Performing The Exorcist in Vergen

Lambert noticed something was wrong in the middle of the night. Victor's breathing had clearly become short and labored.

When he got up to check, he found the boy pale-faced, his forehead burning hot, his teeth clenched tight, and his entire body drenched in sweat.

The knife wound across the bridge of his nose had already closed. Poison? Or a slow-acting poison?

Lambert had no time to wonder why a roadside bandit's dagger had been coated in slow-acting poison. God knew where they had gotten it.

He hurriedly shook Victor awake. The boy opened his eyes groggily. "Hey! Vic, you've been poisoned. Find an antidote, quick."

Though anxious, Lambert did not panic. He knew Victor's personality—he never neglected to make additional preparations for himself. He would definitely have all kinds of antidotes he could use on hand.

Victor's head felt as though it were about to split apart. He knew he had been careless. Earlier, he had been wallowing in self-pity the whole way, while also worrying about those inexplicable sounds of fighting and slaughter. He had actually ignored the warning signals his body had been giving him.

Good thing there were enough potions in his bag... he thought. But when he barely managed to reach into the herb pouch Lambert handed him, the sharply escalating pain in his muscles made it impossible for him to focus.

Victor's herb pouch was a storage space bound to his mind. The stronger his mental power—the greater its capacity.

In his previous healthy state, the storage space had been roughly one cubic meter in size. But now, unable to concentrate, it was as good as completely locked.

After several seconds of trying, Victor could no longer suppress the increasingly violent dizziness in his head and the ** agony throughout his body. Lambert watched helplessly as the boy collapsed unconscious without taking out a single thing.

Inside Vergen, Angoulême's residence.

"Does his herb pouch have anything useful in it?"

"I checked. It's all unmarked unknown ** and ordinary medicinal herbs you could find by the roadside."

"It's the plague!! He has Catriona Plague!! Throw him out of the city, now!!"

"Get lost! Stop talking nonsense. I've seen what the plague looks like. This kid doesn't look like he has it. He looks more like..."

As though his symptoms had worsened, the boy lying on the ** suddenly jerked upright. His spine bent backward into a semicircular bow, and a painful groan squeezed from his throat. Yet his expression was strange—his brows raised, his teeth clenched, and his lips pulled into a bitter smile.

"Lockjaw!" Everyone in the room recognized the symptom at once. During the Vergen siege that had ended not long ago, many people had been wounded by arrows. A few days later, before they died from the onset, they looked just like this."

"He was only wounded yesterday evening? Then this is acute—such a rapid onset is incredibly rare. This kid's luck is truly terrible!"

"...This condition isn't contagious. He can stay here. I'll get him some medicine to ease the **. As for whether he lives or dies, all we can do is pray to Melitele."

"Thank you, Doctor. Thank you, Zoltan. Thank you, Angoulême."

"Don't mention it. The White Wolf drew his sword for us. His friends are my friends."

A few days later... Angoulême's residence.

"This kid's physique is really strong. The most dangerous period has passed. He'll pull through."

"Mm... He is pretty sturdy. Too bad he looks so ordinary—not handsome at all."

"Angoulême, I'll have to trouble you to keep looking after him."

"No problem. He's Ciri's little brother. Of course I should look after him."

Time passed. It was as though he had risen from beneath the water's surface. His breathing suddenly became smooth, and the agonizing pain in his muscles eased. Finally, Victor opened his eyes.

Her eyes were dark brown... That was the first thing the boy saw upon opening his eyes.

She had bright straw-colored hair and two thick, wildly untamed eyebrows. Those were the second and third things.

She stretched out a hand and waved it back and forth before the boy's eyes. Once she confirmed that he was truly awake, she ran out of the room in jubilation.

Victor struggled to survey his surroundings from the corner of his eye. "This room looks like a cave dwelling. Judging by the furnishings, it's probably dwarven in style. Is this Vergen?

My memory stops at Lambert shouting that I'd been poisoned. So I was carried into Vergen after passing out?

...I need my herb pouch now!"

The sight Lambert saw upon entering the room was Victor barely propping up his upper body as he tried to get out of bed to retrieve something. A punk-haired dwarf and the girl who had just left came in with him.

When Victor opened his eyes again the next day, he was certain that his body had truly recovered... Every corner of his body still throbbed with faint pain, yet he felt utterly relieved.

After getting his herb pouch yesterday, he had hurriedly used the time while his mind was clear to take out and drink several potentially effective potions. The symptoms had already been gradually receding, and today he had finally recovered completely. All he needed now was some more time to recuperate.

Taking the warm water and white bread the blonde girl handed him, Victor said, "Thank you, Angoulême."

"Don't mention it. We're Hansa—looking after you is only right!" The girl's brash tone, bold mannerisms, and easy familiarity gave Victor a strange feeling.

When in doubt, ask. He grabbed the white bread and took a bite. "What's Hansa? When did I become Hansa?"

"AenHanse." Lambert pushed open the door and entered. Apparently, he had overheard the question just outside. "In Nilfgaardian, it refers to a small armed group held together by friendship."

"An armed group...?" The strange feeling in the boy's heart grew even stronger. He had no memory whatsoever of any Hansa, unless he had pressed a fingerprint onto something or signed something while delirious from his illness.

"Hansa is Hansa." The girl shrugged and added, "You could call it 'companions' or a 'gang,' too."

"..." Though the two of them had phrased it tactfully, Victor suddenly understood. A Nilfgaardian version of Liangshan Marsh or a street gang was called a Hansa. But the question was, when had he joined one?

"Hehehe," Lambert said with great delight, his grin full of mischief. "First, congratulations on becoming the White Wolf Hansa's newest member and new leader. You should know I don't even qualify to join!"

Lambert's grin failed to stir any reaction in Victor, but Angoulême beside him became upset first. "Hey! Are you, baldy uncle, saying something against our White Wolf Hansa?" With her hands on her hips, she glared at him sideways. Her widened brown eyes were rather intimidating.

"No, no, no! I have no objections." Lambert reined in his laughter, waved a hand, and said seriously, "But excuse me, young lady, could you let me speak with him alone for a while? Also, I just have a rather high forehead, that's all."

After shooting Lambert a glare, Angoulême propped up the boy's backrest, then pulled the blanket over his legs before leaving the room.

That left only the witcher and the witcher apprentice in the room.

In the silence, Victor alternated between moving his left and right hands, lightly tapping his arms. "...How many days was I unconscious?"

Lambert adopted a serious expression, pulled over a chair, and sat beside the bed. "Seven days."

Victor let out a breath. "All right! Looks like I missed a lot. Where do we start?"

"Let's start with when you collapsed!"