Winter at Kaer Morhen soon slipped quietly by amid Witt's daily training and hunting.
The upper reaches of the White Stone River began to surge, and withered old trees put out new buds. Apart from the distant mountain peaks still covered in snow, everything was reborn.
Early spring remained bitterly cold in the Kingdom of Kaedwen, which lay in the northeast of the continent, right beside the Dragon Mountains.
But it was time for the witchers, who had spent an entire winter living in peace, to leave. Whether for the survival of their school or their own, they had no choice but to set out on a road from which they might never return.
Such was a witcher's fate.
Eskel and Lambert had left for Aedirn several days before the snow on the roads had fully melted. They planned to look for contracts along the way as they headed toward their agreed meeting place.
Today was the day Witt and Geralt were due to leave. The two had intended to sneak away with the horse, but as soon as they reached the stables, they found Vesemir waiting there, fully aware of their intentions.
"I raised both of you with my own hands. You think I wouldn't know what's going through your heads?"
The two exchanged a glance, wry smiles tugging at their mouths.
Most of Vesemir's savings over the past few years had gone toward the potions for the Trial of the Grasses undergone by Witt's group of apprentices. What remained had been spent on light armor and a silver-plated longsword for Witt.
A horse to ride and a steel sword for cutting down people were beyond Vesemir's means. Still, Witt's destination was Ban Ard, within Kaedwen, which was not too far away. Besides, the old man who had given everything to the younger generation he considered family had already done enough.
Witt believed that through his own efforts in Ban Ard, a city renowned for its academy of male mages, he could earn a horse and steel sword of his own. Nor had he forgotten to repay Vesemir.
"Old man, I left the trophies from the swamp hag and Old Speartip in the hall. Sorry for the trouble, but could you take them to Vizima and sell them for me? You're passing through there on your way to the Kingdom of Verden anyway."
"Why don't you take them to Ban Ard and sell them?" Vesemir blurted out.
"People here in Kaedwen are too stingy. They definitely aren't as generous as the people of Temeria. Those are trophies Geralt and I hunted together, and he wants them to fetch a good price too. Right?" Witt nudged Geralt with his elbow.
"That's right." Geralt nodded.
"I'm counting on you, old man!"
"You little rascal." How could Vesemir fail to understand what Witt meant?
He placed a hand on Witt's shoulder and said earnestly, "Child, your talent frightens me. I even see traces of many master witchers in you..."
"...Your talent for Signs resembles that of Erland of Larvik, the master witcher of the School of the Griffin. But your fighting style is like that of Ivar Evil-Eye, the master witcher of the School of the Viper-just as reckless. But do you know what they have in common?"
The two men Vesemir mentioned were the founders of the Schools of the Griffin and the Viper, respectively. They were also among the first witchers created by Alzur and his teacher, Cosimo.
"They were both among the first witchers?" Witt asked.
"No..." Vesemir's eyes widened, and he suddenly gripped Witt's shoulder hard enough to make him frown.
"...They're both gone!" Vesemir roared, "Perhaps they aren't dead, but they're barely clinging to life in some unknown corner. And what brought all of this upon them was their talent-the very talent that inspired envy and fear! Even Alzur, who created them, died because of his own arrogance and madness!"
Witt fell silent. According to the original works he had read in his previous life, witchers had been created at the end of this world's tenth century.
It was now the spring of 1262, barely three hundred years later. Even the current, somewhat incomplete Trial of the Grasses Decoction could let mutated witchers live for over a century, and Vesemir, standing before him, had witnessed that glorious age himself.
One could imagine that the first witchers had probably possessed even longer lifespans. So why had they all vanished without a trace?
Erland of Larvik, founder of the School of the Griffin, had been renowned for his unique understanding and creation of witcher Signs. Yet because of this, the Griffin fortress of Kaer Seren had drawn the covetous eyes of spellcasters and been utterly destroyed. Erland himself had disappeared from history ever since.
Ivar Evil-Eye's original vision in founding the School of the Viper had been to fight the Wild Hunt, which he had seen through his unique evil eye invading the world in the future and unleashing an apocalyptic catastrophe.
Yet Gorthur Gvaed, the School of the Viper's fortress within Nilfgaard, had been dragged into the maelstrom of imperial power struggles because of its witchers' superb swordsmanship, and reduced entirely to ruins. With the fall of Gorthur Gvaed, Ivar Evil-Eye had also faded into obscurity.
As the creator of witchers and one of the greatest mages in history, Alzur's power went without saying. His death, however, had been steeped in absurdity.
Alzur had brought a heavenly punishment named arrogance down upon the city of Maribor. What emerged from the spell he had devised, Alzur's Summoning, was not the easily controlled air elemental he had expected.
Instead, it was Bekker's Dark Mirror, an enormous centipede hundreds of meters long. Upon arriving, the furious demon had destroyed half the city in mere moments, and even its summoner, Alzur, had not been spared.
With Alzur's death and the departure of the spellcasters, the Order of Witchers had also fallen apart, its members going their separate ways.
After obtaining the flame rune, Witt had wanted precisely to carve out a place for himself in this world of witchers and leave a brilliant mark upon it. That was why he had impatiently urged Geralt to leave Kaer Morhen.
Vesemir, who cared about him, had naturally seen all of this, leading to today's harsh wake-up call.
"Child..." Vesemir loosened his grip and rubbed Witt's slightly aching shoulder. "...Seeing your talent makes me happy, because Kaer Morhen will surely live on in your hands. But at the same time, I'm afraid. Afraid that before you're strong enough, you'll rush to make a name for yourself and expose your terrifying talent..."
"Humans see us as outcasts, and in the beginning, we were tools of the mages. No one cares what the sword in their hand thinks! If the sword breaks, they replace it. If it's too sharp, they fear it will hurt them..."
Vesemir raised his head, his reddened eyes fixed on Witt's equally red eyes.
"...Witt, I'm not asking you to suppress your talent, nor do I want you to become timid. But you must think things through before you act, and beware of swords thrust from the shadows. Don't rush. Your time will come. Until then, become a competent, ordinary witcher."
"Old man..."
Vesemir lowered his head and pushed Geralt and Witt away, then turned around and said with a smile, "Don't underestimate an ordinary old witcher. My mentor, Master Barmin, and I lived through that age and into this one!"
"Go, Witt! Remember the path of neutrality."
Witt followed Geralt, who was leading Roach, and left Kaer Morhen by the road he had taken to reach it.
He looked back repeatedly along the way. That aged figure remained standing near the gate.
Just as in every winter at Kaer Morhen, the old witcher was always the first to arrive and the last to leave, as though he had never left at all.