Persuasion

Letho drew his gleaming dagger and expertly began carving up the Grave Witch's corpse. His skill was no worse than a butcher's when it came to dressing livestock.

Eyeballs, ears, and unidentified lumps of flesh were neatly arranged on a spread-out blue cloth. Then he pulled several fist-sized, twisted clumps from the monster's belly and weighed them in his hand.

"Lucky us. This Grave Witch was fairly old, so the Mutagens will be just right for replenishing my decoctions."

"Master, what are these things?"

At the sound of his voice, Letho couldn't help but regard Roy more favorably. The boy had calmly finished off the Grave Witch as she struggled in her death throes, and hadn't so much as changed expression at the bloody sight of a Witcher carving up his spoils.

What an anomaly!

Anyone else, even a grown man, would have thrown up by now.

His courage and nerve stirred something in the Witcher's heart.

"Good material."

Letho pointed to the objects he'd carved out and patiently explained the name and purpose of each one to Roy. The latter listened quietly, occasionally furrowing his brow in thought.

"By the way, Roy, who's in your family?" Letho asked casually.

"I live with my father and mother."

Letho felt a little disappointed at that, and swiftly finished salvaging the Grave Witch's valuable parts.

About an hour later, after the alchemical gases in the burial chamber had fully dissipated, they entered what had once been the gravedigger's home.

The room had once been a normal human dwelling, but the monster had transformed it beyond recognition. Filthy clay covered everything, and the place was damp and dark. Pots, jars, and strange vessels were scattered everywhere, as if the Grave Witch had been brewing something before her death. Grim ornaments made from human and small-animal bones hung from the clay walls.

It looked gloomy, terrifying, and bloody.

Roy's gaze fell on a wall at the far end of the room. Suddenly, he hurried toward it.

"Brandon..." Or rather, the chubby little boy who'd once loved picking his nose and clinging to Roy. All that remained of him was a rotting corpse, impaled on a black stake like a flag hung up for display.

His emaciated face was little more than skin and bones. His eyes had been gouged out, leaving two dark hollows, and his mouth hung slightly open, betraying the terror he'd felt in his final moments.

Roy closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Carefully, he took down Brandon's remains and held them in his arms without a hint of disgust, as if he couldn't smell the sharp stench of rot and mold.

"I'm sorry... If only I'd been more patient with you back then..."

Just then, he felt a warm, broad hand settle on his shoulder.

"Take heart. You've avenged them." The Witcher, uncharacteristically, tried to comfort him.

Before long, Roy had buried the blacksmith and the butcher and his son. With the Witcher's help, he'd written their gravestones.

He'd wanted to find the butcher's late wife's grave and bury the family of three together, but the Grave Witch had so thoroughly ravaged the cemetery that the graves were impossible to locate. In the end, he had to bury the butcher and his son together.

Pusig

Blacksmith of Kaye, son of Skellig

Proved his courage between life and death

Died in September 1260, fighting bravely against a Grave Witch

The following two epitaphs shared a single gravestone.

Fletcher

Butcher of Kaye

His great love remained forever unspoken.

Brandon

Friend of the Rooster Killer, future star bard and master magician

Will shine brightly in the goddess's kingdom

Died in September 1260.

After putting the cemetery in order, Roy followed the Witcher back to the village. The old couple came hurrying over, weeping and fussing over him, checking him all over.

The Witcher showed the villagers the Grave Witch's hideous head, then collected his payment from the village chief and One-Eyed Jack.

At last, the commotion caused by the monster came to an end. But that wasn't the end of it.

To the villagers' surprise, the three Witchers didn't leave after collecting their bounty. Instead, they rented a room at the inn and settled in for a while.

With the Grave Witch no longer a threat, the villagers' behavior turned strange again. They began pointing at the Witchers and insulting them, treating them with open contempt...

"The monster's dead, and we paid the bounty. Why haven't those three mutants left yet?"

"Look at them. They don't look like decent men. This won't do, Chief—we need to find a way to get rid of them soon! Let them stay one night at most!"

"Families with children, be careful! Don't sleep tonight or tomorrow night, not until they've gone. I've heard Witchers like stealing children and training them into disgusting mutants!"

Roy listened to the villagers' ignorant, prejudiced remarks and shook his head in disdain. Then he left the crowd and hurried to the inn. The three Witchers were in the middle of a lively drinking contest with One-Eyed Jack, chatting—or rather, listening as One-Eyed Jack loudly bragged about his Gwent skills.

The old captain had spent decades in Skellig, but he didn't share the baseless, superstitious hostility toward Witchers that most of Kaye Village held.

"Roy, the little rascal, must've been practicing Gwent since he was in the womb. He's cleaned Old Jack out of sixty Crowns already."

"Since we've got such well-traveled masters here, could Old Jack ask you to teach the little rascal a lesson for me?"

An hour later, Letho's usually impassive face twitched. He pulled a handful of gold Crowns from his pouch.

"Damn, fifteen Crowns. That's a tenth of the contract payment gone."

"All right, kid, you've won enough money. Let's talk business. You're not afraid of us at all, and you even came over to talk to us. What's the story? Interested in Witcher tales? Which version would you like to hear?" Letho exchanged glances with his two companions. As if on cue, they gathered around the boy's table and stared at him intently.

Like he was being interrogated.

Roy's heart skipped a beat, but he didn't hide what he was thinking. He smiled and spoke frankly. "You've figured it out? I do have some thoughts... As far as I know, you live a long time, stay healthy and energetic, hardly ever get sick, and possess strength that ordinary people can barely imagine..."

As a former player, who hadn't dreamed of becoming a Witcher? He still remembered the Witcher's famous words: I want a steed black as night and swift as the wind; I want a sword bright as moonlight; at night I'll ride my black horse, and with the sword in my hand I'll cut down all evil.

After crossing into this world, that had become one of his own wishes, too.

"Wait... If I heard you right, you envy 'mutants'? Let me make sure," Cerret interrupted. His amber eyes sized Roy up. "Roy, you're not really thirty years old, are you?"

"Who told you that nonsense? Those 'mutants' are strong, never get sick, and live a long time, so they're worth envying, huh?" Cerret suddenly scoffed and rolled his eyes. He took a huge swig of liquor, then exploded. "I'm telling you, being a Witcher is a curse, a misfortune you can never escape. You shouldn't envy us. I envy this carefree country life, where people don't hate and despise you for no reason, and you don't wake up every day on your way to die or run for your life!"

Roy's expression stiffened. He leaned back slightly. He wasn't used to Cerret's short temper, sharp tongue, or animated expressions. The man didn't seem like he was in his seventies or eighties at all. He reminded Roy more of Lambert, Geralt's good buddy.

Letho and Oakes stood with their arms crossed, saying nothing as their companion spoke.

"You seem like a decent kid, so I'll give you some friendly advice... Stay in the countryside. Don't keep thinking about going on adventures and killing monsters. There won't always be someone standing in front of you, hacking off a monster's limbs and leaving its head for you to finish off." Cerret took another swig. "In a couple of years, when you're married and have a child, you'll understand I'm saying this for your own good."

Did this guy think he'd killed the Grave Witch just to satisfy a boy's appetite for adventure?

"Cerret's right," Letho said, his tone tinged with regret. "If all you envy is the Witchers' impressive skills, and you're interested in monsters, there's no need to continue this conversation."

"On this path, there's far more pain than happiness. You still have family. Live well and be an ordinary person. That's my advice."

"But at least you can protect yourselves..." Roy argued, unwilling to give up. Compared to the nerve-racking path he'd been on before, grinding for experience, a more professional, comprehensive, and efficient path to power now lay before him.

He was doing his best to seize it.

And he could sense that the three Witchers were wavering, too.

"If I had greater strength than an ordinary person, I wouldn't have to watch my friends and teacher... get hunted by that piece of garbage... and be left without even a whole body."

"You're overthinking it... As a veteran Witcher, I can tell you this much," Oakes, the third Witcher, said with a swig of beer and an easygoing smile. "Unless another Conjunction of Spheres happens and floods the world with monsters, their numbers will keep dwindling. They can't keep causing trouble for Kaye Village. After this, the village will enjoy years of peace. There's nothing to worry about."

"But monsters aren't the only threat to our lives. There are people, sickness, and war, too."

Roy's words suddenly silenced the Witchers.

After a long pause, Cerret spoke again, his tone mocking. "What a strange kid. What's going on in your head? You're nothing like a thirteen-year-old, and neither was the way you acted in the cemetery. Do you have persecution paranoia?"

"I've never seen an idiot come up to us of his own accord!"

"I'm a little precocious." Roy took a swig of Dwarven spirit. The alcohol went to his head, making him bolder.

"Believe it or not, I've been having dreams about terrible things since I was little... Bloody, ominous events. Especially over the past few years—the dreams have been getting more and more frequent." Roy paused. "I have a feeling that within three years, the world will descend into chaos and living beings will suffer terribly. Before that happens, could you at least teach me something useful? I think Witchers would make good teachers."

"Oh, come on, kid!" Cerret said with a look of disdain. "Don't make up stories to fool us. Dreams, really? Do you think you're a prophet?"

"I knew you wouldn't believe me." Roy shook his head and sighed. But he really hadn't lied. In three years, in 1263, the First Northern War would begin.

The curtain of war might already be slowly rising.

"I just want to get a little stronger. Even if I can't match your skills, I want to at least be able to protect the people I care about... I want to send Old Mol and Susie to Novigrad, where they can live safer, more comfortable lives..."

Letho tapped the table with his thick fingers. "You probably don't know what becoming a Witcher entails."

"I know the Trial of the Grasses has a mortality rate of seventy percent, and that it leaves you unable to have children."

Letho's expression froze. The other two Witchers looked just as astonished. "How do you know so much about it? Have you met another Witcher?"

"I dreamed about it. Do you believe me?"

"Cut the nonsense! But we've got a pretty good idea of how you feel." Letho spoke solemnly. "Kid, I'll give you a chance to reconsider."

"No need. I've already thought it through." What Roy was really thinking was that studying under Witchers didn't mean he'd have to become one in the end.

But having the option was a very good thing.

Letho glanced at his two companions. They nodded, so he reached out a broad, thick hand toward Roy. "We're leaving Kaye Village tomorrow. Kid, are you willing to come with us?"

Roy took Letho's hand, as big as a fan, but deliberately hesitated for a long moment.

"Not yet. I need to save enough money and get my parents settled." Letho waved away his concern and gave him the answer he wanted.

"If you trust the Witchers, Cerret and Oakes can escort Old Mol and his wife to Novigrad, the place you mentioned. They have business there, anyway. You were right about one thing: Novigrad is safer than Kaye Village."

"How about this?" Having accepted the outcome, Cerret's attitude had changed completely. He gripped the Viper medallion on his chest and spoke earnestly. "Oakes and I will arrange a market stall for Old Mol and his wife in Novigrad and make sure they get settled. The two of us can guarantee it in the name of the Viper School."

"That would be perfect."

Roy carefully studied the two Witchers' expressions and breathed a sigh of relief. This was the best outcome he could have hoped for.

"You'll have to spend a lot of money to help me like this."

Letho shrugged, unconcerned. "To the School of the Viper, wealth is far less important than a suitable apprentice. And I won't hide it from you: the School hasn't had any fresh blood in twenty years... The Law of Surprise has failed us completely. You showed a good instinct when you faced the Grave Witch..."

"A child who's never been seen before, one who came to the Witchers of his own accord. With your determination, you might have a better chance of surviving the Trial of the Grasses."

"You're a little old, but you're better than nothing."