The Foolish Mage Has No Reason to Exist

Stregobor dismissed He Shenyan's remark as a joke. To change the subject, he turned to Geralt and said, "Let's talk about you, old friend. Geralt, what brings you here? Still the same old routine, slaughtering endangered species for coin? How much did you get for that Kikimore? I suspect you didn't get a thing, otherwise you wouldn't be here trying your luck with me."

"There really are people who won't shed a tear until they see their own coffin, aren't there?" He looked at Geralt with a mocking smile. The witcher didn't take offense. Still watching the red-haired girl picking apples, he replied casually, "No, I never expected to run into you here. If I recall correctly, you used to live in a tower somewhere in Kovir."

"Ah, that was a long time ago." Stregobor waved a hand. He handed a cup of tea to the smiling He Shenyan and said, "A lot has happened since then."

"Indeed, take your name, for instance. You go by Master Ibeon now."

"That was the name of the tower's creator; he died about two hundred years ago. I felt that since I'd taken over his residence, even if the master were dead, I should pay my respects in some way. You see, the locals here mostly live off the sea, and as you know, aside from these useless illusions, my specialty is weather magic. Sometimes I calm storms, other times I use the wind to drive schools of cod further out to sea. I make a living off these things. This is—" he said mournfully, "—all I can do."

"What do you mean by that? And why did you change your name?" The witcher finally deigned to turn back, frowning as he asked.

"Fate has many faces. My fate appears beautiful on the outside, yet it hides a terrifying essence. Oh! Her bloody, demonic claws have long since reached out for me—"

Stregobor spoke in an aria-like tone, looking up at the sky and striking the pose of a wise man.

"Heh, you haven't changed a bit, Stregobor. Still the same old you." Geralt said with a sneer. He grinned, "Do you know, every time you put on this wise, profound expression, everything that comes out of your mouth is complete nonsense?"

"Can't you just speak normally?"

"Why so prickly?" the old wizard said with dissatisfaction. He sighed and compromised: "Fine, fine, if that will satisfy you."

"I went to great lengths to come here, hiding my identity. I spent the whole journey dodging and hiding, all to escape that terrifying creature that has been hunting me. But this flight was a waste of effort; the creature has already found me. It will likely come to kill me tomorrow, or perhaps the day after."

Geralt turned to He Shenyan and said, "I agree with what you said about you being different from them; at least you speak plainly."

"Stregobor, look, that's just how the world is." Geralt said. "Travelers see all sorts of things, like two peasant families fighting to the death over a plot of land, even inviting a passing witcher to kill the other side for them. I didn't agree. But by the next day, the land had been razed to the ground by two counts' men. These people just kept the slaughter going. I've walked through mountains and rivers, seen people hanged from trees by the roadside, seen bandits throwing feasts in wealthy merchants' homes while the wife likely had to tremble as she poured wine for those bastards, her back turned to her dead husband's corpse."

"And that's not all, Stregobor. In the town slums, places you wizards never visit, you might trip over a corpse with every step. Not murdered, just dead from hunger, cold, or disease. I once took a small contract: twenty girls died in a brothel in one night just because they caught a sickness. The owner killed them all under the cover of night and then closed for renovations. By the third day, he was open for business again."

The witcher spread his hands: "Not to mention in the palaces, where people turn blades against each other. At any banquet, someone might collapse, face turning blue, overturning the dining table. I've long since grown accustomed to death, so why should I be surprised by yours?"

"Especially, when it's your death."

"Especially my death?!" Stregobor repeated sarcastically, "I thought we were friends, and I was counting on your help."

"Ha." The witcher let out a cold, mirthless snort. He said to He Shenyan, "The last time we met was at King Ethain's palace in Kovir. I had killed that Two-headed Cockatrice that had already claimed thirteen lives and was on my way to collect the bounty. This bastard jumped out, and along with one of his companions, argued over whether to call me a charlatan, a mindless killer, or a scavenger destroyer. As a result, King Ethain didn't pay me a single coin and kicked me out, giving me twelve hours to leave the palace."

He Shenyan took a sip of tea, unperturbed, and commented: "A true friend, indeed."

"Yes, if their hourglass hadn't been broken, I would have exceeded the time limit. In that case, the King's guards would have come hunting me with swords." The witcher smiled, but there was no warmth in it.

He continued to mock Stregobor: "Now, you say you're counting on me to help you. You say a monster is hunting you—what are you afraid of, Stregobor? Why don't you just tell it that you're a monster protector, that you've always been protecting them, that you love them and ensure no witcher disturbs their peace? Honestly, if you said that and the monster still ripped you open and ate your black heart, then it would be truly ungrateful."

Stregobor fell silent and turned away. Geralt laughed out loud: "Don't pout like a ridiculous frog. Tell me, what is it that's threatening you, and I'll see what I can do."

"Have you heard of the 'Curse of the Black Sun'?"

He Shenyan perked up, leaning in to listen.

"Of course. Though it used to be called 'Eltibald's Mania'." Geralt turned his head to explain to He Shenyan. He continued: "Named after the wizard who incited the riots. Dozens of girls from good families—even noble ones—were killed or imprisoned in high towers because of it. This bastard thought they were possessed by demons, cursed, or tainted by the so-called 'Black Sun'."

He Shenyan said: "It's nothing more than a solar eclipse."

The witcher slammed his fist on the table and said loudly: "Exactly! Yet this respectable wizard across from us still insists it's a curse!"

"No!" Stregobor grew agitated as well. He stood up, paced twice, and retorted loudly: "Eltibald was not crazy at all. He deciphered the texts on the Dauk stelae, the tombstones in the Vozgory tombs, and investigated the customs and legends of the Cat-people, all of which unequivocally mentioned this eclipse. The Black Sun means that Lilith—whom the Easterners still worship today under the name 'Nia'—is about to return, and humanity will face extinction. To welcome Lilith's arrival, one must 'prepare sixty maidens wearing golden crowns, who will fill the valleys with blood.'"

"Nonsense," the witcher said, "it doesn't even rhyme. Proper prophecies rhyme. Everyone knows what Eltibald and the Chapter of Wizards were thinking at the time."

He showed rare anger, not even caring that the man sitting beside him was also a wizard, and fired a broadside at all wizards: "You used a madman's ravings to bolster your authority, to break alliances, to disrupt marriages, to topple dynasties. In short, to make the strings of those crowned puppets even more tangled. And now you dare bring up this prophecy that every old storyteller in the market would be ashamed of?"

"You can keep your opinion of Eltibald, and you can question his interpretation of the prophecy, but you cannot refute this fact: among the girls born after the eclipse, many have suffered horrific physical mutations."

"Who says I can't refute it? I've heard the exact opposite."

"I once attended an autopsy," the wizard said, deeply troubled, "Geralt, what we found in the skulls and bone marrow was unspeakable. It was a kind of red sponge; the internal organs were all mixed together, some had completely disappeared. All the organs were covered in moving, pinkish-blue cilia. The heart had six chambers, two of which were atrophied. How do you explain that?"

"I've seen people with eagle claws and wolf fangs. I've seen people with more joints in their hands and feet than normal, more organs than normal, senses sharper than normal. That is all the result of your abuse of magic." Geralt mocked.

"You've seen all kinds of mutants," the wizard raised his head and stood straight, "and how many of them have you slaughtered for coin to sustain your witcher life? Hmm? Some might have wolf fangs, yet at most they only snarl at inn prostitutes, but some are born with the hearts of jackals, capable of killing even children."

He hinted sarcastically: "Those girls born after the eclipse are just like that. They show their tendency for madness without reservation; their cruel, aggressive, temperamental, and dissolute behavior is already widely known."

"I bet you wouldn't dare say that to the priestesses of Melitele." Geralt mocked, "What kind of gibberish are you spouting? You want to question how many mutants I've killed, why don't you want to know how many people I've helped by dispelling magic and lifting curses? I, a witcher you look down upon, travel the whole world just to kill terrifying beasts and lift curses from poor souls who had the misfortune of touching magical items."

He stared intently at Stregobor: "Conversely, what have you done, great wizard?"

Stregobor tilted his head, his gaze not on the witcher: "We have used powerful magic on this matter. In various temples, we and the priests have cast spells. But all attempts ultimately resulted in the girls' deaths."

"That only proves your error. Oh, you got the corpses. I suppose the autopsy just happened that one time?"

"Enough, don't look at me like that. You know very well there was more than one corpse. We initially intended to eliminate them all. We dealt with a few... and then performed autopsies on all of them. One was even a vivisection."

"Ha," the witcher let out a sneer of disdain from his throat. He struggled to suppress the anger, even hatred, on his face.

"You sons of bitches, slandering innocent girls, leaving them destitute, forcing them to sell their bodies, and likely dying in the wilderness. Only to be hunted, dissected, and experimented on by you. And now you dare to condemn and slander witchers?"

"Oh, Stregobor, you will suffer for this one day and learn your lesson." After saying this, he sat down and said nothing more, just staring coldly at Stregobor.

"I don't think that day will come anytime soon," Stregobor said sarcastically, "Don't forget, what we do is to protect the public. These mutant girls would drown the whole world in a sea of blood."

"In other words, you wizards are still holding your heads high, thinking yourselves flawless. But you surely can't claim that you've never made a mistake in the process of hunting these so-called 'mutants'?"

"Fine," after a long silence, Stregobor said, "I'll tell you the truth, though it does me no good. We did make mistakes—and more than once. It's too difficult to tell them apart. That's why we stopped the practice of... 'removing' them, and instead isolated them."

"In your famous towers." The witcher snorted.

"Our towers. But that was another mistake. We underestimated them. Many mutants escaped. Then, a craze took hold among the princes—especially the younger ones, those low in the line of succession with nothing to do and nothing to lose—the 'rescuing of imprisoned beauties.' Many of the prisoners snapped their necks—"

"As far as I know, those prisoners in the towers died quickly, and you helped them along."

"That is a lie. But it is true they quickly lost interest in everything and refused to eat... The most interesting part is that as they neared death, they displayed talents for extrasensory perception. This further proves their mutation."

"Your evidence is becoming increasingly absurd. Anything else?"

"Yes. Lady Silvanna of Narok is one such case. We were never able to approach her because her power grew too rapidly. But something truly terrifying is happening in Narok now. Furthermore, Filga, daughter of Aifmir, escaped her tower using a rope she fashioned herself and is currently wreaking havoc in North Verhad. Beniga of Targo was released by a foolish prince. Now he is locked in a dungeon, blinded, and in the lands of Targo, the gallows have long since become the most common sight. Oh, there are other examples."

"Examples, certainly," Geralt said, "like Yamlak under the rule of old King Abrad. He had tuberculosis, his teeth had all fallen out, and he was likely born centuries before the eclipse. Yet, he couldn't sleep unless someone was tortured to death in front of him. He killed all his blood relatives and, in a fit of rage, executed half the population of his kingdom—you know that, don't you? In his youth, he had a nickname: 'Abrad the Brutal.' Oh, Stregobor, how wonderful it would be if the cruelty of rulers could always be excused by mutation or curses."

"Listen, Geralt—"

"No. You won't convince me, nor can you make me believe Eltibald isn't a bloodthirsty madman, so let's go back to the monster threatening you. You had better understand that based on my first impression of you, I don't like your story. But I will listen to you finish."

"Stop it, you two." He Shenyan interrupted their argument, his smile long since vanished.

"While I have no intention of interfering with your local mages' crude research and disregard for human life, it is quite clear, Mr. Stregobor, that your actions and those of your colleagues in spending your lives persecuting innocent girls are undoubtedly both cruel and stupid."

"And utterly meaningless," he concluded.

His words caused the old mage to turn pale for the first time. Being questioned by someone of such immense magical power was harder for him to accept than being pointed at and cursed by a hundred witchers. He trembled, his lips quivering as he said, "But—but, sir, you are a mage yourself!"

"Yes. But do you know one thing?" A cold smile slowly curled at the corners of He Shenyan's lips, his eyes filled with undisguised disgust: "I can tolerate ignorance, I can tolerate cruelty, I can tolerate those foolish peasants filling their basements with scavenged swords and turning into bandits whenever war breaks out, because that is how they were born, and no one has instilled in them the idea that they should change."

He spoke slowly: "But you, mages. You are different. Mages are different." He repeated it, his tone carrying anger for the first time, enough to make even Geralt glance at him: "We possess knowledge, and we should use it to make this world better, to make the lives of mortals easier. Not to play fucking schemes, manipulate kings, and control the world—though I understand that you might spend your whole lives and only achieve that much. But those ordinary people should not, and do not deserve to be, your playthings."

He stood up, and Geralt realized once again that something was about to happen.

This time, it might be quite bad.

He drifted slowly off the ground, and the garden of birds and flowers vanished in an instant; they were floating in an endless sea of stars. Geralt watched the scenery around him, shocked and mesmerized, until He Shenyan spoke: "Do you see? This is the world above our heads; this is what mages should be doing. But unfortunately, you are nothing more than a group of base, inferior insects, unable to even distinguish a stupid lie. Stregobor, I believe your intentions were not evil, but you are too stupid."

He Shenyan extended a hand—Geralt had to admit it was a slender, fair hand—which now held a mass of black magic that made his heart tremble: "For a mage, do you understand what being stupid means?"

Stregobor could not speak.

He Shenyan said to him coldly, as if he were not a person, but a wooden toy or something else: "For a mage, stupid means death."

"And from the perspective of a human, your actions undoubtedly make you deserve to die."

The mass of magic shifted, transforming into a bolt of lightning that struck toward Stregobor.

They stood beneath the tower, and Geralt clicked his tongue: "A pity, really."

"What?"

"His illusion." The witcher gestured to the curves of the blonde woman, a smile appearing on his face.

He Shenyan rolled his eyes, and they slowly left Blaviken with the donkey.