Sudden Disappearance

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

The owner of this house was a merchant who dealt in timber. This trade had been quite lucrative in Novigrad over the past few years, so it was only natural that he and his wife had moved into this three-story villa a year ago. The interior decor went without saying; in Geralt's view, if not for the ghastly bloodstains and severed arm, this would be a very fine villa, one that could fetch a high price of at least five thousand Crown.

Tsk, five thousand Crown.

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

The witcher's thoughts drifted in a strange direction; although he held the book, his mind was no longer on it.

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

"Honestly, no." Geralt tossed the book aside and replied, "No scent, no footprints. No signs of a struggle. The age of those bloodstains makes me suspect they've been there for a week; I can't even smell the blood."

"So?"

"So I have to wait here for a night to see if strange things really happen in the dead of night as he claimed," Geralt said.

He stood up, his boots creaking against the floorboards. He began to pace, observing the details of the room until his gaze was drawn to an oil painting hanging by the stairs leading to the second floor.

It was a painting depicting the port of Novigrad, and even for a witcher with no appreciation for art, it was a fine piece.

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

"Indeed," He Shenyan said softly, his tone gentle.

Geralt, with his back turned, suddenly sensed something amiss; a certain feeling pricked at his brain.

Appearing completely off-guard, he had actually already pinched his right hand to form the Quen Sign. A swirling orange glow appeared around him. The next second, the witcher drew his sword and spun around in one fluid motion, but no attack came.

Yet, the space by the window was now empty; the black-robed mage had vanished.

"...He?"

Geralt called out loudly, unsure if this was some sort of prank by the mage—though in Geralt's view, he wasn't the type to do such a thing.

At the same time, he felt a subtle puff of air against his neck, and the witcher's face twitched.

Without a moment's hesitation, he spun around again, delivering a heavy horizontal slash. The blade carved a deep fissure into the wall, and amidst the flying wood chips, the witcher tensed every muscle in his body, but nothing happened.

Just like before, there was nothing there, and the wolf medallion on his chest didn't even vibrate.

A bead of cold sweat slid down his forehead; the witcher now realized the gravity of the situation.

Yes, they were monster slayers, living by it and destined to die by it. Geralt was among the most outstanding of their kind. He had killed many dangerous monsters, but whether it was a Wyvern, a Cockatrice, or a Griffin, they would all bleed from the strike of a silver sword. Even the difficult specters could be slain with the help of Specter Oil, the Yrden Sign, and alchemy bombs.

But what if the monster was something that couldn't be attacked?

We all know that to kill a creature, you must first be able to make it bleed. If you cannot do that, then killing it is nothing more than a pipe dream.

A massive force struck him suddenly. The shield formed by the Quen Sign shattered in an instant, sending Geralt into a freefall across the room. He was slammed heavily against the wall, and his silver sword clattered to the floor. Before he could even rise, the witcher pinched his fingers to form another Quen Sign. The studded leather armor he wore was indeed made of solid material and fine craftsmanship, but it could not spare him from the pain. Gritting his teeth, he rolled to his feet, retrieved his sword, and scanned the area with his cat-like eyes, searching for any traces the attacker might have left behind.

But he found nothing.

Aside from the marks left by his own blade and the wreckage caused by being thrown, there was nothing. It was deathly quiet.

Quiet?

The witcher suddenly realized something was wrong. This house was located next to Hierarch Square, in the heart of Novigrad. It shouldn't be this quiet, even in the dead of night. He looked back toward the window, but the scene outside had vanished, as if a painter had wiped away an unfinished, unsatisfactory draft, leaving only a void of darkness.

Yet, this room, where no candles were lit, was filled with light.

"Damn it."

At this critical juncture, Geralt became even calmer. He cast the Yrden Sign, setting it on the floor. It was a magical trap anchored to the surface; the pale purple sigil flickered on the ground for a moment before vanishing.

He stood his ground, expression stern, his muscles coiled and ready.

On the other side.

He Shenyan turned his head back. A surge of dark magic had just flashed through the room, so fast that he had almost failed to react. The moment he turned, the black-robed mage enveloped the entire room with his mental power, yet he found nothing unusual. He flicked his fingers, cautiously casting five defensive spells on his soul.

The spot where his witcher companion had been standing was now empty. Instead, the exquisite oil painting on the wall had undergone some changes. The painter's technique was lifelike; the busy port of Novigrad at dawn appeared full of vitality under his brush. The passersby, ships, stevedores unloading cargo, and fishermen preparing to set sail all composed this painting. Without a doubt, it was a masterpiece.

But this masterpiece had been ruined by the abrupt appearance of a white-haired witcher.

Geralt's face in the painting looked extremely stern. He stood among the crowd, holding one sword while another was strapped to his back. Dressed in his studded leather armor, he was posed as if about to swing his blade.

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

Without a doubt, this was an invitation, and the invitation card was the witcher's life.

He did not hesitate. Releasing his mind, his mental power gently touched the painting. The surrounding scenery shifted rapidly, as if he had been thrown into a vortex. Complex and nauseating blocks of color emerged constantly. He furrowed his brows, struggling to distinguish the traces left by the perpetrator amidst these colors—it wasn't difficult, just disgusting.

Not long after, he too vanished from the spot.