The Demon Hunter

"The Gisai's prices are far too inflated; they're trying to slaughter me like a pig," Geralt's words still echoed in his ears.

Kraun kept his gaze fixed on Lemanski: "Is this a price meant for honest business?"

The old man didn't even blink, his face impassive: "What price were you hoping to pay?"

"Fifty silver coins per stalk for Black Sage, and for the Blue Tulip petals, 15 silver coins per gram."

With a strange "humph," Lemanski offered a smile that didn't reach his eyes: "You and Geralt must have cooked this up together, right?"

The only person who had come to the caravan to buy transcendent materials recently was a man named Geralt—white-haired with a prominent scar on his face; he had left quite an impression.

However, magical ingredients were far more valuable once refined into transcendent potions. The Gisai settlement had its own alchemist, and he had been pricing the raw materials based on a 20% success rate for finished products. It was, admittedly, a little expensive.

"If you're serious about buying, it's 1 Gold Shield and 50 silver coins for Black Sage, and 35 silver coins per gram for the petals."

Kraun had never been part of the occult circle and didn't know how much padding was in the old man's price, but he could probe indirectly: "If I were to sell Blood-Boiling Potions, at what price would you buy them?"

The old man said coldly: "Five Gold Shields per vial. No cheating the young or the old; we buy as many as you have!"

Kraun quickly calculated the figures in his mind, his brow furrowing: "According to your prices, the material cost for one Blood-Boiling Potion is at least two Gold Shields. With a purchase price of only five, that means I would need a success rate of over 40% just to break even. I don't believe even an herbalist could maintain such a high success rate."

The fact that Kraun's own success rate for ordinary potions was currently 100% was an anomaly, purely because he was a cheater.

He knew that when his father was alive, his maximum success rate for potion-making had only been around 50%, and that was after more than ten years of accumulated experience.

Even with that success rate, Old Moya had been very proud, claiming he possessed top-tier talent among herbalists.

Extrapolating from that, if other herbalists could also reach 50% when crafting transcendent potions, a profit margin of only 10% was hardly worth it.

Herbalism was supposed to be a lucrative profession; how could such a profit margin be justified?

"Why don't we take a longer view? If you have stable sales channels and I can provide a steady supply, wouldn't that be a win-win? The potions I've shown are far from my limit. The only reason I haven't traded any Blood-Boiling Potions is simply because I lack the materials on hand."

Facing the suspicious and scrutinizing gaze from across the table, Kraun remained calm and composed.

Give me a little time, and all of this will be fact.

"In business, buying and selling earns you hard-earned pennies, but if you make an investment, the return could be a thousandfold. For a genius herbalist, you only need to invest a few dozen Gold Shields to gain his friendship and secure a stable supply channel."

Strangely, Kraun felt that the golden wall should awaken a skill called "Bluffing" or "Conning."

Lemanski watched the young man radiating confidence, his right thumb rhythmically rubbing against his index finger—a small habit he had whenever he needed to make a major decision.

While a few dozen Gold Shields wasn't a small sum, it was something he could afford. What he couldn't afford was being swindled out of a batch of materials at a low price.

That would be a total insult to his intelligence!

The old man gritted his teeth: "Black Sage at 50 silver coins a stalk, Blue Tulip petals at 15 silver coins a gram. I'll give you ten portions. If you can deliver one Blood-Boiling Potion to me within two days, I'll supply you at that price from now on. We'll finalize this deal when you come tomorrow. If you can't produce the potion, heh, you'll be blacklisted by our Gisai caravan."

"Snap," Kraun clicked his fingers: "A wise choice. You'll be glad you made this decision today. Now, could you get me a pocket watch? The most ordinary one will do; I just need it for timing."

The old man shouted something in the Gisai language, and a young man stood up, picked up an oil lamp, and walked out the door.

Before long, the young man returned with an antique-looking box and handed it to Lemanski.

The old man took the box and retrieved a pocket watch with a brass cover: "One Gold Shield. Cheap, functional, and dignified."

Kraun took the watch and toyed with it; the cover was engraved with a clover pattern and came with a thin silver chain.

"No haggling," the old man blurted out suddenly.

With a light chuckle, he took out a Gold Shield: "Pleasure doing business. See you tomorrow."

As Kraun walked out of the backyard, he saw Geralt sitting quietly, his eyes melancholic, lost in thought.

He seemed completely out of place in such a noisy environment.

The boy was playing with a dagger, his movements elegant and swift, dazzling to behold.

"Old Jason, is the roast lamb leg ready? If it is, bring it out!" Kraun shouted.

"Almost there, just wait!"

"Did you strike a deal?" Geralt asked, snapping back to reality.

"Struck it. I think that old man Lemanski is actually quite reasonable. He agreed to sell me ten stalks of Black Sage at 50 silver coins each."

"Big Brother, how did you manage that?"

Alan looked astonished. In his experience, the Gisai old man was particularly heartless; they usually squeezed the price on any materials they bought and were not only expensive when selling, but refused to haggle.

Kraun teased: "Maybe I'm just particularly charismatic."

He paused and asked: "Would you mind telling me what you're using the sage for? If it's for potion-making, I might be able to help."

The boy turned his gaze toward the white-haired man.

Geralt sat up straight, his expression solemn: "Let me reintroduce myself. My name is Geralt Kent, and this is my student, Alan Bolva. We are Witchers."

"When passing through this town, we learned that an evil spirit was haunting the area. I spoke with the church priest and the captain of the patrol. If I can capture the spirit, they are willing to provide a bounty. We will be staying here for a while."

"Purchasing Black Sage is related to our unique combat style; we use it to make specialized Witcher sword oils."

Alan felt a bit anxious, worried that this kind-hearted big brother wouldn't want to be friends with them anymore.

If that happened, he wouldn't get to eat the roast lamb!

Within the circle of the arcane, the reputation of witchers was far from stellar, for the original witchers were nothing more than combat machines forged by sorcerers to combat the ever-rampant monsters.

Following rigorous training, the sorcerers would inject children with mutagens; only those who endured the agonizing process of mutation, survived, and retained their sanity could become true witchers.

Having endured such extreme suffering, most of the early witchers created by the sorcerers were cold-blooded, cruel, and bloodthirsty by nature, with some even losing themselves entirely in endless slaughter, becoming executioners who preyed upon humanity.

Although the methods for training witchers had gradually improved, and flaws such as emotional detachment and a propensity for madness had been significantly mitigated, the deep-seated prejudice people held against this profession—despite its role in fighting evil creatures—remained difficult to shift.

The majority of the uninformed populace continued to fear and loathe the witchers.