From the day Geralt had the Forbidden Spellmark tattooed onto his body, ordinary illnesses had never troubled him again. All his suffering came from the physical pain and mental torment it inflicted.
Everything came at a price.
Venomous snakes, spiders, centipedes, mosquitoes... every common but deadly creature in the jungle steered clear of Geralt, afraid it would poison itself trying to poison him.
Winchester.
A place where everyone was a master of jungle survival.
"The scent's gone. Sorry, boss."
Morgan, a member of the mercenary squad, sniffed.
Her nose was swollen and bright red, like the bulbous nose of an old drunk.
Her ability was an extraordinary sense of smell, but she had overused her nose, and it hurt badly.
Even her voice sounded muffled.
"It's fine."
A young man in the squad spoke.
He had an ordinary face and heavy bags under his eyes, giving him the look of someone worn down by too many sleepless nights. No one would have guessed he led a band of hardened mercenaries.
The others treated him with respect tinged with fear. This frail-looking young leader clearly had something exceptional about him.
Perhaps he had a brilliant mind.
Or perhaps he possessed a special ability.
The frail-looking young leader
raised a hand, signaling them to stop.
"Rest here for fifteen minutes."
"Leon, Turner, you two keep watch."
"Yes!" they answered in unison.
The two slipped into the jungle and vanished among the dense leaves and branches.
Turner was the skinny man named Emmons who had tried to scare Geralt earlier. He and Leon had been kept in the middle of the group to conserve their strength for moments like this.
Ten minutes later, two long, clear birdcalls and two short ones sounded from the woods.
It was the squad's signal.
It meant something