Resurrection Day, 1228, the tenth day after the autumn equinox.
High in the cloud-piercing Blue Mountains, a vast, dilapidated castle stood among pine-covered slopes.
White clouds brushed past Kaer Morhen, and vines covered its weathered stone walls.
"Hah!"
Sharp grunts rang out one after another.
On the training grounds, a slender figure kept swinging a two-handed training sword, the muscles in his arms bunching, his white linen shirt soaked through.
Sweat dripped from his dark forelocks and slid down his forehead and over his high nose, revealing a pair of gray, snake-like slit pupils.
[Apprentice Swordsmanship experience +1!]
A line of small text swept across the top of his vision.
Open the system panel.
[Name: Arwin Thyssen] [Class: Witcher apprentice] [Age: 14] [Mutagens: None acquired yet] [Apprentice Swordsmanship Lv1: 99/100] [Special talent: Dual Souls (purple)] [Dual Souls: Transmigrator. Greatly increased mental power and photographic memory. Once mental power reaches a certain level, allows dual casting.]
Just one more experience point, and Apprentice Swordsmanship Lv1 will be maxed out.
With that thought, he poured all his concentration back into training.
Just a month ago, he had been home alone one evening, playing The Witcher 3 on his computer. Its varied monsters, mysterious and beautiful sorceresses, and bizarre, fantastical world... all of it fascinated him.
But that had only been a game. When he actually transmigrated to Kaer Morhen and became a witcher apprentice named Arwen, he found himself at a loss instead.
After several days of confusion, Arwen had no choice but to accept this cold reality. There was no computer, no comfortable surroundings, only endless daily training.
Bong!
A deep bell rang through the castle.
Arwen lowered his training sword and drew a deep breath.
Suddenly, someone nudged his right arm.
Arwen glanced sideways.
The other boy stood around a meter sixty, half a head taller than him, and wore the same apprentice clothes. His face was covered in sweat. If not for his almost sickly pallor and sinister cat eyes, he would have made a fairly good first impression.
Paul, a witcher apprentice, was the closest to Arwen among all six apprentices.
"Morning sword training is over, Arwen. Come on, let's get a glass of green juice in the kitchen."
Green juice...
An unpleasant memory quickly surfaced in Arwen's mind.
Witcher apprentices had to pass through four stages to become full-fledged witchers:
The Choice, the Trial of the Grasses, the Trial of Dreams, and finally, the Trial of the Mountains.
That green juice was a special brew witcher apprentices drank during the first stage, [The Choice].
Its main ingredients were mysterious mushrooms grown in the witchers' laboratory, mixed with moss and herbs. It could accelerate an apprentice's metabolism and, combined with six years of harsh training, give them powerful muscle tissue and an absurdly healthy body.
It sounded wonderful, but all of this took place while their food intake was restricted.
Back on Blue Star, just a few days of fitness meals for cutting fat could leave plenty of people complaining endlessly, let alone six whole years!
Losing one's mind was among the milder consequences. The slightest misstep could lead to organ failure.
Arwen had once thought that witchers' violent tendencies were the result of those six years of dietary restriction.
"No, I'm going to train a little longer."
Arwen picked up his training sword again.
He was only one point away from leveling up. He had no intention of stopping halfway.
At that, Paul slung an arm around his shoulders, raised his fingers, and pulled a face.
"Oh, my friend, Master Vesemir isn't even here. Drop the act."
"Let's go to the kitchen. We might even see that herbalist sister. She wears a cloak, but the skin showing at her wrists is whiter than the milk we drink. I bet you she's a real beauty."
Looking at Paul's narrowed eyes, Arwen lifted his shoulder and shook off Paul's left hand.
Paul gave a disgruntled snort.
"You're no fun. I'll go find the others. Don't blame me if I don't leave you any green juice."
Arwen was unmoved.
A herbalist sister?
So what if she were a sorceress?
He had seen more than enough beautiful women on screens before.
Especially now, when he still remembered how the original owner of this body had died.
The Trial of the Grasses was an absolute nightmare for every witcher apprentice.
After drinking the specially prepared alchemical decoction called [Grasses], their bodies and physiological structures would mutate completely over seven days. The most obvious changes were their skin and cat eyes.
And the entire process was filled with pain and death.
Even a forty-percent survival rate was extraordinarily fortunate.
The terrifying risk undoubtedly came with an extremely high reward.
Anyone who passed the Trial of the Grasses would gain not only cat eyes, but physical abilities beyond ordinary people and almost freakish reflexes.
Unfortunately, the original owner had not survived the seventh and final day.
Fortunately, that had allowed him, a transmigrator, to reap the benefits.
Even so, he still did not dare let his guard down.
Two more major trials lay ahead: the Trial of Dreams and the Trial of the Mountains.
Their death rates were still far from low.
The original owner really had suffered halfway through, only to leave him to suffer through the rest.
With so much pressure looming before him, Arwen was in no mood to look at some herbalist sister.
Quietly grinding experience and making it through the Trial of the Mountains alive was the right approach.
Just as he was about to raise his training sword, Arwen detected faint footsteps behind him.
He turned his head slightly. Paul had come back, looking miserable.
Arwen did not ask anything. The catlike pupils in his eyes abruptly contracted.
A tall figure entered his field of vision.
The man wore his gray-white hair combed back. His face was aged, but he had a broad, powerful build, with two swords on his back.
Most frightening of all were his amber slit pupils. A single meeting of eyes was enough to send a chill through anyone's heart.
Vesemir, Kaer Morhen's witcher swordmaster.
He was also one of Arwen's favorite characters in The Witcher 3.
"Gather round, children."
Vesemir spoke in a deep, resonant voice.
The six witcher apprentices scattered across the training grounds quickly gathered before him.
Six pairs of differently colored cat eyes looked up at Vesemir, like wolf cubs looking up at their pack leader.
Vesemir surveyed them and gave a slight nod.
"A month should have been enough for you wolf pups to get used to your new bodies. How do you all feel?"
Arwen exchanged a glance with the other five.
One of them thumped his chest, pride appearing in his cat eyes.
"I feel fantastic, Master Vesemir. Even if a Ghoul stood in front of me right now, I wouldn't be afraid. I could kill it."
"So could I. Training these past few days hasn't been as tiring as it used to be."
The apprentices chattered away, describing the progress they had made over the past month.
Arwen remained silent, his gaze fixed on Vesemir's still-stern face.
He had a vague feeling that something bad was about to happen.
Vesemir narrowed his eyes.
Not as tiring as before?
Heh. Apart from the Trial of the Grasses strengthening their bodies, the main reason was that they had made it past the dietary restrictions of The Choice and could eat normal food. Both their bodies and minds had been replenished.
Vesemir let out a low chuckle.
"Kill Ghouls? Such youthful bravado."
"Very well. Now that you've passed the Trial of the Grasses, it's time you drew some blood."
At those words, Arwen unconsciously tightened his right hand around the sword's hilt.
His ears twitched slightly. His hearing, far beyond that of an ordinary person, picked up a series of dull sounds gradually approaching from behind.
It was the sound of iron chains striking the ground.
No, not just that. There was also a strained, indistinct hissing pant.