How Much Is That Poor Boy Mason Offering? I'll Pay Triple!!!

Before the two witchers had taken more than a few steps, the Greater Griffin suddenly crouched down and let out a low, wary cry.

Ailin glanced at Vesemir and had a guess in his mind.

"Are we still leaving?" Vesemir scratched his head, looking at the Greater Griffin's hostile posture.

"Walk."

Ailin sent some emotional reassurances to his mind and took the lead into the depths of the cave, into the darkness where sunlight could not reach.

Seeing this, Vesemir glanced back.

The Greater Griffin scratched the ground with its claws, its wings flapping nervously, but it dared not make a sound.

Only after making eye contact with the Witcher Master did it bare its beak, spread its wings, and expand its body, silently threatening.

"Good Girl, Vesemir is one of us, you can't do this!"

Ailin's voice came from beside him.

The Greater Griffin immediately let out a whimper and folded its wings.

"Tsk tsk..." Vesemir couldn't help but smack his lips.

The fact that top-tier large monsters, which he used to be unable to avoid, were now so close to him, as docile as domesticated animals, was a huge shock to the Witcher Master.

She was like a distant, aloof, and cold duke's widow who had inherited a vast fortune, who looked down on him but was head over heels in love with the poor boy next door and was willing to give everything for him.

"What kind of metaphor is this..." Vesemir shook his head self-deprecatingly.

"Vesemir?"

"They're here."

Vesemir dismissed the strange thoughts in his mind and chased after him in a few steps.

The "Duke's Widow" was left alone, anxiously flapping her wings and gripping the ground.

"Da da da~"

The two witchers quickly reached the depths of the cave, to the spot where the Greater Griffin had initially been lying down to sleep.

Eight giant eggs, each about half a person's height and entirely brown, nestled in a small hill of corpses, blending seamlessly into their surroundings.

"Really!"

What could cause a female Greater Griffin to change her nesting habits?

This is certainly not hard to guess.

However, when Ailin actually saw the eggs, his heart started pounding faster.

"What a wonderful surprise!" he exclaimed involuntarily.

The eight Greater Griffin Eggs might mean eight Great Griffin Knight... no... they should be Greater Griffin witchers...

He could already picture himself leading eight demon hunters wielding lances, soaring through the skies and crushing the enemy army with overwhelming force.

"This is indeed a big surprise."

Vesemir laughed heartily, and seeing the joy on Ailin's face, he knew what he was thinking.

It wasn't because he could read minds, but because he also harbored the same thoughts.

Who wouldn't want to ride on the back of Greater Griffin and soar through the sky?

"But that's not so easy."

Vesemir's burning gaze was fixed on the enormous monster egg:

"In the past, there have been audacious individuals who stole the eggs of Greater Griffin or other monsters, but so far, no Greater Griffin has been captured... uh... except for you, no one else has."

"Yes, it might be difficult," Ailin nodded in agreement, "But I have their mother to help me, don't I?"

"That's true." Vesemir turned to look at the Greater Griffin, which was sharpening its claws and looking very agitated, and said with a sigh, "Who knows, I might actually see a group of witchers riding Greater Griffin flying in the sky in Kaer Morhen."

"You must be one of them!" Ailin turned around and promised earnestly, "I hope you're the first one."

"That must be mine," Vesemir laughed heartily without hesitation.

The tense cries of Greater Griffin could be heard again from not far away.

"Where to next?" Vesemir looked at the eggs one last time with lingering affection.

Ailin squinted at the outside of the cave. It was probably around two or three in the afternoon, and the sunlight was so bright it was almost blinding.

"After getting my things from the inn, I set off for Arland."

"Maybe we can reach the Temple of Melitele before sunset..."

Vesemir nodded, glanced at the Greater Griffin, hesitated for a moment, and asked:

"Should I sit on that one and go back too?"

"Of course!" Ailin laughed heartily and walked towards the Greater Griffin.

——

Vengerberg.

"Bang!"

A pair of fists clad in expensive leather gloves slammed onto the table, splashing the freshly poured rose-red wine from the tin and silver glasses.

"Hide, hide, hide!" the glove's owner roared furiously. "The master of Ard has to run around and hide in his house every day because of a flying, feathery beast!"

"Is it possible that without those damned, treacherous, magic-playing bastards, there isn't a single warrior in my vast country capable of eliminating those beasts?"

"Ah!" the owner of the gloves roared.

The shock caused the majestic half-length portrait behind him, depicting a crowned figure with both hands resting on a sword, to tilt, making it appear particularly comical in this solemn setting.

"Answer me! My King's Hand!"

The elderly man with gray hair, who was being stared at by the owner of the gloves, sighed and remained silent.

"Minister of Military Affairs!"

The balding middle-aged man remained silent.

"His Majesty!"

Just then, a knight walked in from outside the council chamber and came to their rescue.

"Speak!" King Demavend II of Ard, wearing gloves, waved his hand with an ugly expression.

The knight knelt on one knee, trembling, and reported:

"No civilians were abducted today, and the supplies prepared for the front lines are all in good condition..."

"Phew~"

Everyone in the council chamber, young and old, even the guards and palace maids, breathed a sigh of relief in unison.

"But..."

"But what?! Stop babbling... Speak quickly!" The knight hesitated for only a second before Demavend II's impatient urging caught up.

The knight, terrified, immediately reported:

"However, the Vivaldi Bank in the upper city was destroyed by the Greater Griffin, and those dwarves are now demanding an explanation at the palace gates..."

"We demand an explanation!" Demavend II suddenly stood up and slammed his right fist on the table, interrupting the knight.

The silver wine glass immediately tipped over, splashing the wine-red liquid onto his elegant and expensive black velvet shirt, which enraged him even more.

"Ta-da~"

Demavend II leaped down from his magnificent high back, rushed to the knight in a few strides, and pointed at his nose, roaring:

"Those damned dwarves, trying to take me, the king of this country, what do they want... Ah! What do they want? Tell me!"

The knight instinctively leaned back and swallowed hard.

"They... they want compensation..."

Demavend II remained silent, only staring fiercely at the knight, as if he could see through the knight's eyes those bloodsucking dwarven bankers who were standing in front of his palace denouncing him.

"What if I don't pay?" His tone was unexpectedly cold, which made the knight even more afraid.

The knight said in a trembling voice:

"If they don't pay compensation, they will withdraw the Vivaldi Bank from Ard."

Before he could finish speaking, the bald man whom Demavend II called the Minister of Military Affairs slammed his fist on the table, stood up, and roared with a contorted expression, "They dare!"

"Of course they dare." The usually volatile Demavend II seemed to have calmed down, his anger subsiding.

Because the Vivaldi Bank is not just a simple bank.

All the countries of the Northern Continent communicate with Mahakam through this bank; in other words, they communicate with the largest arms dealer in the Northern Continent.

The king deposited money in a bank for transfer, and the bank assessed the country's strength and provided guarantees for Mahakam to place orders.

Demavend II knew very well that Kedwen's strength was not weak... no... it could even be said to be very strong. If it weren't for the Glutton's sudden and suspicious death, Ard would still be quietly accumulating strength.

Therefore, this war will be a protracted one, and every factor is very important, especially the most important weapons and equipment.

The most important batch of munitions for the war has not yet been delivered, and a large number of swords, crossbows, bows and arrows are still being forged.

"Tell those vampires," Demavend II took a deep breath, suppressing his rage, "That even if my palace is completely destroyed by those damned flying beasts, I will find a way to rebuild their damned, magnificent coffins forged from the blood of Ard ..."

"You really said that to those dwarves?" The knight paused, "Vampires and coffins..."

"Of course not!" The white-haired old man, whom Demavend II called the King's Hand, quickly spoke up before the king, angered by the naive child chosen from who-knows-where, might punch himself in the armor and injure himself:

"Just tell them that the King and the Royal Council will find a way to repair the Vivaldi Bank as soon as possible."

"Yes!" The knight realized he had misspoke, bowed to the king and the other ministers in the council chamber, and quickly left.

"Don't be angry, Your Majesty." The King's Hand saw that Demavend II's face had turned purple with anger and quickly comforted him, "The Knights' Terrick has taken the veterans to the battlefield, and it's inevitable that the newcomers don't know the rules."

"Yes, yes," the other ministers echoed.

"Your health is of utmost importance. You must also lead us to victory over those hypocritical, brutal, despicable, and shameless nobles and wizards of Kedwen."

Demavend II took a deep breath, waved his hand, and sat back in his high-backed chair.

The servant beside him had already wiped the damp table clean and poured another glass of wine.

"Gurgle~"

He downed the wine in one gulp with a rough manner, then looked at a middle-aged man with an ordinary appearance on the table:

"What was the strange phenomenon in the north last night? Have you found out?"

"It will take some more time." The middle-aged man shook his head.

Demavend II did not pursue the matter further, but instead imprisoned the warlock in the dungeon. There would certainly be some delays in intelligence gathering, but compared to the leakage of his own intelligence, this was not a big deal.

The waiter poured the wine, and he raised his cup to take another small sip, when suddenly he remembered something, put down the cup, and asked:

"Horton Qui-Gon... didn't you find anything at Fergen's?"

The middle-aged man's expression changed, though only for a moment, but it still couldn't escape Demavend II's notice.

"What's wrong?" he asked, frowning.

The middle-aged man hesitated for a long while before finally sighing under Demavend II's increasingly perceptive gaze:

"There was news a few days ago that Lord Horton stopped the guards inspecting the male witches, preventing them from using the detection equipment, and instead let a caravan into the city..."

Demavend II raised an eyebrow. "And then?"

"Our men caught up with them, and when they counted the heads, they found that nine people were missing," the middle-aged man said truthfully.

Then, seemingly worried that the king might overthink things, he paused and said something on behalf of Horton Qui-Gon:

"Although Lord Horton has never admitted it, given His Majesty's favor and his unwavering loyalty to the kingdom, it is impossible for Lord Horton to work for a male wizard. Those people must be witchers from the School of the Wolf."

"But...aren't nine people too many?" the King's Hand said. "I don't doubt Horton's loyalty, that's beyond question. It's just that the School of the Wolf's witchers usually travel alone, at most in pairs—a traveling mentor and a traveling apprentice..."

Demavend II remained silent, seemingly deep in thought.

The middle-aged man waited until the King's Hand finished speaking before respectfully saying:

"His Excellency Mars's reasoning is sound, but in our subsequent investigation, we discovered that an alarm had sounded at his residence the night before Lord Horton intercepted and inspected the guards, but the patrolling guards were dismissed by Lord Horton himself..."

"The lock on the second floor of the residence was broken, and the marks were very similar to the effects of a sign called Igni, a type of sign used by the School of the Wolf Witchers."

"Furthermore, although those nine people didn't carry dual swords like typical witchers, they were all dressed as mercenaries, and eight of them looked exceptionally young, the oldest being only fifteen years old..."

The King's Hand remained silent, for the conclusion was obvious.

After a moment's hesitation, the King's Hand spoke:

"Lord Horton, it's possible that the guards refused to let us through because our commission was rejected by the Witcher."

"After all, as you know, he has always been a pure dwarf."

"A mere dwarf..." Demavend II tapped the armrest and muttered under his breath, "Haven't I been good enough to him?"

"Of course not..." The King's Hand's words to defend the dwarves were interrupted by Demavend II raising his hand.

He looked at the middle-aged man and asked, "And then what? Nine people just disappeared from my country? During wartime alert?"

"Our people have located their trail," the middle-aged man quickly explained. "These nine people should be near Vengerberg, but we haven't confirmed it yet, so we haven't moved in..."

"How many days?" Demavend II interrupted.

"Two days! Two days at most!" the middle-aged man said decisively. "If I can't bring them here in two days, I will volunteer to go to the front lines and fight alongside those prisoners of war to conquer new territories for the kingdom."

Demavend II slammed his hand on the table with a flourish. "Fine, I'll give you two days."

"However, no force is allowed. Show them respect and invite them over. How much benefit can a duke of Arland give to the School of the Wolf? We can offer two... no... three times that amount!"

"The Mahakam Mountains are crowded with the Temple of Melitele, the city of Arland, and the dwarf settlement!"

"Why not come to Ard, the eastern outskirts of Vengerberg, around the Adria Mountains? Let them choose any location, and I'll cover all the expenses for building the castle!"

Demavend II spoke with great magnanimity, and several ministers and guards flattered him repeatedly, but the old man with gray hair, the King's Hand, looked worried.

The sounds in the council chamber ceased.

The King's Hand hesitated for two seconds before finally speaking:

"Your Majesty, the School of the Wolf... the School of the Wolf adheres to neutrality, perhaps... perhaps we should consider a truce with Kedwen..."

"Waaah—"

Before the King's Hand could finish speaking, and as Demavend II was raising his eyebrows in a rage, a warning horn suddenly sounded outside the palace.

"What's going on?" Demavend II roared.

"Ta-da!"

The knight who had just left to deliver the message to the dwarf banker stumbled in, shouting:

"Your Majesty... the monster is back!!!"

"What!"

The king and his ministers in the council chamber jumped up from their seats in alarm.

"Thump!"

A majestic half-length portrait of Demavend II, wearing a crown and holding a sword with his hands at an angle.

It landed with a loud thud.