In his decades of life, Letho had seen all kinds of storms, but he had rarely encountered a kid who defied expectations so completely. The boy wasn't afraid of Witchers, and he didn't keep his distance from them as if they were snakes or scorpions, the way everyone else did.
This wasn't a joke. Plenty of children were frightened to tears by the Witchers' strange looks and demeanor.
There wasn't the slightest trace of disgust on Roy's face. The way he looked at the three Witchers was strange, carrying a faint sense of closeness—or was it admiration?
Perhaps people became more sentimental as they got older. Letho found himself momentarily lost in thought, though his face remained as rigid and lifeless as ever.
He suddenly remembered himself many years ago. Back then, he'd been a young boy, taken from his hometown of Goulart to Gors Velen Fortress in the Tir Tochair Mountains, the stronghold of the School of the Viper.
He hadn't yet undergone the Trial of the Grasses. Every day, he would watch his guide—his Witcher mentor, founder of the School of the Viper, and Grandmaster Ivar Evil Eye—stand on a high platform, teaching knowledge and life lessons to the dozen or so Viper School apprentices below.
He, too, had once looked at Ivar that way, with the same gaze as this child.
But times had changed. Decades ago, Ivar Evil Eye had vanished while hunting a Batwing Brain Demon. On top of that, the School of the Cat's frenzied slaughter of humans had earned Witchers a great deal of public disdain. Under the double blow, the Viper School had gradually fallen apart, and fewer and fewer apprentices had come to Gors Velen.
Now, the School of the Viper had dwindled to just a handful of people. Aside from the three of them, there were only two other members, and no one knew where they were wandering.
In the past twenty years, not a single Viper School apprentice had survived the Trial of the Grasses.
"Revive the School of the Viper, hunt down the school's nemesis, find Ivar Evil Eye!" That was Letho's greatest wish, and the reason the three of them had come to the Northern Kingdoms.
Thinking of this, he looked at Roy with growing warmth.
Goddess Melitele had blessed them with a beautiful, sunny day.
Before setting out, the three had made meticulous preparations. They made no effort to hide any of it from Roy, though an ordinary person wouldn't have been able to learn their methods anyway.
With practiced ease, they pulled bottles of thick, amber-colored liquid from the leather pouches at their waists and poured it over the blades of the short swords they'd taken from their chests. They spread it evenly, moving with extreme slowness, yet somehow with a taut intensity.
Once the blades gleamed amber, they repeatedly checked how many potions and elixirs they'd brought and how much they'd used, then strapped Alchemical Bombs of various colors within easy reach.
By the time everything was ready, it was noon. After the Witchers left the village, Roy slipped away from his parents and followed them at the appointed time, just as they'd agreed.
A few curious villagers followed along too.
Half an hour later, Roy was gasping for breath after running the whole way. He clutched his stomach and retched repeatedly, while the three Witchers calmly studied the cemetery ahead, their pupils contracting.
"Roy, wait here. We'll call you over once we've dealt with the Grave Witch."
"Please remember—you have to let me kill it myself!"
Letho said nothing. He and Oakes and Cerret pulled out the brown potions they'd prepared and gulped them down. Black veins, thick and writhing like earthworms, immediately surfaced across their cheeks. Their expressions turned savage and sinister, and their killing intent seemed almost tangible.
A single glance made Roy feel cold all over.
Then Letho slipped into the cemetery in a nimble, crouched stance wholly at odds with his build, moving silently on his toes like a hunting cat. Cerret and Oakes circled around from the other two sides.
Under the blazing sun, every corner of the cemetery was clear. Among the heaps of white bones in the overturned graves lay two gray-brown, desiccated corpses. Letho carefully went over to inspect them. Judging by their skeletons, the dead had been tall adult men in life, but their bodies had rotted so badly that their features were impossible to make out.
The signs suggested they'd struggled violently before dying. Several bones were broken, and every single one was riddled with holes bored by sharp objects.
After finishing his examination, Letho quietly closed his eyes. His nose twitched in the air like a hound's. Even the powerful stench of rotting corpses couldn't overwhelm his keen sense of smell. Soon, his gaze fixed on a low building at the center of the cemetery. He steadily drew a long-necked, narrow-mouthed glass bottle from his waist and began searching around the tightly shut house.
Grave Witches feared sunlight, so their homes were usually built to be airtight, without a single gap through which sunlight could enter.
But this house had originally been built for the gravedigger. It couldn't possibly be without a vent!
Letho didn't have much trouble finding a spot where there had once been a window. The monster had sealed it completely with clay, but clay was no match for solid rock. The Witcher easily chipped an opening with a throwing knife, then hurled an Alchemical Bomb inside.
"Crack!" The sharp sound of shattering glass rang out. Letho sprang back, then leaped onto the roof in one fluid motion. At the same time, he signaled to Oakes and Cerret, who had been waiting on either side, to hurry to the front door.
Cerret traced a symbol in the air with his right hand: two triangles, one above the other, like an hourglass. He pushed it forward. Pale white light rose into view, and a circular magic field, about ten feet in radius, appeared on the ground and began to flicker.
Oakes traced an upright triangle with two concentric outlines using his right hand, but didn't cast it. He held it at the ready.
"Bang!" The front door was kicked open, and a deformed figure with a belly as big as a barrel shot out! The moment its front foot crossed the threshold, its body seemed to take a blow from an invisible hammer. It shuddered violently and toppled face-first, losing its balance.
Oakes had been holding his Sign without casting it. Seizing his chance, he thrust his hand forward. A dazzling yellow light flashed, and a cone of orange flame burst from his palm, catching the fallen creature.
Before that, the Grave Witch had already been doused in the Alchemical Bomb Letho had thrown into the house. Its body was coated in something like oil, and the Igni Sign set it ablaze in an instant, turning it into a living torch.
The burning Grave Witch threw its head back and shrieked like a night owl. Then it raised its chicken-claw arms and charged out of the Yarden Sign that was pinning it down.
In a flash, a figure leaped from the roof like a phantom and blocked the Grave Witch's path. A storm of blows followed. Short swords wove a dense web of silver arcs through the air, their reflected light circling up and down around the creature like two ribbons, slicing into it like a meat grinder.
Roy watched from a distance, straining his eyes, but couldn't make out the Witcher's movements. He was simply too fast. Letho was the only one attacking, yet three afterimages seemed to appear around the Grave Witch at once.
Just seconds later, the Grave Witch—most of its body charred, covered in sword marks, and hacked beyond recognition—collapsed to the ground. Another second passed before its limbs fell away from its body with a gush of dark green blood, leaving only a writhing, barely breathing "stick" in the middle.
Oakes stepped forward and pinned its back beneath his knee. With his right hand, still in a leather glove, he quickly reached into its mouth and pulled out a long, thin, horrifying tongue covered in fleshy barbs.
Ignoring the inhuman wails of the monster beneath his knee, he cut off the entire tongue and dropped it into a jar he'd prepared earlier.
Letho took a piece of blue cloth from his leather pouch and gently, carefully wiped the two short swords smeared with dark green blood. Strangely, despite the Grave Witch's horrible state, there wasn't a speck of blood on him. His breathing was steady, and he wasn't panting at all, as if the figure that had just turned into a whirlwind hadn't been him.
The battle was more or less over. Cerret, his head wrapped in a red band, called Roy over from where he'd been hiding in the distance.
"It's still got one breath left. As agreed, the final blow is yours." Cerret glanced at the Gabriel strapped to Roy's wrist. "You're planning to finish it with that thing?"
Roy looked at the "human stick" lying in front of him, unsure what to say. He couldn't even bring himself to deliver the harsh words he'd planned to throw at it.
Even though he'd been mentally prepared, the Witchers' skill had still exceeded his expectations. The entire battle had taken barely two minutes. The Witchers had finished the contract before anyone else had even begun their foreplay.
This terrifying monster, which had so easily slaughtered the blacksmith and Fletcher and his son, had been utterly helpless against the Kingslayer trio.
Maybe he should show them a little more respect.
Roy crouched down and pulled the short knife from behind his waist—the one he'd found at the Butcher's house. He pressed it to the back of the Grave Witch's neck. Looking at the two corpses in the cemetery, he forced a smile more painful than a grimace. "Uncle Fletcher, Uncle Pusig, Little Snot, I've avenged you!"
"Swish!" The blade flashed, and the Grave Witch's ugly head came free of its neck, rolling to a stop at the bald giant's feet.
A line of wonderful text appeared in Roy's status panel:
Kill a Grave Witch, gain 100 Experience Points (103/1000)
This monster was worth ten times the Experience Points of an ordinary animal.
Before you continue