Before the First Snow of Late Autumn

The shallow stream babbled past. Dressed in a suit of witcher armor, his hair combed into a mushroom cut, Victor sat meditating beside the water. The herbal pouch he never left behind on outings hung at his waist, while a sharpened steel sword lay unsheathed across his knees.

No master accompanied him on this hunt. It was his first time operating alone. Since autumn began, Vesemir had taken him outside the keep to hunt every few days, tempering his character and refining his skills. The meat served in Kaer Morhen's kitchen had expanded from deer and roe deer to lynxes, gray wolves, and even brown bears.

Now that he had accumulated ample experience and supplemented it with the knowledge from books, he could still identify the trails of large animals despite lacking a witcher's keen, all-perceiving senses.

He was waiting for an adult brown bear about to hibernate. This was a fair and proper hunt.

On that same day, Kaer Morhen welcomed back two wandering sons—highly skilled witchers. One was Lambert, with his M-shaped hairline and a volatile, sharp-tongued temperament; the other was Eskel, mild-mannered and bearing a disfiguring scar across his face, his hair parted neatly down the middle. Riding side by side, they dismounted before the drawbridge and led their horses through the gates.

"At least we made it home before the first snow."

"Bullshit. I refuse to call this drafty hall and this dump with rooms that don't even have basic furniture a home."

"Whatever you say, Vesemir is here. That makes this home."

"Once the old man dies, I'm never coming back here."

Still trading idle remarks, the two tied their horses in the stable and stepped into the courtyard.

"Huh!? A new apprentice?" Eskel noticed the wooden comb post, where fresh footprints were plainly visible. As he spoke, he took a couple of steps closer and studied the marks left by its use.

Hearing that, Lambert did not follow. Instead, he headed straight for the other end of the courtyard to inspect the "windmill" and the "pendulum."

"His jumping turns seem fairly competent, but he's still not fast enough," Eskel said after finishing his inspection.

"Tsk, tsk! He's still far from mastering the windmill. Poor bastard definitely took a hard hit this morning—the blood he spat out hasn't even dried yet. His pendulum practice isn't bad, though. Didn't get hit too many times." Lambert stood and rubbed the clots of blood from his hands against the haystack. "Come on. Let's go ask the old man where he found this new apprentice. To reach this level, he must have trained for at least a year and a half. I don't remember anyone like that from last year."

"I'm more concerned about the Trial of the Grasses. Vesemir actually took in a new apprentice—perhaps he found a way to improve the success rate."

"That damned trial ought to stay buried in the ground forever!"

His eyes flew open at the roar. Looking at the creature across the river, Victor swiftly pulled three vials from his herbal pouch and drank them in a single gulp: Blizzard, which heightened reaction speed; Thunderbolt, which enhanced strength; and Tawny Owl, which boosted stamina.

As secret witcher formulae, these potions possessed potent effects, but also violent toxicity. For ordinary people, drinking them meant coma at best and instant death at worst. Even witchers, with their rapid metabolism, could not consume too many kinds at once. When toxicity accumulated too heavily, they had to drink the antidote White Honey, or they too would die from the poison.

But such toxic limitations did not exist for Victor the alchemist. In the middle of the night, after closing his door, he had simply combined Blizzard with White Honey to make nontoxic Blizzard. He had similarly made nontoxic versions of Thunderbolt and Tawny Owl.

Although the potions' effects had dropped sharply with the removal of their toxicity, Victor knew that was only because his abilities were still insufficient. As his alchemy improved, he would sooner or later produce versions with no reduction in potency—or perhaps even stronger effects.

As he breathed, feeling the potion course through his body, Victor assumed the Plough Stance, sword point aimed forward as he faced the starving bear charging at him.

This newcomer's room was nothing like the stark minimalism of other witchers' bedrooms—or rather, their homeless-man style. Simple yet practical wooden tables and chairs furnished the room. The bed was neither too soft nor too hard. Several books rested on a small cabinet, while four or five cotton undergarments hung drying on a rack, displaying the owner's good hygiene and standard of living.

Only two things made it resemble a witcher's room. One was the alchemy pot beside the fireplace, used for brewing sword oils and potions. The other was the wolf pelt decorating the wall—witchers used the hides of beasts they killed to adorn their walls and doors.

Leaving the room, Lambert glanced at Eskel and shook his head. "Whoever our new tenant is, he clearly knows how to enjoy life better than the Princess of Cintra. Maybe he's a king?"

"Give me a break! A king wouldn't get beaten bloody by the windmill."

"Vesemir and his crossbow are both gone. Looks like he went hunting with the king."

"Maybe we should put our things down first, light a fire in the hall, and have a drink. By the time they return, we can start roasting the meat?"

"I like that idea."

When it collapsed amid the ferns at the edge of the woods, five bolts from a heavy crossbow were embedded in its chest. Its left foreleg had nearly been severed at the root by a bear trap, while another trap gripped its right hind leg. Its twisted neck pressed against mud softened by the stream as it wheezed for breath.

Then a steel sword drove deep through its left eye and into its brain, ending its futile rage and suffering. Only its dull right eye remained, staring vacantly at the sky.

Victor looked at the claw marks gouged across his armor and cursed bitterly. They should have been avoidable, but unfortunately, he was still not fast enough when executing jumping turns.

Rolling up his sleeves and drawing a short blade, he flipped the bear onto its back. Swiftly and decisively, he cut from the sternum downward, carefully separating the layers of fat before removing the bear's heart, gallbladder, and stomach stone. Then he continued cutting down to the anus, circled the blade around its genitals, and brought the knife down.

What a treasure trove of a boy! The bear heart could serve as a special catalyst, its gallbladder could be used in medicine, its hide could be tanned, its paws could nourish the body, its meat could be eaten, and its penis could be... In this era, when no one needed to protect endangered animals, Victor had the brown bear's every part neatly accounted for in his mind.

He lifted the dead bear onto a protruding stone in the streambed, letting the flowing water wash through its opened belly and flush away the blood and remaining filth from its organs.

When Vesemir entered the hall, the two witchers naturally rose to greet him.

Eskel stepped forward and gave him a tight embrace. "Master, we're back."

"Ho ho ho, look who's back. Isn't this our master witcher? Didn't you go hunting? How come you don't smell of blood, and you came back empty-handed?" Lambert spoke in his usual strange manner as he stepped forward to hug Vesemir as well.

Vesemir smiled kindly. "Wait a little longer. Victor is still dealing with the bear by the river. Today was actually his first solo hunt. I followed him in secret because I was worried something might happen. Don't mention it to him later."

Lambert pulled Vesemir down to sit and handed him a cup of wine. "Of course. But shouldn't you introduce this Victor to us first?"