The Abrupt Disappearance

Geralt sat in a chair with his legs propped up on the coffee table, flipping through a miscellaneous book in his hands, Novigrad Chronicles: The Darkest Secrets!.

The owner of this house was a timber merchant. Business had been good in Novigrad these past few years, so he and his wife had naturally moved into this three-story villa a year ago. There was no need to describe the interior decor. In Geralt's eyes, if not for the alarming bloodstains and severed arm, it would have been a very fine villa, one that could fetch at least five thousand Crowns.

Tsk, five thousand Crowns.

How many Drowners would I have to kill to earn that much?

The Witcher's thoughts wandered in a strange direction. Though he held a book in his hands, his mind had long since left it behind.

He Shenyan stood by the window with his hands behind his back, observing the passersby on the street. He casually asked, "Do you have any leads on this contract?"

"Honestly, no." Geralt tossed the book aside. "No smell, no footprints. No signs of a fight. The bloodstains look old enough that I suspect they've been there for a week, and I can't even smell any blood."

"So?"

"So I have to wait here for a night and see whether strange things really happen after dark, like he said." Geralt said.

He stood up, his boots creaking against the floor as he began walking around and studying the details of the room. Eventually, an oil painting hanging beside the staircase leading to the second floor caught his eye.

It depicted Novigrad Harbor. Even by the standards of a Witcher who had no interest in art whatsoever, it was a fine painting.

He walked over and stood before it with his arms folded. "Just how much money do these merchants make? This house, the furniture, the porcelain shipped from the East, and this painting. Gods, life really is unfair. Don't you think?"

"It is," He Shenyan said softly, his tone gentle.

With his back to him, Geralt suddenly sensed that something was wrong. Some strange feeling pierced his mind.

He appeared unguarded, but his right hand had already formed the Quen Sign. A spinning orange glow enveloped him. The next second, the Witcher drew his sword and turned in one fluid motion, but no attack came.

Yet the space by the window was empty. The Black-Robed Mage had vanished.

". He?"

Geralt called out loudly, unsure whether this was some prank by the Mage—though Geralt did not think he was the sort to do such a thing.

At the same time, he felt a warm breath brush ambiguously against his neck. The Witcher's face twitched.

Without a moment's hesitation, he spun around again and delivered a heavy horizontal slash. His blade carved a deep gash into the wall. Amid the spray of wood chips, the Witcher tensed every muscle in his body, but nothing happened.

Just as before, there was nothing there, and the wolf-head medallion on his chest had not even vibrated.

A bead of cold sweat slid down his forehead. The Witcher had realized the severity of the situation.

Yes, they were monster hunters. They made their living this way, and they could die this way too. Geralt was among the finest of them. He had killed many dangerous monsters, but whether Wyverns, Cockatrices, or Griffins, they all bled beneath a silver sword. Even troublesome Wraiths could be killed with Specter Oil, the Yrden Sign, and alchemical bombs.

But what if it was a monster that could not be attacked?

We all know that to kill a creature, you first had to make it bleed. If you could not do that, then killing it was nothing but nonsense.

A tremendous force struck without warning. The shield formed by the Quen Sign shattered in an instant, sending Geralt into a free fall across the room. He slammed heavily into the wall, and his silver sword flew from his grip and clattered to the floor. Before the Witcher could rise, he formed another Quen Sign. His studded leather armor was indeed made from sturdy materials and crafted with exquisite skill.

But it could not spare him the pain. Gritting his teeth, he rolled to his feet and snatched up his sword. His catlike eyes swept the room, searching for any trace the attacker might have left behind.

But he found nothing.

Aside from the mark his blade had left and the mess created when he had been hurled away, there was nothing. It was even deathly quiet.

Quiet?

The Witcher suddenly realized what was wrong. This house stood beside Hierarch Square, in the heart of Novigrad. Even in the dead of night, it could not possibly be so quiet. He turned to look out the window, but the view beyond it had vanished, as though a painter had erased an unfinished, unsatisfactory work. Only a void of darkness remained.

Yet the room, with no candles lit, was filled with light.

"Damn it."

At a moment like this, Geralt became even calmer. He formed the Yrden Sign and placed it beneath his feet. It was a magical trap set upon the ground or floor. A pale violet sigil flashed across the floor for an instant, then vanished.

With a grave expression, he stood where he was, every muscle taut as he remained on guard.

Elsewhere.

He Shenyan turned around. A surge of dark Magic Power had flashed through the house just moments ago, so fast that he had nearly failed to react. The instant he turned, the Black-Robed Mage enveloped the entire house with his mental power, but he found nothing unusual. He moved his fingers again and cautiously cast five soul-protection spells upon himself.

The place where his Witcher companion had been standing was now empty. In contrast, the exquisite oil painting on the wall had changed. The painter's skill was almost lifelike. Under his brush, Novigrad's bustling harbor at dawn seemed brimming with life. Passing pedestrians, ships, dockworkers unloading cargo, and Fishermen preparing to set sail all made up the picture. Without question, it was a masterpiece.

But that masterpiece had been ruined by the abrupt appearance of a white-haired Witcher.

Geralt's face looked exceedingly grim within the painting. He stood amid the crowd with one sword in hand and another on his back. Wearing his studded leather armor, he held a stance as though he were about to swing his blade.

He Shenyan stared deeply at the painting, feeling troubled for the first time.

There was no doubt about it. This was an invitation, and the invitation card was the Witcher's life.

He did not hesitate. Opening his mind, he lightly touched the painting with his mental power. The scenery around him changed at high speed, as though he had been thrown into a vortex. Chaotic, nauseating blocks of color continuously emerged. He frowned deeply and tried to distinguish the traces left by the culprit among those colors—it was not difficult, merely disgusting.

Before long, he too vanished from where he stood.