March, 1229.
Warm sunlight spilled over the Blue Mountains. Ice and snow melted, and all things stirred back to life.
Returning migratory birds perched on the walls of Kaer Morhen, looking down at the apprentices training in front of the castle and chirping incessantly.
White-haired Geralt wore a black leather jacket and held a wooden club as thick as a fist, his gaze moving back and forth among the six apprentices.
"Aiken, that's not how you cast the Igni Sign! Stop bending your index finger. If I catch you doing it again, I'll straighten it out myself!"
"And you, Winston! Did you feed your breakfast bread to the sparrows that flew back? Why can't you even blow a leaf away?"
"Paul! Don't just stand there looking stupid. Who are you trying to trap with that Yrden Sign? I bet an old woman with a walking stick could walk right out!"
Geralt paced back and forth, roaring without pause, berating the apprentices until they could barely lift their heads.
"Arwen!"
Geralt's amber gaze fell on him.
Arwen stiffened and raised a hand to form a sign. A pale blue barrier enveloped his body.
The Quen Sign.
Geralt's tightly knitted brows eased slightly. "Passable. Keep practicing."
Watching him walk away, Arwen silently breathed a sigh of relief.
Over the past few months, Vesemir had largely entrusted Geralt with supervising their training.
Once quiet and calm, he had grown noticeably more irritable.
As a genius the likes of which Kaer Morhen rarely saw in a century, he had received no shortage of beatings from Vesemir back in the day.
Faced with these slow-witted apprentices, he had managed well enough at first, but his patience had its limits. He had long since begun grumbling to himself.
Oh, dear Master Vesemir, your sword wasn't fast enough back then, nor was it nearly ruthless enough! You should have really given them a beating!
Arwen glanced at his panel.
[Quen Sign Lv1: 52/100] [Aard Sign Lv1: 21/100] [Igni Sign Lv1: 15/100] [Axii Sign Lv1: 10/100] [Yrden Sign Lv1: 10/100]
In nearly four months, he had learned the basics of all five fundamental signs.
His most proficient was the Quen Sign, which placed a shield around himself. It was also the School of the Donkey's main skill.
Before a fight, put a shield on yourself, get knocked rolling all over the ground by the boss, and, once you had figured out its moves, sneak in a sword strike when it wasn't paying attention.
If the shield broke, immediately run into a corner and put on another. Rinse and repeat.
It might look pathetic, but you couldn't deny that it worked.
As for the other signs, Arwen hadn't devoted much effort to them.
The Aard Sign, which released a shock wave from the palm; the Igni Sign, which sprayed fire from the palm; the Axii Sign, which used mental power to control others' minds; and the Yrden Sign, which laid a Gravity Hazard—all of them took a back seat.
Dong!
The bell rang, marking the end of the morning's training.
The apprentices' tense bodies relaxed considerably, and they all let out long breaths.
Arwen raised a hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead.
"Finally over. This Yrden Sign uses up far too much mental power. My head's starting to hurt."
"Oh, stop complaining. You have no idea what it was like standing next to Aiken. His Igni Sign roasted me until I was sweating all over, and he nearly burned my hair!"
"If you ask me, Aiken, your aim really needs work."
"Horton, I already told you to stay farther away from me!" Aiken muttered.
Horton shrugged. "I don't care. You owe me a glass of chilled green juice!"
"Oh, I see! You're just itching for a beating!"
The two began roughhousing, making everyone burst out laughing.
Arwen smiled, then suddenly noticed Geralt standing still out of the corner of his eye.
He was staring at the bronze bell on the castle terrace, looking distracted.
"Geralt, what's wrong?"
Arwen's voice also drew the attention of the others as they fooled around.
Geralt came back to himself, exhaled a stale breath, and gave an awkward smile.
"Nothing. Today's the day I head down the mountain. I think we won't see each other for a long time."
"Huh? You're leaving?"
"Down the mountain? You're leaving Kaer Morhen?"
The apprentices gathered around him.
Though Geralt was a witcher, he was only three or four years older than the rest of them.
In Arwen's understanding, Vesemir was the dignified master of a sect.
That made Geralt the head disciple, far more approachable than Vesemir in everyday life.
Seeing the reluctance in their eyes, Geralt felt a little warmth in his heart.
"Don't look so sad. It's not as though we'll never see each other again..."
As soon as he said that, an eerie silence fell over them.
Vesemir had told them that death would always accompany witchers.
Once he left, none of them could guarantee that their next meeting wouldn't be in front of a gravestone.
"Geralt, where do you want to go after you leave?"
Arwen broke the suffocating atmosphere.
Geralt raised his head and looked west, anticipation flashing through his eyes.
"I think my first stop will be Temeria. I want to see the sea, to find out whether it really is as boundless as the books say."
"Oh," Arwen said, while Aiken added, "The sea? It must be beautiful. I'd stay in Kaedwen. They say the north is crawling with monsters. I'm going to kill them with the sword in my hand!"
Blyde nodded in agreement. "Me too. Witchers should kill monsters."
Winston hesitated for a moment. "I want to go to Mahakam. That's where the dwarves live."
Aiken gave him a scornful look. "Is that really why you want to go? You just want to drink dwarven mead."
Winston gave an honest, good-natured smile.
Paul shook his head. "I haven't decided yet."
"What about you, Arwen? Where do you want to go after leaving Kaer Morhen?"
Arwen lowered his head and thought for a while. "South, I suppose. I hear there's a place called Toussaint, with lovely scenery and world-famous grapevines."
Geralt's catlike eyes brightened for a moment, as though he had committed the place to memory.
Silence fell over them again.
This time, Geralt spoke, patting Arwen on the shoulder.
"Arwen, come on. There's still some time before lunch. Let's spar, so I can see how much your swordsmanship has improved."
"Right, a fight!"
"Let Geralt get a good look at the results of our special training before he leaves!"
Aiken quietly led Paul and the others aside to clear the field.
Over these four months, he had challenged Arwen many times, but every single attempt had ended in defeat.
By now, he had accepted it.
At those words, Arwen straightened his chest, his fighting spirit surging.
"Come on."
The two put some distance between them, and Aiken tossed Geralt a training sword.
Arwen reached over his shoulder and drew his sword, lowering his body slightly as he readied himself.
Geralt tilted his neck and began circling Arwen, his hands clad in silver-studded gauntlets gripping the hilt tightly, his eyes brimming with bestial ferocity.
"To keep the duel fair, I won't use signs. Don't let me knock you rolling all over the ground like last time!"
Arwen took a deep breath. "All right. You said it."
Quen.