Geralt hurried back to the house he shared with the Black-Robed Mage at six in the evening. It was ordinary and cheap, but it gave two bachelors enough space of their own.
After careful consideration and calculations—mostly done by He Shenyan—Geralt concluded that if they were going to stay in Novigrad for several months, all the way until spring, renting a house was better than staying at an inn the entire time.
As everyone knew, innkeepers were greedy bastards who would think of every possible way to fleece you.
Although Geralt knew He Shenyan was probably quite wealthy and did not care about money, he still insisted on splitting the rent evenly. The Black-Robed Mage agreed with a smile. When they found this house, the landlord had initially refused to rent it to "a mutated killer who spent all day slaughtering Drowners in the sewers"—and you could make that ten times worse, trust him. That old woman had cursed far more viciously than that.
But the moment the Black-Robed Mage appeared, she immediately changed her attitude. The sheer extent of that change had left Geralt silently grumbling to himself for quite a while.
Back to the point: Geralt pushed open the door and, unsurprisingly, saw He Shenyan curled up on that comfortable green sofa again, reading. Several stacks of books had already piled up beside him. The Witcher's sharp eyesight caught the title, History of Witchers. Keeping his expression neutral, he asked, "What are you reading?"
"About your history." He Shenyan revealed part of his face from behind the book. His eyes remained fixed on the pages rather than the Witcher. Geralt heard him say, "I thought learning about your kind from you alone wasn't enough. After all, you spent the entire winter killing Drowners. Do you know what that sewer guard calls you? 'Drowner Slayer.' Ha, he really has a sense of humor."
The Witcher placed his sword on the table to the right of the entrance and said irritably, "Yeah, that idiot shouts that damned title every time he sees me. I have no idea how he came up with it. Bloody hell. And you can't blame me for that. It's not my fault Novigrad only has Drowners to kill."
"Mm-hmm."
"..."
Geralt headed straight for the kitchen and began making himself something to eat. He had not properly eaten at home in quite some time. Normally, out in the wild, he would just chew on some cold, tough jerky. If conditions were better, he would toss it into a pot and boil it so it would not be quite so difficult to chew. More than once, Geralt had suspected that if he were not a Witcher, the jerky would probably have chipped his teeth.
As he busied himself chopping vegetables, he raised his voice and said, whether deliberately or not, "Ahem, you know, when I passed through Hierarch Square today, a young man drew a picture of me."
"Mm-hmm."
"He drew very well."
"Mm-hmm."
"And it wasn't finished yet. He said he wanted to paint it in an oil painting style and told me to visit his house in a week to take a look."
"Mm-hmm."
At that moment, Geralt really wanted to curse, but he held it in. The Black-Robed Mage's amused voice drifted in from the living room. "If you can't hold it in, then don't, Geralt. I can take a joke."
Yes, of course you can.
Geralt remembered coming home drunk a few days ago and accidentally vomiting on several of the Mage's books. When he woke up the next morning, he found himself completely naked and thrown out onto the balcony. The woman across the street had stared at him without blinking, and when they later met, she had even patted Geralt on the ass. A shiver of revulsion rose within him at the memory.
The Witcher decided to let the matter drop.
One morning a week later, Geralt changed into a respectable outfit—at least, that was what the owner of the tailor shop had said. Geralt had no particular requirements for clothing as long as it was not tight-fitting, but the blue-and-white robe did indeed look quite good on him in the mirror, so he bought it.
Following the address the young man had given him, he arrived at his home. It was a secluded villa in the Upper City—secluded in location, that was, because the house itself was extremely grand. The beautiful wooden villa had three full stories. Geralt stared for quite a while before confirming that all its windows were made of stained glass. There was even a small fountain before the door, with a statue of a man Geralt did not recognize. The Witcher guessed he was some famous artist or something.
There was also a garden behind the house. He could see grapevines and many expensive flowers. Geralt realized that even if the young man was a fool, he was a very rich fool.
He walked to the door and knocked. The Witcher waited patiently for five minutes, but no one answered.
He knocked again, harder this time. His fingers made a dull thud-thud-thud against the heavy oak door. He was certain the man could hear it even if he were asleep, but after another five minutes, no one came to answer.
The Witcher suddenly sensed that something was wrong. A familiar scent began to spread through his nostrils. Earlier, the fragrance of flowers and the overly complex mixture of scents had prevented him from distinguishing it, but now, he smelled it.
Clear and unforgettable—blood.
The Witcher kicked the door open and saw the young man who had been lively just a week ago lying on his back in the living room, sheets of drawing paper scattered all around him. His entire chest and abdominal cavity had been cut open, his organs removed and placed beside him. Blood continued to spread, flowing down until it reached the doorway where Geralt stood.
Geralt felt as though something had lodged in his throat. His unusual eyes could not only see in darkness, but also perceive traces that ordinary people could not.
Drag marks.
He quickly slipped into action. Cronin had not been killed here. A long trail of drag marks extended from one of the inner rooms all the way to the living room. The Witcher slowly entered the villa, his steps as soft as a cat's, making no sound on the hardwood floor. He casually grabbed a vase as a weapon, stepped over Cronin, his organs, and his blood, then headed into that room.
It was difficult to describe Geralt as he stood in the room holding the vase. His head hung low as the morning sunlight shone through the open glass window, a breeze stirring his hair. In the center of the room stood a completed oil painting.
The Witcher stood in the middle of the painting, expressionless, a sharp sword in hand. Another sword was embedded in the ground not far away. Behind him, a terrified woman clung tightly to him. One of the Witcher's hands shielded her behind him, while the other held his sword pointed at a massive, pitch-black figure.
"You draw very well, my friend."
Geralt's voice echoed through the room.
I'll post three updates first. The remaining two should be up in about an hour.
Before you continue