The Wheel of Fate Begins to Turn

Without warning, rain came pouring down when he looked up—another afternoon thunderstorm.

Victor set down the letter, pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed.

On the third day after Megatron set out, Catherine brought news of a victory that was both expected and unexpectedly fruitful.

"Captain, just as you said, Tylles is no longer a problem.

As I write this letter, notices ordering him to immediately return to Dorndale Fortress to report for duty, after Prince Hereward stripped him of his post as captain of the city guard, have already been posted all over the city.

I heard he received the news at the guard station. He made a huge scene on the spot, refusing to believe it and demanding to see the prince. In the end, Commander Kramer of the guards had him tied up and carried out of the city.

You really do have your ways, Captain. Just as expected, he has lost all his power. I confirmed it—by evening, the men he had stationed outside the city in ambush had all received orders to withdraw as well.

Also, you've been staying at the temple for almost twenty days now. Since Tylles's threat has been dealt with, how much longer are we going to remain here?

Purchasing things these past two days hasn't gone very smoothly. Ellander's markets don't have many of the things we need. I think we'll have a much better chance of buying them once we get to Vizima..."

Angoulême's letters were getting longer and more nagging by the day. She must truly have been bored out of her mind in the city.

He reached out and smoothed the eagle feathers. As they spent more time together, Catherine still would not allow him to touch her from behind, but at least she now permitted the boy to stroke the feathers within her field of vision.

After giving it some thought, Victor went downstairs and chatted with several commoners in the front hall. Then he returned to his room, pulled out a sheet of paper, and wrote to Angoulême, asking her to meet him by Bluewater Lake in the forest the following morning—and to bring along the alchemical materials he had asked her to purchase.

On one hand, if he did not put some of those materials into his herb pouch soon, they might spoil. On the other, it was not merely to soothe his staunch subordinate's restlessness. Victor himself felt that after being shut up in the temple for so long, it was time to go outside and get some air.

The next morning was clear. Wearing a light linen shirt and carrying only his steel sword and the herb pouch that never left his side when he went out, Victor departed through the temple gates. After walking for half an hour along a shaded avenue of poplars, turning left into the woods, and walking another half hour, he arrived safely at the shore of Bluewater Lake.

He had learned of this hidden scenic spot from commoners the day before. Supposedly, people often came here for dates, and some thrill-seeking couples even came at night to fool around. But it was morning now, and the lakeshore was deserted.

The morning breeze was slightly cool, the lakewater crystal clear, and the shore carpeted in lush grass. He imagined that lying down to bask in the sun would feel wonderful, so that was exactly what he did.

It had been a long time since he had relaxed beneath the sunlight like this. The warm rays reminded Victor of his life in the alchemy world. Back then, every day had been leisurely. Closing his eyes, he could almost smell cakes, sweet biscuits, and hot black tea.

Yet, strangely, when he searched his heart, he realized that although he missed it, he did not want to go back. It seemed he liked this dangerous, war-torn world of witchers...

The rustle of bushes interrupted Victor's thoughts. Someone was making their way through the woods toward him. Angoulême must have arrived...

No! Those heavy footsteps were not hers!!

The sudden flare of danger sent Victor rolling to his feet and turning to face the other person, but he was still a moment too late. A heavy fist encased in an iron gauntlet struck his abdomen first, landing squarely on his liver. The violent impact tugged at his vagus nerve and compressed his diaphragm, leaving him unable to breathe and weak all over in an instant.

His attacker was clearly not satisfied. Without allowing Victor the chance to fall and catch his breath, another hook crashed into the side of the unsteady boy's face, sending him flying sideways before he slammed into the ground.

The man walked over to Victor and kicked his right shin. The crack of bone breaking rang out clearly. Though surprised that he had not snapped it outright, the attacker saw that Victor was already barely conscious and stopped his assault. Any more, and the boy would pass out—and the witcher had to remain conscious to receive judgment.

Dragged by his uninjured left leg to the lakeshore, Victor then had a jug of water splashed over his face. As awareness gradually returned, he laboriously opened his eyes and, unsurprisingly, saw the once-handsome face of Knight Tylles, now utterly twisted by hatred.

"Sir... Sir Knight Tylles... why... why?" Victor asked in broken, slurred words.

"Why? After repeatedly humiliating me with your contemptuous gaze, your rude actions, and your arrogant words, you still dare ask why?

Do you think I know nothing?" Tylles bent down, seized Victor by the collar with his left hand, and raised his right fist to strike.

But seeing the boy's half-dead, agony-ridden state, the knight disdainfully released his collar and let the witcher apprentice collapse back onto the ground.

Instead, he drew his sword. As the tip sliced diagonally across Victor's left cheek, he cursed, "You charlatans, you disgusting freaks—did you really think that just because you hid in that dark, superstitious nest, I would be unable to deal with you?"

The first cut complete, the sword tip carved a second mark. "No! My eyes have seen your sins. I will never stand by and watch you use your vile potions to befuddle my lord and dishonor the glory of the Order of the White Rose."

Having proclaimed the witcher's crimes, Tylles, convinced he was delivering judgment, immersed himself in the supreme satisfaction brought by righteousness.

He had no idea that Victor, sprawled on the ground like a dead dog, was not actually as badly injured as he appeared. He was a witcher apprentice, after all; his body had been carefully trained to endure the Trial of the Grasses.

The liver strike and blow to the face were certainly effective against an ordinary human body, but they were not enough to rob Victor of his ability to move for long.

So from the moment he had been dragged to the lakeshore, the boy had begun pretending. He was hardly an expert at playing dead, but his immature young face was still remarkably convincing.

At last, after carving the third mark, Tylles raised his sword high in satisfaction, ready to nail Victor to the ground. "We'll start with you, monster. Your blood will wash away the insult you have dealt the Order."

Victor drew back his left foot, then drove it hard into Tylles's unguarded shin. At the same time, he used the force to roll away.

During the roll, he snatched up the fallen Mahakam. Once on his feet, Victor swiftly drew his sword and leveled its point at the heavily armored Knight Tylles.

The knight wore an ornate breastplate edged in brass, while a crimson cloak billowed in the wind behind him. Seeing Victor actually rise and draw his sword, Tylles casually flicked the blood from his blade's tip. A cruel, delighted smile spread over his face.

Tylles casually swung his steel sword, spinning several flourishes as he said in a crazed tone, "Heh heh heh, good. I've waited for this day for years. Ever since that damned scum left me with this disgrace on my face more than ten years ago, I have trained tirelessly for the day I could pay him back.

What a shame he died—like a wild dog by the roadside.

But it doesn't matter. You're a witcher too. I'll hack you into eight pieces and prove that freaks like you have no value in existing!"

In stark contrast to the knight's delight, the boy's expression was grave and cautious. He was disappointed that his kick had not done much damage, only throwing the man off balance briefly. A knight in full plate would not move very quickly, but Victor, with his fractured right shin, was in an even worse position.

And judging by the look and sound of it, Knight Tylles had learned from his shame and grown stronger. He was no longer the pathetic weakling he had been more than ten years ago. Victor was not confident he could defeat him in battle, so there was truly no other choice.

Faintly, a distant voice echoed through his mind again.

"Kill him. You can do it, can't you?"

"The conflict cannot be reconciled. This is not your fault! He is simply too foolish."

"His dismissal has nothing to do with you. You bear no responsibility at all. He was the one who provoked you first... kill him."

"Doesn't your face hurt? Give that pain back to him."

Shaking off those whispers, Victor made up his mind. Holding his sword one-handed, point lowered to the ground, he took his stance. "Tylles!" he shouted. "This is your final warning!

Leave this place, and I can pretend none of this ever happened. You can still return to Dorndale Fortress and serve as an Order of the White Rose knight.

Otherwise, you will die here—die beneath the secret ultimate technique of Victor, a School of the Wolf witcher."

Hearing the youth's ultimatum, Tylles merely gave a cold laugh. With a clack, he lowered his visor and strode toward Victor with his sword held in both hands. He believed he had seen through the other man's bluff; a fractured shinbone would have a decisive impact on swordsmanship. No secret sword technique could be performed under such conditions.

And faced with the stubbornly unrepentant knight—

Victor said, "Ultimate technique—"