At the mountain summit, sunlight broke through the clouds, casting a cold, clear glow over a pine forest.
The elven walls, built from granite, had long since crumbled under the erosion of countless years, their surfaces covered in moss and winding vines.
Deep within the ruins, on the side near the cliff, stood a raised platform.
A cold wind blew past two tall, powerfully built figures kneeling side by side.
Vesemir and Eskel meditated with their eyes closed, the wolf-head medallions hanging against their chests humming.
The Circle of Elements was the endpoint of the Trial of the Mountains, and a place where chaos energy gathered.
Mages could draw magic here, while witchers could strengthen their Signs.
Tap, tap, tap!
Suddenly, a flock of birds took flight from the pine forest behind them.
A flurry of erratic footsteps followed.
Vesemir and Eskel opened their eyes at the same time, the former frowning slightly.
Witchers should not have made any sound when they walked, unless an emergency had unsettled them.
The two rose to their feet, and, as expected, three figures soon burst into view.
All three were gasping for breath, the sweat and dust on their foreheads mingling into mud, leaving them looking utterly bedraggled.
The silver swords on their backs were already nowhere to be seen.
The instant they saw Vesemir, wild joy filled their catlike eyes.
"Here, here..."
"Old Spearhead..."
"Arwen..."
The three babbled over one another, their voices full of urgency.
"Quiet!"
Vesemir immediately snapped, quickly calming the three down.
"Horton, you tell me."
Horton caught his breath and pressed his dry lips together. "Master Vesemir, Arwen and Aiken are facing Old Spearhead alone to protect us. Please hurry and save them."
Vesemir's heart seemed to skip a beat. In particular, the sight of only three of them had already led him to anticipate this grim outcome.
"When did this happen?"
Horton glanced at the rising sun and said in a panic, "Three hours ago."
Three hours. How many people in this world could survive a cyclops's attacks for three hours!
Even Vesemir had to avoid a direct contest of strength, let alone the two apprentices, Arwen and Paul.
Now the worst had already happened.
"Master Vesemir, why are you still standing there? Let's hurry down the mountain and save Arwen."
"That's right, Aiken's still pinned under the collapsed rubble. If we don't go now, he'll really die."
The more Vesemir heard, the more frighteningly grim his expression became.
"All of you, shut up!"
A terrifying aura erupted, silencing all three.
His amber catlike eyes turned toward the foot of the mountain, his heart restless.
"It's too late..."
Paul asked in confusion, "Master Vesemir, what do you mean?"
Vesemir said nothing. Eskel looked at them with pity.
"Clearly, they failed their trial. Their path through the trials ends here."
The three stiffened, and the atmosphere turned strange.
"No!" Paul roared, his eyes red, rushing forward to grab Vesemir's arm. "Vesemir, doesn't the trial end at midnight? How can you say it's over!"
Horton rushed forward too. "That's right, it's not over yet. As long as you help, Arwen and Aiken can still be saved."
Winston's gaze turned fierce as he pointed at his own back. "This isn't fair, Vesemir. Aiken and Arwen did it to save us. They stayed behind to cover our retreat! If anyone deserves to die, it's me. Look at the handprint on my back. Aiken left that. You can't do this. You're leaving them to die!"
"Enough!"
Vesemir turned with a roar, grabbing Paul by the front of his clothes, his voice trembling. "I warned you. I warned you countless times. This is the Trial of the Mountains. One careless mistake, and death will catch up with you."
"As the trial's final examiner, I cannot intervene. The witcher code doesn't permit me to intervene again either!"
The rebuke stopped Paul short. His arms fell limply as he was pushed back several steps.
Horton gritted his teeth in fury. "You're all cold-blooded, heartless witchers. If you won't go, I'll save them."
With that, he turned to head down the mountain. Winston clenched his fists, and Paul belatedly came to his senses.
Watching their retreating backs, Vesemir said coldly, "You think you can do it without silver swords? What will you use to save them?"
At those words, the three froze mid-step.
He was right. The troll blocking the road had already taken their silver swords. Otherwise, they could never have reached the Circle of Elements so quickly.
Was there really no hope left for Arwen and Aiken?
Pain and unwillingness showed on all three faces.
"Roar!"
A thunderous roar resounded through the sky, sending the animals in the forest scattering.
Their hearts lurched. That was Old Spearhead's voice.
Vesemir's catlike pupils contracted.
Hearing that sound now was so grating. It seemed more like mockery of his loss of two of his finest witcher apprentices. His heart was bleeding.
He clenched his fists and spoke in a hoarse voice.
"Eskel." He took a black oil bottle from his belt pouch and tossed it toward the brown-haired witcher's chest.
Eskel caught it at once and pulled out the oak stopper. A thick, rank smell hit him in the face, and he recognized the substance the moment he smelled it.
It was blade oil of the highest quality-ogroid oil for dealing with cyclopes. Extremely precious.
"Go down the mountain." Vesemir drew a breath. "You should know what I mean..."
Eskel met those slit-pupiled eyes.
He could already tell that the old man was truly enraged this time.
Silently putting away the blade oil, Eskel nodded and sped down the mountain.
Seeing this, Paul and the other two breathed sighs of relief, but could only pray silently for Arwen and Aiken.
Beside Killer Lake.
Arwen broke his invisibility and thrust with all his strength, his sword striking precisely in the center of Old Spearhead's lone pupil!
"Roar!"
An earth-shaking roar rang out.
Two arms like small mountains clapped inward, carrying terrifying force and a fierce rush of wind, enough to pulverize broken stones.
Arwen had anticipated this. Forming a Sign with his left hand, he kicked backward, using the recoil of the Aard blast to pull his silver sword free and send himself flying back.
His back scraped across the muddy ground for several meters, Old Spearhead's frenzied figure reflected in his pupils.
Blood streamed from Old Spearhead's pupil like a little brook, staining his cloudy lone eye red.
It worked!
"Roar!"
Old Spearhead frantically hammered the ground with both hands, his roars making Arwen's eardrums ring.
Arwen quickly formed a Sign, covering himself with a Quen shield while holding his blood-soaked silver sword.
He kept circling Old Spearhead, maintaining a safe distance without a sound.
Old Spearhead panted, his vision scarlet. After a bout of wild pounding, blood covered the muddy ground. Combined with his earlier battle against the ancient foglet, he was already utterly exhausted, his arms hanging limply.
Arwen seized the opportunity, darting in and slashing the wound on Old Spearhead's right leg!
"Roar!"
Pain sent Old Spearhead into another frenzy, his body charging and crashing about.
But Arwen had already put distance between them after landing his strike.
Like a seasoned hunter, he was extremely patient, intent on wearing Old Spearhead down until he died.
One strike, a wait, a second strike, another wait...
Old Spearhead's struggles grew weaker and weaker, his scalding blood staining several meters of muddy ground red.
Thud!
The enormous figure finally could not hold on any longer. He fell to his knees, the light gradually fading from his blood-clouded lone eye. Beneath the bloody cloth, his cracked lips struggled to open and close, and, with a pained groan, he exhaled his final foul breath.