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It was an absolute, unadulterated miracle, in his honest, professional opinion, that any of them survived at all.
Still, despite the miraculous nature of their induced magic, witchers did have definite limitations.
Their magical pool was very, very small, especially when compared to the sorcerers and sorceresses of this world, who seemed to possess, on average, much larger, much more potent magical reserves than even the most powerful wizards and witches from his own original world.
This was probably due, Harry theorized, to the fact that the magic-users here didn't generally rely on magical focuses like wands or staves, instead channeling raw magic directly.
A witcher, by comparison, had just enough innate magic to perform some of the weaker, more basic spells.
In fact, he was almost certain that the five main Signs they were known to use Aard, Igni, Yrden, Quen, and Axii had been specifically, and very cleverly, modified and simplified over time so that they could be used more easily, more efficiently, with such a limited magical capacity.
At the end of all his detailed observations and meticulous tests, Harry finally, and rather reluctantly, concluded that it was most likely that whoever had originally concocted the complex, dangerous formula to give witchers their unique mutagens, they had probably made it largely by either sheer, dumb luck, or perhaps even completely by accident.
If the limited calculations he could make, based on the biological evidence before him, were even remotely correct, then it was primarily a matter of incredible luck, as well as the precise order and exact timing of the administering of the various volatile ingredients, that really made the crucial difference between a successful transformation and a gruesome, agonizing death.
He was pretty sure, based on his analysis, that the various mutagens all conflicted violently with each other within the subject's body, but in just a certain, very specific, almost paradoxical way, that it would occasionally, very occasionally, allow a strong enough, resilient enough individual to somehow live through the horrific ordeal of the Trial.
Then, once the initial transformation was complete, the mutagens would continue to both work against and with each other within the witcher's system, simultaneously strengthening the user in some aspects while also, paradoxically, weakening or counteracting the effects of the other mutagens in their body as much as they possibly could.
It was a delicate, precarious, and utterly insane biological balancing act.
The final product of this chaotic, brutal process, if it was somehow successful, was a witcher. A witcher, Harry now realized with a new level of understanding, being a poorly crafted, highly unstable, mutated human being who was, in reality, always living precariously on the very cusp of catastrophic biological failure, without even realizing it themselves.
'I can't believe someone actually made such a poorly crafted, inefficient, and downright dangerous formula...' Harry thought to himself, shaking his head in a mixture of awe and disbelief.
'I mean, obviously, there have to be better, safer, more effective ways to magically and biologically enhance people… I think… Probably… Hmmm… I wonder if… NO! No, I need to stay focused on the plan! Ciri! Finding Ciri again, that's the plan!'
He mentally chastised himself. But then, another, more insidious thought crept in. 'But… I do still have quite a few years ahead of me, don't I? Before she's even born. And getting some more practical, hands-on experience with the unique anatomy and physiology of the different creatures and races of this world… well, that might actually end up helping me in the long run… right? It's all… research!'
He sighed. 'Well… maybe just a few more years of dedicated study, I suppose. A little side project. Just to keep my skills sharp. And then, it's right back to planning for Ciri! Definitely!'
~~~~
Year 1229
Harry's POV:
"Are you the one they call the Black Mage?" a regal, yet undeniably beautiful woman asked him, her voice carrying an air of authority.
Harry, who had been thoroughly engrossed in a rather fascinating treatise on interdimensional botany, looked up from his book with a confused, slightly annoyed raised eyebrow.
He was currently trying to enjoy a rare moment of peace and quiet, reading in a public garden in the surprisingly picturesque city of Cintra.
He was briefly, peripherally conscious of the fact that the entire street, all the passersby and merchants, had suddenly gone silent and were now staring intently at the woman who had just addressed him.
This meant she was either royalty of some significance, or at the very least, a very high-ranking, influential noble.
"The what now?" Harry asked, his confusion genuine. Black Mage? That was a new one.
"The Black Mage," the woman repeated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the entire world. "As in, the immortal Black Mage that randomly appears every few years, out of nowhere, and seems to cause both great miracles and terrible disasters wherever he goes."
Harry just stared at her, a flicker of surprise finally registering on his face. He didn't remember acquiring a title, especially one as… dramatic as that.
Then again, he tended to stay away from most towns and cities as a general rule. There was usually at least one person, one idiot, in every populated area that would inevitably cause him to lose his carefully maintained cool, go completely berserk, and start… redecorating the local landscape with extreme prejudice. It was just easier for everyone if he kept to himself.
"I don't think I have ever been called that in my entire life," Harry finally said, neither confirming nor denying the woman's rather bold question, mostly because he honestly didn't know the answer himself.
"Was it not you," the woman continued, her gaze unwavering, her voice calm but persistent, "who first appeared in the town of Belhaven, many years ago, where you… massacred a significant portion of the town guard because they were attempting to unjustly kill an elven girl?"
Harry looked at the woman fully now, his initial annoyance giving way to a cautious curiosity.
He did, indeed, remember a rather unpleasant incident in Belhaven, a town he had subsequently made sure to avoid.
He had, in fact, killed some particularly unpleasant guards because they had been about to publicly execute an innocent elven girl.
"It was hardly an actual portion of the town, more like a handful of overly aggressive guards who tried to stop me from intervening," Harry remarked, his tone dry. "Everyone else just… ran off, rather quickly."
The woman nodded, a small, satisfied smile touching her lips. "I thought it was you," she said, her voice softening slightly.
"I wish to beg for your assistance, Black Mage, as I am in dire, desperate need of your unique services." She then, much to Harry's surprise, sat down gracefully on the bench next to him, her expression turning deeply serious.
Harry had to physically hold in a sigh of exasperation. The very last thing he wanted to do, ever, was to get himself entangled with a noble, especially a queen.
They either wanted to use his power for their own gain, or they wanted something from him that he was unwilling or unable to give. Neither of those scenarios was something he was remotely okay with.
"I'm actually rather busy at the moment," Harry said, deliberately brushing the woman off as he turned back to his book, hoping she'd take the hint. "So, you'll probably have to schedule an appointment. My P.A. is… notoriously difficult to get a hold of."
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If you want to read ahead by 15+ chapters from her you can visit my Patre-on.
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