I, Victor, Have a Dream

When winter snow sealed off the mountains, Victor had wanted to ask the two "younger" witchers about changes in the outside world and the state of international wars. To him, those things mattered greatly. But he soon gave up, because the monster hunters showed absolutely no concern for any of it.

For the two witchers of the School of the Wolf, under Vesemir's teachings and example, they still tried to uphold the principle of neutrality that had endured for centuries.

They traveled far and wide, accepted payment, and protected helpless people from monsters. No more, no less—that was all.

But in Victor's eyes, it was precisely this principle of neutrality that had gradually pushed them to the margins as the times changed, turning them into a dying race. They stood with no one, so no one stood with them.

Despised and cursed by the people they protected, yet accepting meager pay to slay monsters—what noble sentiments. What ball-aching sentiments, too. Fortunately, he wasn't a witcher.

In the blink of an eye, it was mid-February, and the ice and snow gradually began to melt. Warm winds blowing from the southern mountain pass swept the snowflakes away without a trace. The witchers also became somewhat more talkative. They discussed where they planned to travel and the newly emerging monsters they might encounter—ghouls, leshens, alps, werewolves, basilisks, and so on.

Then came March. They left, and Kaer Morhen's gates were shut and locked.

The locks could practically be called a medieval version of electronic locks. There were bolts across the moat that required shockwaves to charge crystals, and gates high above that required oil lamps to be lit with flames. There was more than one of each mechanism, corresponding respectively to the Aard Sign and the Igni Sign among the Signs.

In other words, anyone other than witchers or sorcerers would be easily kept outside—at least, Victor himself could not get in openly. These magical mechanisms also symbolized Kaer Morhen's past glory.

Even so, Victor still felt it was far from secure... What if a malicious sorcerer came knocking? Wouldn't all those precious potion formulas and records be stolen clean away? Witchers really had terrible anti-theft awareness!

Eskel added that Kaer Morhen's complete security system also included the "Path" surrounding the fortress. It was not merely a training facility, but a natural maze as well.

Without a guide or prior knowledge of the route, even sorcerers could not easily find the correct way.

Only then was Victor reassured. Still, out of a certain paranoid fear of being robbed, he packed up every tangible result of his improved processes and took them with him. The alchemy laboratory was left with only the original materials on the Trial of the Grasses and some unverified conjectures and hypotheses.

Riding Faithful out of the Kaer Morhen mountains, they reached a campsite where the Gwenllech River joined the Buina River. Here, the witchers would part ways for the southwest.

Vesemir and Eskel were heading west, crossing the Kestrel Mountains for Redania. They had heard there was a basilisk there.

Victor, meanwhile, intended to head south through Ard Carraigh, the capital of Kaedwen, and travel to Ban Ard to visit the mage academy renowned across the Continent.

He wanted to see whether he had a chance of becoming a mage. Perhaps in games, witchers slaughtered their way through everything and were invincible—but in the real world, every book told Victor that those who did not become mages were nothing more than ants.

Even Vesemir, a master witcher, was deeply wary of mages and would not fight one unless necessary.

So even though he had never been able to sense this so-called Chaos energy, he still had to try. People needed dreams. Maybe his talent was simply so overwhelming that he couldn't sense it—those feel-good novels always wrote it that way.

Lambert, however, decided to go with him. "The road to Ban Ard isn't so easy. You need someone to see you there!"

He also pointed to the School of the Wolf medallion hanging from his chest—currently motionless, though it would tremble in warning if magical energy or monsters were nearby. "Besides, you don't have a shred of magic in you... No matter how I look at it, you don't seem to have the potential to become a mage.

"When those sons of bitches at Ban Ard Academy kick you out, you'll need old Lambert to comfort you." What an encouraging conclusion.

Victor had originally intended to refuse the offer, borrow some money, and travel alone. But Lambert then flew into a rage and demanded to know whether Victor looked down on witchers, thought it was embarrassing and shameful to travel with one, and therefore refused to go together.

With things put that way, Victor had no choice but to give in. He thanked Eskel for the purse tossed his way, took several bottles of specially prepared potions from the herb pouch slung at his waist, and handed them to Vesemir and Eskel. Then the four temporarily went their separate ways.

They were in no hurry, so Lambert and Victor rode slowly southward. They passed a peaceful, uneventful day, until that night at camp, when Victor brought his sword down in an overhead strike aimed at Lambert's head. Lambert swiftly stepped diagonally forward, parrying the clash of blades and immediately counterattacking.

His movements were swift and precise. He struck the thinner section near Victor's blade tip with the thicker portion near his own hilt. With the leverage, Victor's sword was instantly knocked aside, while Lambert's point accurately touched Victor's forehead.

In a real fight, with just a little more force, the sword tip would have pierced straight through his brain.

Victor took two steps back, steadied his breathing, gathered himself, and rushed in with another slash. This time, Lambert changed tactics. He met the same overhead chop with one of his own, directly crashing the thick sections of their blades together. Then he released the hilt with his left hand, seized the point where the two swords crossed, and pulled back, while his right hand pushed the hilt forward—as though turning a wheel toward himself.

The turning of that "wheel" forced Victor's arm to twist, making him unconsciously release his grip. Lambert disarmed him with ease.

Then came a right hook, a clean, brutal blow to the abdomen. It instantly folded the dazed youth over, leaving him kneeling on the ground and dry-heaving nonstop.

Lambert clicked his tongue. "Tsk, tsk, tsk! You think you can fly solo after just this much? Don't need old Lambert tagging along? Consider that punch a little lesson to help you remember. Listen, little Vic—you're still far from ready."

"Urgh... blegh... We said this was supposed to be a sparring match... urgh... blegh... You bastard, you really hold a grudge!" The punch had been restrained, but the location had been carefully chosen.

Out of habit, the witcher flicked his sword to shake off blood that wasn't there, then sheathed it. "Training has to leave an impression! I did stop at a 'point'—I just made the point a little more memorable. Vesemir wasn't memorable enough, which is why I have so many scars on my face! You're already ugly enough. Add a few more scars, and you'll be even less popular. Got it?"

Panting, Victor slowly climbed to his feet with Lambert supporting him from the side. Trembling, he made his way back to the campfire and sat down, then pulled out two bottles of potion from his herb pouch and drained them in one go.

The early spring night was faintly cold, but the campfire's glow cast a warm comfort over their faces.

"Thank you. That was certainly a memorable lesson." Victor's mindset was calm when he said it. Proper impact-resistance training was a good thing, especially when he had enough medical supplies.

"What a waste. I controlled the force. You'd have recovered by tomorrow even without healing."

"It's fine. If I don't drink them, they'll spoil in a few days anyway."

Lambert had nothing to say to that, and a brief silence fell beside the campfire.

After a while, once he had recovered somewhat, Victor stood up and saluted Lambert with his sword.

"Uh... What's this... You want to go again!?"

"Yes. When you suffer a setback, you need to go back and face it as soon as possible. Otherwise, you'll become afraid. And if you're afraid, you won't improve."

Lambert suddenly understood. "Oh... So that's why you drank two bottles of potion just now..."

Victor said, "One was for healing, and one was for pain relief. Come on, you old bastard. I can fight you all day!"

"You've got guts! Kid, tonight I'll beat you so badly you won't even be able to drink your bedtime milk!"