Ban Ard Will Never Be a Threat Again

"You took the wrong one?"

Nannick took the knife, held it in his hand, and examined it carefully. "That's right, this is the number four scalpel."

"I didn't say the model didn't match," Ianna pointed to Ailin, who was lying on the treatment table, with a white scratch about the length of an index finger on his back, as if someone had accidentally scratched him with a fingernail. "I just said, was this knife used by a priest or physician before, and wasn't maintained or sharpened?"

"The blood clots must be completely drained before further treatment can be carried out, but the knife is so dull that it can't even cut through the surface layer of skin."

"Maybe," Nannick didn't think much of it, and took out another slender scalpel from the cold metal box beside him, heating it over the flickering flame lamp for a while. "I'll ask Benna about it tomorrow; some careless person must have forgotten..."

"Hmm," Ianna took the knife, looking at Nannick with a cold face, "Investigate this seriously, this is not a small matter."

"Right now it's just that the knives haven't been maintained, but what about later?"

"Could it be that the gauze was forgotten to be steamed, the ointment was added with the wrong formula, or the delivery was delayed..."

Ianna's words, which were tinged with anger, suddenly stopped, because another white mark appeared on Ailin's back.

This time the white marks were even lighter than last time.

Ianna frowned and made another cut along the muscle lines with the handle.

"Squeak--"

The harsh sound of a dull knife cutting through cowhide is unpleasant.

Even with increased force, there was no bloody gash as expected; instead, a white mark appeared on the smooth, purplish-bruised surface of his back.

"How careless!" Nannick scolded sharply. "Tomorrow, you must give the responsible priests and apprentices a good talking-to..."

Then she took out a knife, disinfected it, and handed it to Ianna.

Ianna didn't take it immediately. Instead, she held the knife in her hand flat in front of her eyes and examined it carefully for a long time before taking the next knife.

"Creak—"

It still hadn't broken through, but Ailin groaned as the bruising pressed against the torn muscle.

Even Vesemir could see that something seemed to be wrong.

"High Priest, there are only three No. 4 scalpels in the iron box..."

"It's not a problem with the scalpel."

Ianna waved her hand to interrupt Nannick and looked down at Ailin.

Aside from the bruises that covered almost his entire back, and a few scars from the training exercises...

Ailin's body was the most well-proportioned and healthy body she had ever seen, but even so, from the outside, it was just a human body.

Without dragon Dragon Scales, the Rock Troll's rocks, skin, and even tentacles were as smooth as a newborn's.

Why?

After thinking for a few seconds, Ianna turned her head and waved to Vesemir.

"High Priest Ianna?" The Witcher Master leaned closer and asked with concern, "Is Ailin alright?"

Ianna shook her head. "It's not certain yet. Hold out your hand first."

Reach out?

Vesemir instinctively raised his right hand.

"Don't hide..."

A flash of cold light!

The blade sliced across the back of the Witcher Master's hand.

Out of trust in High Priest Meritellie and out of concern for Ailin, Vesemir did not make a move.

Besides, that dull, strange dagger hadn't even scratched Ailin's skin, so he didn't think he would get hurt.

really.

Vesemir didn't feel any pain before the knife was withdrawn.

There wasn't even a tiny cut on the back of my hand...

"Um?"

The Witcher Master's eyes widened.

One second passed.

A tiny gash appeared where the blade had cut, and blood beads quickly seeped out.

How can this be considered dull?

This is clearly the kind of delayed wound that only occurs when the blade is extremely sharp.

But he... but Vesemir clearly saw that it was this "dagger" that slashed hard across Ailin's back, leaving only a white mark.

"This shouldn't be happening..." Ianna waved her hand, summoning a golden light that covered the back of Vesemir's hand, instantly healing the tiny wound. "The No. 4 scalpel can cut through even tough cowhide and slice bone into thin pieces..."

"There's no reason why a witcher shouldn't be able to even break through the skin..."

The short blade, known as the No. 4 scalpel, gently pricked Ailin all over his body.

The knife tip sank into flesh, but failed to make a cut.

Not long after it was removed, the skin returned to its original state.

Ailin, however, cried out a few more times instinctively because of the pain.

This made Ianna suddenly realize the strange looks from Lyra, Nannick, and Vesemir, and Lyra's strong, unspoken dissatisfaction.

"Cough cough~"

Ianna awkwardly withdrew her scalpel, hesitated for a second, and asked:

"Your School of the Wolf has improved the recipe for the Trial of Grasses again?"

Vesemir frowned.

"If it's a secret, then there's no need to say it." Although Ianna was old, her eyesight was still very good.

"It's not exactly a secret," Vesemir shook his head. "There have been some changes to the trial process, but these all happened after Ailin passed the trial."

"As far as I know..."

The Witcher Master stroked the bristles of his Black Wide-brimmed Hat, recalling the scene of the School of the Cat Witcher's attack. "The Witchers who passed the trials with him were all cut by normal swords."

"What about Ailin?" Ianna asked curiously.

"Ailin ..." Vesemir murmured, his brows furrowed. "Ailin ..."

Thinking back, the Witcher Master suddenly realized that although Ailin had been injured before, they had both almost died in the Gors Velen some time ago.

But to be honest.

Vesemir had indeed never seen Ailin injured by a sharp weapon.

During the School of the Cat's night raid, he single-handedly took down a senior assassin from the School of the Cat. Later, in the Apprentice Combat Tournament, those poor apprentices from the School of the Cat even took potent drugs, and were easily defeated even when several of them ganged up on them...

Later on, even Vesemir himself and Aristo, one of the top three swordsmen of the School of the Wolf, were no match for him...

Tsk tsk!

This apprentice of his is truly outrageous!

"I'm sorry," Vesemir shook his head, "I've never seen Ailin injured by a sword before, and I don't know... what his condition is like now..."

"Not even once?"

The three priests, from oldest to youngest but from shortest to tallest, dressed in identical gray linen robes, surrounded the naked Ailin, who was lying face down, and stared wide-eyed at each other.

It looks ridiculous.

However, Vesemir did not laugh. Instead, he thought for a while and then affirmed:

"Before the Trial of Grasses, I wasn't sure, but after the Trial of Grasses... Ailin was my traveling apprentice, spending most of his time with me, and I genuinely haven't seen him..."

"Incredible! Truly incredible!" Nannick muttered softly, "No wonder he became a hero of Arland ... the Blue Death ..."

Lyra didn't speak, but glanced at Ailin a few times with sparkling eyes.

"That's really impressive. Even Soyer couldn't do that."

Ianna also made a comment of praise.

But then he remembered something, looked down at the gleaming scalpel in his hand, and shook his head helplessly:

"But if we can't cut the skin, how can we drain the bruises and treat the injury?"

"Although Witchers have strong self-healing abilities, the accumulation of blood clots that obstruct blood flow and hinder muscle growth and recovery is still fatal to them..."

The treatment room suddenly fell silent.

Everyone racked their brains.

Based on his centuries of experience hunting demons, Vesemir had actually come up with a method, but it was so absurd that he hesitated for a moment.

Just as a soft golden light emanated from Ianna's hand, as she prepared to examine it one last time...

"I..."

"Ailin spoke!" Lyra immediately stood up straight.

"What?"

Everyone held their breath as Ianna pressed her ear to Ailin's mouth.

"E... Er... Sha..." After listening carefully for a while, she looked up and asked in confusion, "What does 'E Er Sha' mean..."

"It's Elsa ... Elsa ..." Lyra interrupted urgently, "It's Ailin's sword, the silver sword he named himself, the one he used to hunt many large monsters..."

Was Elsa named by Ailin?

Vesemir's idea was confirmed by the person involved, and he was just about to speak excitedly when he heard Lyra's words and paused, forgetting what he was going to say.

"I've heard of it too," Nannick nodded slightly, "" The Death Knight from the North, set to music by the bard Ymir, is a song many wounded people like to sing..."

"... A fourteen-year -Young Knight of Arland named his beloved Silver White Longsword Elsa..."

She hummed a few lines softly.

Did bards write poems and compose music?

Vesemir pursed his lips and subconsciously gripped the wide-brimmed hat in his hand, wrinkling the brim.

He opened his mouth, intending to explain that Elsa was actually his sword, forged with half a lifetime's savings, and that he had named it.

But after thinking about it...

How could he explain that his silver sword was actually in that brat Ailin's scabbard? And that it had become famous because of Ailin's deeds?

Ah!

That's my sword!

My sword!

"Silver sword..." Ianna raised an eyebrow and looked at the two scabbards standing against the wall, the one with the most elegant silver hilt.

"So Ailin meant to use his sword..."

"The silver sword can cut through his flesh." Vesemir's face was pale, and his lips twitched. After some struggle, he realized that Ailin's matter was more important now.

"Clang!"

He walked to the corner and skillfully drew Elsa.

For some reason, after not wielding the sword for so long, he felt a sense of unfamiliarity in his hand.

The hilt of the sword felt icy cold, as if it were rejecting him.

"But the Silver Sword... if I remember correctly, isn't that..." Nannick looked at the boy on the treatment table with a strange tone.

Vesemir stared silently at the silvery sword light.

"Give it a try, Mother Ianna," Lyra said, breaking the awkward atmosphere in the treatment room. "If it's Ailin who said it, it must be right."

"Then let's give it a try." Ianna and Nannick exchanged a glance.

The Witcher's longsword is very heavy, much heavier than a regular knight's longsword, in order to maximize the power of the mutation and cut through the bones of the prey.

Moreover, the more skilled and older the witcher, the heavier the sword they use.

As a centuries-old Witcher Master, the weight of Elsa, Vesemir's former beloved, was naturally beyond the reach of the frail Ianna.

Nannick and Lyra won't work either.

Therefore, only Ianna could mark the location, strength, and depth, and then let the Witcher Master control it, like carving on a fruit pit, to make the appropriate wounds on Ailin's back or the bruises on his limbs.

fortunately.

Vesemir was not only a master swordsman and a master at dissecting monster materials, but also, over a long period of time, he had become a doctor through his own illnesses. The various injuries he had suffered, both minor and major, had given him an intimate knowledge of the structure of a demon hunter's body.

Actually, the Temple of Melitele did have silver daggers.

However, the silver daggers in the temple were all ritual items; they were either made of pure silver and soft, or they were not even sharpened.

"Hiss~"

"Hiss~"

Dark red, necrotic blood, like streaks of blood swords, gushed from the tiny wounds.

In the blink of an eye, the entire treatment room was filled with a strong smell of rust.

Lyra's eyes welled with tears, and her breathing became rapid.

She instinctively tried to turn her head away from the view.

"Witchers are either fighting or on their way to the battlefield, and Ailin is one of the most unique among them," Ianna noticed and said in a calm tone. "Watch carefully, you will need this knowledge someday."

The slowly undulating flesh was covered with wounds that gushed blood, staining the white sheets bright red.

But Lyra could only suppress the pounding of her heart and the unsettling feeling of weightlessness as she stared at the bloody scene before her with trembling eyelids.

Because she knew that Ianna was right.

Realizing this, Lyra was terrified and had to widen her eyes even further.

She suddenly realized that since her parents passed away, the person she was most likely to lose was not Mother Ianna, her aunt, Nannick, or Sadia, but the boy in front of her who was even younger than her.

Even though he is hailed by many as a hero of Arland, the nemesis of terrifying demons, the youngest Witcher Master, and the Blue Death wields a silver sword and spreads death...

But death is death...

Just as a father cannot escape death's scythe simply by adhering to chivalrous virtues of kindness and loyalty...

Even the most invincible hero can lie weakly on a white cloth stained with blood, his faint breaths seemingly about to cease at any moment.

The Witcher is a profession that comes close to death in this world.

In any aspect...

An inexplicable sense of urgency urged her on.

It was as if if she missed those few seconds, she might lose him completely next time, the time after that, or sometime in the future, because of her carelessness and cowardice at that moment.

Although...

She never truly possessed it.

The treatment ended with a warm golden light released by Ianna.

Ailin's breathing stabilized, and apart from looking somewhat pale due to significant blood loss, she was fine and only needed to rest.

"Phew~"

Ianna let out a long sigh and wiped the sweat from her forehead.

"What a troublesome child," she scolded Ailin, "Disturbing my sleep so late at night, I wonder where she's been fighting..."

Lyra was applying green healing ointment to him and carefully bandaging him.

Hearing Ianna's words, she defended Ailin: "Ailin isn't that kind of person, he definitely has a serious... Ailin, what did you say?"

He was only halfway through his sentence.

Suddenly, Lyra heard a few murmurs coming from her blood-stained knees.

She bent down.

Everyone in the treatment room stopped what they were doing.

In the silent stillness, all that could be heard was—

"Ban Ade will never be a threat again."

Vesemir and Lyra's hearts trembled simultaneously.