mutations… that might only be visible when Chief Sol fought at full strength."
Seeing the eager eyes around him, Vesemir sighed, exasperated.
"Don't look at me like that… I've never seen Chief Sol fight at full strength. Against ordinary monsters, large beasts—even a Leshen—he handled them effortlessly, like… like…"
He struggled to find a fitting analogy.
At that moment, Ice glanced at Allen and suddenly suggested, "Like the captain in fifty years?"
Vesemir blinked, then chuckled and nodded. "Yes, just like Allen in fifty years."
Allen, the subject of comparison, could only shake his head helplessly and offer a few modest words.
Yet, deep inside, he thought, 'Do I really need fifty years to surpass Chief Sol?'
"All right, enough stories for today," Vesemir said, patting his leg before standing up. "What's next, Allen?"
The young witchers, still recalling Vesemir's dramatic storytelling, turned to Allen with eager eyes—so intense they could melt the winter ice.
Allen looked up at the sky.
The sun was already setting.
The setting sun hung in the sky, dyeing the snow-white clouds a deep red.
Everything between heaven and earth seemed to be bathed in blood.
He took a breath, and his nose was filled with a strong scent of rust.
Stunned for a moment, Allen realized that the metallic scent mixed with a foul stench came from the young witchers who had just finished slaughtering the corpse-eating creatures.
Looking again.
The world had returned to its original state. The evening glow over the mountains was breathtakingly beautiful.
He chuckled inwardly, shook his head, withdrew his gaze, and said softly: "Vesemir, try again and see if you can cast it yourself."
"If there's no problem..."
Before the words were fully spoken, Vesemir's eyes widened. With a furious roar of "Yirulr," his body immediately swelled.
This time—
Vesemir even managed to control the burst of air, directing it toward an empty area.
As expected of the true genius of the School of the Wolf… Allen marveled and said, "Very good. Erni, you go first!"
The young witchers lined up and were initiated one by one, without a single failure.
In fact, because the young witchers were weaker and their instinctive resistance was lower due to their status as part of the Witcher Corps, the average initiation time was at least half of what it had taken Vesemir.
Before nightfall, all seven had completed the process.
However, just as Allen withdrew the ritual from Hughes's body and was about to discuss the next steps, he noticed that not only had the young witchers not yet adjusted to "Battle Roar: Berserk," but they were actually playing around with it.
"Yirulr!"
"Ah! Damn it, Ice, you ambushed me!"
"Hahaha, come at me if you dare, Claral!"
"Yirulr!"
"Ah!"
"Yirulr!"
"Clay, you—!"
"Chase me if you can!"
------------------------------
The cries of "Berserk" echoed one after another.
Their bodies glowed with a faint yellow light as they bounced around the mountain hollow, their laughter blending into a joyous cacophony.
"Forget it…" Allen stopped Vesemir, who was about to intervene, and gestured toward Hughes, who was itching to join in. "You go too…"
Before he had even finished speaking—
Hughes let out an excited shout and leaped into the fray.
With a single battle roar, Erni—who had been spectating at the edge—was caught off guard and blasted into the center of the battlefield.
Seeing Vesemir hesitate to speak, Allen glanced at the young witchers playing and brawling energetically in the hollow and said, "Let them play. They're still just kids…"
Vesemir opened his mouth, then looked at the slight smile curling at Allen's lips and sighed internally.
"Aren't you also a kid?"
----------------------
Although Allen had stopped Vesemir from calling them back too soon, Erni, Claral, and the others didn't play for long.
After about five minutes, they returned.
Not because they were particularly sensible or didn't want to play longer.
Rather, while the side effects of "Battle Roar: Berserk" were far lighter than those of "Beast Roar: Berserk," and the young witchers were only activating and deactivating berserk mode briefly, the weakness afterward hadn't disappeared.
Instead, it accumulated bit by bit.
By the time it took them nearly half a minute to resist the impact of activation, the growing awkward silence—combined with Vesemir and Allen's watchful gazes—naturally made them stop playing.
After that—
"Yirulr!"
Scattered battle roars echoed through the hollow once more.
"Still not working?"
Taking advantage of a short break before the arrival of the royal griffin, they tried "Battle Roar" a few more times, and even used "Beast Roar" as a guide.
Allen looked at the exhausted young witchers sprawled on the ground, their faces pale, and sighed.
Trying to activate the Level 2 "Legion Skill: Resonance" immediately after learning "Battle Roar: Berserk" was still too much.
They couldn't even maintain a unified roar.
Of course, it wasn't a total failure.
After days of stagnation, their sudden breakthrough—learning Battle Roar itself—was already a major achievement.
With the strength of seven young witchers in berserk mode, Allen believed they could definitely challenge a giant ghoul.
Besides—
During one of the battle roars, he had sensed a subtle tremor in their muscles, as if they were preparing for something greater.
Battle Roar was the future of the legion!
"Alright, that's enough for now. Let's try again…"
Allen was about to instruct the apprentices to get up and give it another go when—
A familiar cry, carrying an overwhelming presence, descended from the sky.
Alright then, good girl had arrived.
Allen clapped his hands. "Alright, wipe off the sweat and dust. We're heading back."
The young witchers cheered and jumped up from the ground, as if the exhaustion and pallor on their faces had never existed.
----------------------------
Back at the temple, it was unclear whether Erni and the others were worried that Vesemir would make them train more.
The moment the good girl landed, they quickly unfastened their buckles and dashed noisily toward the witchers' quarters.
"What a bunch of kids!"
Allen exchanged a glance with Vesemir, shaking his head with a smile.
As he stepped down from the royal griffin, he noticed that Claral hadn't followed the others.
The young witcher's face was stiff as he forced a smile at the two master witchers. He opened his mouth, hesitating.
"Is something wrong?" Allen asked curiously.
Vesemir also stepped closer, patting Claral's shoulder as he jokingly said, "Don't tell me you want to stay behind for extra training?"
Clearly—
To Claral, whose expression grew even more rigid, this was not a funny joke.
However—
He still took a deep breath, looked at Allen, and hesitantly asked: "Captain, are we witchers… really just monsters?"
.....
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