Reinforcements arrived in time, and Geralt finally let out a sigh of relief. Others might not know, but how could he not understand just how strong Slade was?
He was someone who could slay dragons with nothing but a Cloak. The Wild Hunt was troublesome, but still fell short of dragons. Geralt could tell that Deathstroke's new weapon was highly effective against them. If it could reduce a knight to flying ash, there was nothing to worry about.
The Witcher dropped to one knee, breathing heavily like a bellows. His face was paler than a corpse's, while his eyes gleamed like a wolf's golden pupils. The effects of overdosing on potions had appeared on his face as well—blue-black veins covered it so densely that, at a glance, he looked like cracked Porcelain.
Fighting these things was not actually that difficult. The key was that it was simply too cold. The White Frost greedily drew every bit of heat from his body. Fighting in such an environment, he might not even be able to bring out half his usual strength.
His body was stiff, his vision restricted, his footing slippery, and his weapon cold in his hand.
"Potions are good, but you shouldn't drink too much, Geralt of Rivia." Deathstroke acted as though he did not care about the Wild Hunt at all. Smiling into the freezing wind amid the ice and snow, he turned his head and said something inexplicable to the Witcher. "Also, I've been meaning to ask—why don't you wear helmets when you fish?"
"???"
The White Wolf had not seen Deathstroke in a long time. Usually, he only kept in touch with Adjutant, so he had a little trouble understanding this long-awaited-reunion joke.
Did anyone really wear a helmet while fishing? Was it to keep fish from