"This isn't over! Cronin, stand right there and listen to me! You painted my wife without my permission, and this isn't over!"
The man in the black silk shirt shouted furiously at the young man across from him, then drew a dagger and lunged at him. The young man stood there dumbly, still clutching a paintbrush. Geralt guessed he was a young painter, or perhaps an apprentice. Such people could be seen in every square in Novigrad, often holding drawing boards and sketching pencils as they painted all day.
From his own perspective, the Witcher thought they were completely useless to society—and because of that previous painting, he still had some lingering trauma over the matter.
It was already late December of 1233, and 1234 was just around the corner. To be honest, Geralt had been living quite well in Novigrad these past days. Sometimes, he missed Vesemir, Eskel, and that irritating Lambert. The Witcher did not know how they were doing now, but he hoped they were all well. There were so few members left in the School of the Wolf that they could not afford to lose anyone else.
Yet deep within him, a rational part of him always reminded him: no Witcher could live out his old age in peace.
Born with the sword, died with the sword.
They had been created centuries ago by Alzur and his teacher, Cosimo Malaspina, for the sole purpose of killing monsters. Back then, because of the Conjunction of the Spheres, the world had become shattered and perilous. New monsters appeared every day, and people died like wheat. At that time, even taking a stroll outside could get you snatched up and devoured by a griffin descending from the sky. Thus, Witchers came into being—possessing superhuman physical abilities, reactions several times faster than ordinary people, night vision, and immunity to disease. On top of that, every Witcher had endured rigorous training step by step since childhood. Each of them was a highly trained monster slayer.
With silver swords, Signs, and alchemical bombs, they were invincible in battle against monsters. They were meant to be sung of by bards as humanity's protectors and heroes—but whether the Witcher orders of history truly possessed the chivalry and righteousness Alzur had envisioned, no one knew anymore. Time had taken everything away, leaving behind only several divided schools.
Nowadays, centuries of prejudice, provocation, and false rumors had made people fear Witchers, and later hate them. The extreme persecution and massacres that followed had nearly driven Witchers to extinction. Only a very small number survived, still carrying on this unusual work, traveling through every corner of the world and killing monsters for meager rewards.
Sometimes, Geralt asked himself:
Why not follow the School of the Cat and take assassination contracts? Killing people was not only easier than killing monsters, but the pay could be several times, even more than ten times higher. He would live far better than he did now. At the very least, he would not have to argue with tax collectors and village chiefs like a beggar over a few coins. He would not have to carry his swords through freezing cold and blistering heat, risking his life to kill monsters. Nor would people point at his nose and curse him as a mutated freak.
But he simply could not do it.
Just like now.
Geralt shot out a hand with lightning speed, precisely catching the right wrist of the man in the black silk shirt. He knocked the dagger from his hand, then kicked him to the ground.
"Are you all right?"
His low voice rang out.
The young man seemed not to have realized what had happened. He stared blankly at the Witcher, and only after a long while did he come back to his senses. To Geralt's surprise, he broke into an excited smile. "Ah! Hello, sir! Please, sit down!"
He pointed at the chair opposite him.
Geralt raised an eyebrow and repeated himself. "Are you all right?"
The young man seemed rather unconcerned. "Yes, yes, sir, of course I'm all right! Please sit down, will you? I want to paint you! Good heavens, your movements just now were so captivating. You're practically a work of art!"
"..."
A work of art.
The Witcher laughed at himself inwardly. To think I could receive such an honor.
He turned back to look at the groaning man on the ground and raised a fist threateningly at him. That tiny gesture immediately sent the man fleeing.
Geralt had intended to leave, but when the young man called Cronin saw him about to go, he anxiously grabbed him and, through a mixture of coaxing and force, pressed him into the chair. Geralt was extremely uncomfortable with the situation. He scratched his cheek awkwardly and said, "Ahem, listen, if you really want to paint, why not go somewhere quieter? I mean—"
He looked around. People streamed through the square, and quite a few of them were giving him strange looks.
To his surprise, Cronin's expression suddenly became exceptionally serious, and his voice grew loud and resounding. "No, sir! You don't understand. This is exactly the atmosphere I need. A hero misunderstood and even despised by the world still steps forward to protect the weak. I've finally found the subject I've always wanted to paint, sir! You truly are my savior!"
"..." Geralt fell silent again. He realized he truly had no way of dealing with this kind of person, so he could only sit there as if on pins and needles, hoping Cronin would finish quickly.
Who would have thought that Cronin would paint for longer and longer? He painted from morning until noon. Just as the Witcher's stomach began reminding him of its existence, Cronin finally finished.
Excitedly, he invited Geralt to look at the painting. He turned the drawing board around, and Geralt was stunned by what he saw.
The person in the painting was him. There was no doubt about that, yet he did not quite look like himself.
In the painting, he was covered in wounds and drenched in blood. He held a sharp sword in one hand, while another sword lay on the ground. A massive dark shadow was closing in on him from the forest, but the Witcher showed no intention of retreating. He still gripped his sword tightly, protecting the innocent woman behind him well.
Leaving aside whether Geralt would ever do such a thing, that amount of blood loss made the Witcher quite certain that this young painter lacked common sense. If he had truly bled that much, then the mutagens used in his Trial of the Grasses must have come from some powerful vampire.
"What do you think, sir?"
"...You painted it well."
"Well? No, no, no, this hardly counts as good! Sir, this is merely a crude draft. I'm taking it back to repaint it with the finest oils. Believe me, sir, soon you'll hear your name on the lips of those art buyers. Oh, I haven't even asked your name yet, sir. May I ask what you're called?"
Geralt groaned inwardly. Even an artistic barbarian like him could see that this young man was exceptionally skilled. A painting about a Witcher would sooner or later reach Vesemir and the others, and then there would be another round of mockery.
Yet after a long silence, he still spoke.
"Geralt of Rivia."
Before you continue