The Painter Who Drew the Demon Hunter

"This isn't over! Cronin, you stand right there and listen to me! You didn't have my permission to paint my wife, and this is not over!"

The man in the black silk shirt shouted furiously at the young man opposite him, then pulled out a dagger and lunged. The young man stood frozen, still clutching his paintbrush; Geralt guessed he must be a young painter or an apprentice. These people seeking inspiration could be found in every square of Novigrad, often spending the entire day with their sketchboards and charcoal pencils.

From his own perspective, the witcher considered them entirely useless to society—and he still had some lingering trauma from that last portrait.

It was already the end of December 1233, and 1234 was just around the corner. To be honest, Geralt had been doing well in Novigrad these days. Sometimes he missed Vesemir, Eskel, and that annoying Lambert. The witcher didn't know how they were doing, but he hoped they were well. The members of the School of the Wolf were already too few to afford any losses.

However, a rational part of his heart always reminded him: no witcher ever dies of old age.

Live by the sword, die by the sword.

They were created hundreds of years ago by Alzur and his teacher, Cosimo Malaspina, for the sole purpose of killing monsters. At that time, due to the Conjunction of the Spheres, the world had become broken and desolate. New monsters appeared every day, and people died like Maze. Back then, even just going for a walk could result in being snatched away and eaten by a Griffin descending from the sky. Thus, witchers were born—superhuman physical fitness, reaction speeds several times that of an ordinary person, night vision, and immunity to disease. Coupled with the fact that every witcher had been rigorously trained since childhood, they were each a well-honed monster slayer.

Armed with silver swords, Signs, and alchemical bombs, they were invincible in battle against monsters. They were meant to be sung about by bards as protectors and heroes of humanity—or so it was said. But whether the historical Witcher Orders truly possessed the chivalry and knightly spirit Alzur had imagined, no one knew anymore. Time had taken everything, leaving behind only a few fractured schools.

By now, long-standing prejudice, provocations, and false rumors had made the profession of witcher feared, and later, hated. The resulting extreme persecution and massacres had brought witchers to the brink of extinction. Only a very few survived, still clinging to this peculiar line of work, wandering the corners of the world to kill monsters for a meager bounty.

Sometimes, Geralt would ask himself.

Why not take assassination contracts like the School of the Cat? After all, killing people was not only easier than killing monsters, but the pay was several, even ten times higher. You would live much better than you do now. At the very least, you wouldn't have to argue with tax collectors and village elders like a beggar for a few coins, nor would you have to risk your life with a sword in freezing or scorching weather just to kill a monster, and you certainly wouldn't be pointed at and spat upon as a mutated freak.

But he just couldn't do it.

Just like now.

Geralt reached out with lightning speed, precisely intercepting the right hand of the man in the black silk shirt, knocking the dagger to the ground, and then kicking him to the floor.

"Are you alright?"

His deep voice rang out.

The young man didn't seem to realize what had happened yet. He stared blankly at the witcher for a long moment before coming to his senses, suddenly beaming with joy: "Ah! Hello! Sir! Please, sit!"

He pointed to the chair opposite him.

Geralt raised an eyebrow and repeated, "Are you alright?"

The young man seemed completely unconcerned: "Yes, yes, sir, of course I'm fine! Please, sit down, won't you? I want to paint you! Heavens, your movements just now were so fascinating; you are practically a work of art!"

"."

A work of art.

The witcher mocked himself inwardly; to think he could receive such an honor.

He looked back at the man groaning on the ground and shook his fist at him threateningly, a small gesture that sent the man scurrying away immediately.

The witcher wanted to walk away, but the young man called Cronin, seeing him leave, anxiously grabbed him and, using a mix of pleading and force, pressed him back into the chair. Geralt was very uncomfortable with the situation; he scratched his face awkwardly and said, "Cough, listen, if you really want to paint, why not go somewhere quieter? I mean—"

He looked around; people were coming and going in the square, many casting strange looks at him.

To his surprise, Cronin's expression turned unusually serious, and his voice grew resonant: "No! Sir! You don't understand, this is the atmosphere I need. A hero, misunderstood and even despised by the world, yet still stepping forward to protect the weak—I have finally found the theme I have always wanted to paint, sir! You are truly my savior!"

"." Geralt fell into silence again. He found he really couldn't deal with people like this, so he sat there like he was on pins and needles, hoping the man would finish quickly.

As it turned out, Cronin painted for longer and longer. He painted from morning until noon, and just as the witcher's stomach began to remind him of its existence, Cronin finally finished.

He excitedly asked Geralt to look at the painting. He turned the easel around, and Geralt was shocked by what he saw.

The person in the painting was him, there was no doubt about that, but it didn't look like him at all.

In the painting, he was covered in wounds, dripping with blood, clutching a sharp sword, with another sword dropped on the ground. A massive, dark shadow was closing in on him from the forest, but the witcher showed no sign of retreating. He still gripped his sword tightly, protecting the innocent woman behind him well.

Not to mention whether Geralt would ever do such a thing, the sheer volume of blood made the witcher very certain that this young painter lacked common sense. If he had actually lost that much blood, the mutagens from his Trial of the Grasses must have been some kind of powerful vampire.

"How is it, sir?"

".You painted it very well."

"Well? No, no, that doesn't do it justice! Sir, this is just a rough draft. I am going to take it back and paint it again, using the finest oils. Believe me, sir, you will soon hear your name on the lips of art buyers. Oh, I haven't asked your name yet, sir. May I ask what you are called?"

Geralt groaned inwardly. Even an art-illiterate like him could see that the young man had extraordinary skill. A painting of a witcher would sooner or later reach the ears of Vesemir and the others, and that would inevitably lead to another round of mockery.

However, after a moment of silence, he spoke.

"Geralt of Rivia."