An Old Friend Who Seems Familiar

Victor left White Orchard and continued his journey, camping in the wilderness for a night before finally reaching his destination at noon the next day.

Vizima—the capital of Temeria and the largest city in the kingdom—stood on the shore of "Vizima Lake," formed where a tributary of the Pontar River met the Ismena River.

Blessed with developed land and water routes and a favorable location, the city reaped astonishing profits from trade. But for the same reason, the Catriona Plague had naturally not passed it by.

The plague's ravages had resulted in several districts being sealed off and the city gates being placed under controlled access. Victor was thus stopped outside the gates; without a pass, he could not enter Vizima.

The ban had been issued by Mayor Velerad ten days ago. By Victor's reckoning, Angoulême should already be in the city, buying a house and beginning to set up their base as instructed when they parted.

He looked at the tall, sturdy walls and the sharply armored guards. In broad daylight, it was hardly convenient to attempt the ancient art of bribery. With no other choice, the youth headed toward the outskirts. A city this large could not possibly seal itself off entirely from the outside world—someone was bound to know a way in.

If this were a game, the quest he had just triggered would probably be called "Obtain a Pass to Enter Vizima."

Satellite towns had naturally formed in the outskirts near each of the four main gates. Their predominant buildings were wooden cottages with thatched roofs, inhabited by people who either could not afford to live in the city or disliked the stench of Vizima's slums.

When Victor pushed open the door to the tavern outside the east gate, the smell of cooking fires, alcohol and meat, vomit, piss, sweat, and cheap perfume hit him all at once. He instinctively frowned and touched his nose, only to meet eyes with a woman seated in the corner.

In an instant, she caught Victor's attention. She looked to be around twenty, with green eyes, fine yet striking brows, and neat short red hair parted at the fringe. Combined with her slender face and petite nose, she was an androgynous beauty perfectly suited to twenty-first-century standards of taste.

His gaze drifted lower, adding a correction: her figure was anything but androgynous. She wore a lake-green traveling outfit and carried a herbalist's bag slung over one shoulder. Was she a doctor?

Realizing that staring was impolite, the youth gave her a silent nod of apology before looking around. The tavern's six or seven long tables were all occupied by farmers, drunkards, and thugs, while quite a few people could only stand against the walls. Strangely enough, the seats on both sides of the woman and across from her were the only empty ones.

Of the tavern staff, one flamboyantly dressed waitress was chatting merrily with several customers. One customer reached out and grabbed her ass, then grinned as she slapped him across the face. Another waitress dressed far more conservatively, but she was busy serving drinks and food as well.

Victor did not go disturb them. Instead, he walked straight into the kitchen and knocked twice on what seemed to be the owner's doorframe. "Sir... do you still have a room available?"

The owner, fat as a pig, was crouched before the stove roasting a suckling pig. He wiped away his sweat and casually flicked it onto the floor before turning around impatiently. "Are you fucking blind? Of course not.

"Listen, if you want food or drink, go find the waitress—the one with half her pale ** hanging out and swinging around. I don't believe you missed her. But you'd better keep your hands to yourself. Looking is fine, but otherwise, I guarantee you'll get into big fucking trouble.

"If you understand, get the fuck out of here! You fucking bastard."

Smack! The dull sound of Orens lightly striking flesh bounced off the owner's face. One coin after another fell to the floor with crisp clinks. Victor used five gold coins to smash the owner's expression from anger into a smile.

The owner removed the suckling pig from the fire and picked up the Orens one by one, his fleshy face piling into a sugary smile. "Ah... what can Old Cold Legs do for this esteemed gentleman?"

"I have money and I want to enter the city. Do you know any way to get a pass?"

Old Cold Legs picked up one of the Orens and bit it, squinting as he sized Victor up. The young man had four knife scars on his face, while beneath his dusty gray cloak were leather armor and a steel sword. He looked like nothing more than an ordinary mercenary, but Orens did not lie.

After thinking it over, Old Cold Legs held up five fingers and gave them a shake. Five Orens were immediately tossed his way. Seeing how readily the cloaked man paid, he instantly regretted it. Maybe if he had held up ten fingers, he would have gotten ten coins?

Still, he would not risk raising the price. Small folk had small folk wisdom: knowing when to stop was how one lived longer. "As for a pass, if you have enough offerings to prove your devotion, the priests of the Eternal Fire may be able to help."

Then he lowered his voice and said quietly, "Or if you just want to get into the city, you can pay a visit to the Merchants. I hear they have their ways. You can find them at night in that row of houses near the moat, but you'd better make sure your sword is sharp enough."

Smack! Another gold coin struck him in the face!

"One last question. Who's that redheaded woman outside? The one sitting alone in the corner."

Old Cold Legs was initially baffled, then suddenly understood. "Ah! That's Miss Shani, a doctor at Saint Lebioda's Hospital in the Temple Quarter. We respect her greatly. Without her, even more of us would have died in the plague."

Victor nodded. Smacking people with Orens was so simple it made the owner shut up. He helped himself to four braised duck legs, a round loaf of bread, and a bottle of wine from a food basket.

He pulled down his hood to reveal his hair, then tugged the Wolf School medallion out from under his clothes. Leaving the kitchen, he walked to Shani's table and politely asked, "May I sit here?"

At the question, the doctor's refined yet valiant brows rose as she looked over this newly arrived outsider. She judged him as such because locals usually kept their distance in tacit respect. He had four knife scars on his young face—not handsome, but not unpleasant to look at either.

Wait... that medallion was...!?

Victor, still standing, read the unspoken consent in her expression and naturally sat down on the bench across from the woman. Immediately afterward, a large hand landed on his shoulder.

The hand belonged to a muscular bouncer who took part in private fistfights at the tavern. "Miss Shani, do you need me to throw him out?" he asked the doctor.

The woman lightly waved her hand to indicate it was fine, and only then did the large hand withdraw. Victor never once turned to look at the bouncer; his attention remained fixed on studying the physician before him.

Shani—no player of The Witcher 3 could forget that name. Aside from her seemingly unexpected youth, the stunning impression she had given him when he first saw her had already turned into something natural. Shani should look like this. Thank goodness she had not suddenly become ebony-skinned...

"Is there something you need from me? Usually, when people see the empty seats around me, they don't make a point of sitting across from me." As she lifted her cup to drink, Victor caught a faint scent of roses.

"Mm... I just wanted somewhere to sit and eat, and this happened to be the only place left. Is that answer acceptable?" Victor smiled and took out a duck leg to chew on.

"Heh... it is." Shani let out a soft laugh. "I don't particularly mind these things, really. I've smelled far worse."

Then the female doctor took a close look at the youth's eyes and pupils. "But I do have a question. Can you tell me where you got that medallion? Don't tell me you're a witcher."

"An apprentice. I'm an apprentice witcher of the School of the Wolf. I haven't undergone mutation yet. The fact that you asked—have you seen something similar?" Victor hooked the medallion with his little finger, its wolf's head baring its fangs.

Looking at the wolf's head, Shani paused, then nodded. "Mm... I have a friend who wears the same medallion."

"Let me guess. Geralt of Rivia, right?"