The two reached the cave entrance. Withered roots dangled from its upper walls, nameless weeds grew unchecked, strange sounds drifted from the depths of the darkness, and the winter wind blowing through the cave carried an ominous warning.
Near the entrance, where sunlight could still reach, the skeleton of some unknown animal lay exposed to the air.
"Tread lightly, don't wake Old Speartip. Old Speartip sleeps so sound, and anyone who wakes him will sleep sounder still."
As Geralt hummed the song, they drank their Cat potions.
Once the potion reached his stomach, Witt felt heat spread through his eyes, making him close them involuntarily. But when he opened them again, the scene before him had changed completely.
Witt looked down at the potion vials tucked into his belt. In his eyes, the potions of various colors had lost their original hues, becoming different shades of gray. Before entering, however, Witt had followed Vesemir's instructions closely and firmly memorized the exact position of every potion.
Better to develop the habit early than become the next idiot witcher in Vesemir's stories who poisoned himself by drinking the wrong potion.
Seeing that Witt was still a little dazed, Geralt waved from up ahead, signaling him to hurry and follow.
Under the potion's effects, the pitch-black cave turned gray and white, and Old Maotou's lair finally revealed its true appearance to Witt.
Because the cave bordered the lake, damp algae covered its interior.
Farther in, the path showed some signs of human work, presumably done by witchers who had undergone the trial before. Although rocks still blocked the way, it made their passage somewhat easier.
Sparse rustling sounds in the darkness made Witt's skin crawl. After all, this world had monsters like wraiths, formed from the resentment people felt when they died.
Still, despite his unease, Witt did not forget to gather some rare alchemical ingredients. Years of the Trial of Choice had long since accustomed him to a witcher's way of life.
As they ventured deeper into the cave, Old Speartip's breathing grew louder.
"Huff... huff..."
Before long, a huge figure curled up on a crude bed of turf came into view.
Beside him lay Old Speartip's food: severed limbs that might have belonged to humans or some other animals. Piled together haphazardly, they gave off a nauseating stench of decay.
Geralt glanced back at Witt, who nodded and drank the potion at his waist.
The instant he drank Petri's Philter, Witt sensed a stirring of chaos magic in the air. It came from the Circle of Elements not far from the cave entrance.
Witt understood why this potion possessed the peculiar ability to strengthen Signs.
In essence, Signs were merely simple spells that could be cast using the chaos magic within one's body.
After drinking Petri's Philter, witchers could draw on the chaos magic in the air just like spellcasters. Although they were less than one percent as efficient as spellcasters, it was still enough to strengthen their Signs.
The two gradually approached Old Speartip. He lay on the ground like a small hill, wearing a turf skirt around his lower body to ward off the cold, with guards made of wooden slats bound to his hands. These were probably the limits of a cyclops's intelligence.
Geralt exchanged a glance with Witt, drew his silver sword, and moved in front of Old Speartip. Witt cast Quen on himself, then moved behind the monster.
Witt understood that his role in this battle was to provide support, but that did not mean he could not deliver a fatal blow.
As Geralt cast the Quen Sign, the battle officially began.
The master witcher raised his sword high in both hands and brought it down hard.
The silver sword sliced through the air toward the top of Old Speartip's head, trailing a howling gust.
Even though the force of the attack jolted Old Speartip awake, he was too late to dodge. He merely raised both hands, trying to block Geralt's thunderous strike with the wooden armor on his arms.
But the outcome was obvious. The silver sword easily sliced through the wooden armor and severed Old Speartip's left hand, only to be stopped by the bone of his right forearm as the attack lost momentum.
Intense pain stabbed into Old Speartip's walnut-sized brain, making him roar uncontrollably.
"ROAR!!!"
He instinctively struck back, but Geralt, who had already read his movements, easily dodged. As he pulled his silver sword free, Geralt also took the opportunity to leave another wound on Old Speartip's remaining right hand.
Looking at his missing left hand and the blood gushing out, the cyclops, who had spent years feeding on humans and descending the mountain to plunder, felt the fear of death for the first time before this seemingly weak human.
And the witchers' attacks would never stop until the monster fell.
Behind him, Witt nimbly dodged a stone pillar shaken loose by Old Speartip's agonized roar. This weak yet tenacious wolf cub now officially bared his sharp fangs.
Standing upright, the cyclops was twice Witt's height. Even with his sword raised, Witt could only reach the monster's waist.
Witt drew a breath, pushed off with both feet, and drove viciously toward Old Speartip's lower back with all his strength behind his silver sword. He even braced the hilt against his chest.
"Pfft!"
The brand-new silver sword pierced the cyclops's waist, drawing several more cries of pain.
But Witt had no intention of stopping there. He lowered his body and changed his grip into a push. The muscles of his arms bulged instantly, snapping open the straps securing his armor.
He actually intended to use the twisting force of his body to cut the cyclops in half at the waist!
However, after suffering one grievous wound after another, Old Speartip finally reacted. He raised his arms and flailed wildly through the excruciating pain.
His terrifying innate strength made this utterly unstructured attack plain yet devastatingly heavy. The wind it stirred up was no weaker than Geralt's earlier New Year's bow sword strike.
"Witt! Watch out!"
Geralt shouted, but the cyclops's reckless blow forced him back as he rushed forward. He had no choice but to cast the Axii Sign instead, attempting to stop Old Speartip.
Compared with Geralt, who was worried about his junior, Witt seemed rather composed as he faced the blow head-on.
Watching the enormous hand approach as though in slow motion, he temporarily released his silver sword, shifted his weight backward, and suddenly threw his head back, landing on his back to evade the reckless blow.
Old Speartip seemed to realize that the witcher behind him posed the greater threat. Ignoring Geralt in front of him, he turned and lunged at Witt by his feet, intending to use his body to teach the little witcher who had gravely wounded him a fatal lesson.
Without needing a warning from Geralt, Witt rolled aside to dodge Old Speartip's lunge and, before his next attack could come,
raised his left hand, forming the gesture for the Axii Sign together with Geralt.
Pale, inverted triangular runes appeared in the air, releasing invisible magic.
In Witt's vision, the chaos magic that had been drifting through the air surged wildly into the magic-filled runes, instantly transforming into mental energy that Witt could almost control with his thoughts.
This mental energy stabbed fiercely into Old Speartip's vulnerable brain, completely shredding the cyclops's already feeble consciousness.
Witt was startled. He had not expected his Axii Sign to possess the ability to attack an enemy's mind directly in addition to charming them.
As Old Speartip's eyes went blank and he collapsed heavily onto the pile of meat beside him, throwing up countless flecks of dust and flesh, peace returned to the cave.
Geralt sheathed his silver sword, walked over to Witt, and hauled him to his feet with a smile. "Say, buddy, do we have to end up covered in dirt every time?"
After two battles, Geralt had begun to accept Witt as a fellow witcher, and once again marveled at his astonishingly rapid growth.
Remembering his close encounter with the swamp hag in Buina Village, Witt smiled sheepishly and asked, "Sometimes I like to give it everything I've got."
"Sometimes?"
Although Witt could not make out Geralt's expression very well in the darkness, he knew the master witcher must have rolled his eyes when he said that.
Seeing that Witt was uninjured, Geralt drew his dagger, preparing to collect some trophies from Old Speartip.
At the sight, Witt spoke up. "Let me. I can't keep leaving all the cleanup to you."
Geralt smiled, not minding in the slightest. From Witt's earlier willingness to pay for the wine, he had already understood that Witt was a kindhearted, good person too.
Why did I use "too"?
While Geralt puzzled over this, Witt had already cut open Old Speartip's chest and removed his still-beating heart.
"I read in the witcher bestiary that a cyclops's heart is the best material for making mutagens."
"Yeah. Sell that heart to sorcerers, and it could probably fetch a hundred or two hundred crowns," Geralt replied.
"That much?" Witt looked at the dead Old Speartip, wishing he had grown a few more hearts.
"Let's go." Geralt brushed the dust off himself.
Witt put Old Speartip's still-dripping heart into a cloth bag and hung it at his waist. "Are we just leaving the body here? Aren't we going to burn it? Won't it attract scavengers?"
Geralt chuckled. "Why go to all that trouble? This is our toll."
Hearing Geralt say that, Witt thought of something. It seemed the three troll brothers would be making their entrance next.
With that, he put his mind at ease and followed Geralt out of the cave.