The manticore was brutal—bloodthirsty and savage—slaughtering every last member of the hunting band.
The snow-covered slopes of the Blue Mountains were stained red, and even the horses had been devoured, leaving only nine mangled carcasses.
As if only then remembering there was still one more living thing, the manticore turned its massive head toward John.
Its body was larger than that of a grizzly, and the feathers of its wings were thin and sharp, like honed blades.
Just moments ago, one of the hunters had been swept up by those wings and shredded as if thrown into a meat grinder.
Its hide was so tough that even a battle-axe couldn't leave a mark.
Fast, powerful, and near-impervious to harm—
It seemed like an unsolvable monster.
John studied the enormous beast and murmured, "So this must be the manticore Emily mentioned."
He recalled spotting the scattered remains of animals along the way—no doubt the spoils of its earlier hunts.
And indeed, the creature radiated a pressure greater than anything John had faced in recent times.
Blood dripped from its fangs, still smeared with scraps of flesh and bone.
Its feral eyes locked onto him, the predator sizing up its next prey.
John said dryly, "If Hagrid were here, he'd probably call you a lovely fellow."
With Hagrid's taste, John figured he'd probably even give the manticore a name.
Sword in his right hand, John pulled the reins with his left.
Boro turned its head toward the beast, the scent of its slaughtered kin filling the air and stirring a wave of panic in the horse.
John soothed it with a touch of psychic magic, pressing down the rising fear.
"Don't be afraid. We're the predators here."
He whispered softly, his pupils narrowing into vertical slits.
Tilting his head slightly, he muttered, "Should I cut off your wings… or drive the blade through your heart?"
Such a remark enraged the manticore. With a deafening roar, it surged forward, the rush of its wings kicking up a violent gust.
John spurred Boro forward, charging straight at the beast.
From a distant mountain ridge, a pair of watchful eyes never left the scene.
As John closed the distance, the manticore's massive paw—easily capable of crushing a horse—came crashing down.
A flash of silver gleamed between its claws, followed by a burst of sparks and the harsh screech of metal grinding.
John felt as though he had struck solid steel, sparks scattering from the impact.
Another blow from the beast followed immediately, forcing John to drop the reins and grip his sword with both hands, raising it to block.
His body shot through the air like a cannonball. Boro neighed shrilly, veering aside just in time to avoid being torn apart.
"Well, that's a first." John steadied himself after tumbling to a halt—this was the first time he'd been knocked flying.
The manticore's attack power was immense. If he hadn't absorbed the impact, John suspected Boro would've been flattened by that strike.
Raising his left hand, an invisible pulse rippled out from John, urging Boro to gallop away to safety.
John shifted the blade in his grip.
"Alright, let's go again."
Against something like this—practically a walking fortress—a mounted charge wouldn't do much good.
But that didn't bother him.
He had more than one trick up his sleeve.
"Big guy," he said with a crooked grin, "funny enough, dealing with you lot is actually easier than with most."
The manticore beat its blade-like wings and surged into the air, circling like an eagle before swooping down at John.
Boom!
The heavy impact of its landing rang out, accompanied by the sharp clang and screech of metal as sparks flew in all directions.
John gripped his sword with both hands, the silver glow of the blade forming an unbroken barrier.
Sparks flew again and again where his blade met the beast's talons and bladed wings.
Every strike landed like a hammer blow from a giant.
Gradually, John adjusted to the rhythm.
He'd faced Griffins as his opponents back at Hogwarts while going through Godric's Heir challenge, but that had been him dueling them as a wizard, and they were just constructs of magic. Fighting a monster like this was a different game altogether.
With a sharp upward lift of his sword, the tip pressed against the descending fangs.
A cold gleam flared before the manticore's eyes. Its wings spread wide, then beat downward in a powerful burst.
The huge creature actually shot backward in retreat.
Clearly, this monster possessed an uncanny instinct for battle.
Had it pressed just a little further, John's blade would've pierced its eye and churned its brain to pulp.
"Impressive instincts," John said with a faint smile.
Now the roles had reversed—attack and defense had switched.
He didn't have enchanted boots to boost his speed, but years of training and the blood of magic in his veins had forged his body.
He surged forward in long, powerful strides, chasing the retreating beast.
As the manticore tried to pull the same trick and launch itself into the air, John raised his left hand and yanked hard.
An invisible force seized its wings, pinning it half a meter above the ground.
John closed the distance in a burst of speed. Before the beast's claw could smash down, his silver-lit blade slashed through its hide.
He twisted, grabbed the thick mane beneath its belly, and used the momentum to vault onto its back.
Aiming at the creature's spine, John reversed his grip on the silver sword and drove it down with all his strength.
"ROAR—!"
The manticore's agonized bellow split the air, but John didn't relent.
He stepped back and heaved with both hands.
What had been only a few inches of a wound tore wide into a gash nearly a meter long.
That finally drove the beast into a frenzy.
Its size worked against John—the strike still hadn't reached its vital organs.
With a maddened roar, it surged skyward and hurtled toward the mountainside, intent on crushing the man clinging to its back.
But John had no intention of granting its wish.
Drawing his wand, he leveled it at the sword's hilt and cast a Banishing Charm.
Repelled by the opposing force, as if two like poles of a magnet were being crushed together, the silver sword was driven deeper into the manticore's flesh until even the hilt sank inside.
Pshhk!
The blade burst through the beast's body, flashing silver as it shot downward and buried itself in the ground.
The manticore let out a wretched howl in midair, then plummeted toward the earth.
John cast a Cushioning Charm on himself and leapt from its back.
When he hit the ground less than half a meter below, it felt as though he'd landed on a pile of cotton—completely unharmed.
"This brute's hide really is tough," he muttered, glancing at the bear pelt he wore, which had been torn in a few places. Then he shook his head. "I don't like lions."
He raised a hand and summoned the silver sword with a Summoning Charm, then waved to Boro, who was watching from a distance.
The horse trotted over obediently.
With Boro at his side, John made his way to where the manticore had crashed.
The creature's carcass still had plenty of useful parts—its teeth and claws, for instance, and perhaps its wings could be turned into material for a new pair of Comet Shoes.
He'd long wanted to craft a pair, but had never found the right materials.
The manticore had flown a short distance before finally crashing.
John rode Boro at an unhurried pace toward the site.
The Blue Mountains, now in the grip of winter, were nearly barren of vegetation.
In a crater that looked as though it had been gouged out by a falling meteorite, John found the beast.
It lay there, barely clinging to life, its breaths shallow and ragged.
Sometimes, having too much vitality was more a curse than a blessing.
Death was inevitable—John's sword had pierced its organs; it was only a matter of time.
Seeing him approach, the manticore let out a low, pitiful whimper, no longer capable of fighting.
John drew his silver sword and stepped forward.
He stood before the creature, tightening his grip on the hilt.
"Let me end your suffering."
With that, his blade swept out in a silver crescent, severing the lion's head.
Hardly any blood spilled—most of it had already drained from the mortal wound.
Devoid of life, the lion's hide was no longer enough to hinder the sword's keen edge.
John stood there in silence for a brief moment as a crimson glow seeped into the blade, igniting the fifth rune.
He lifted his silver sword and gave it a sharp flick, sending the manticore's blood spattering onto the rocks.
Next, he had to think carefully about which materials to take with him.
He did have the little satchel, but it was already carrying a few things.
As he was inspecting the manticore's remains, a set of footsteps quietly approached.
Boro blinked, its eyes twitching as it watched a white-haired man draw near behind John.
The instant the stranger reached out, a flash of silver cut across—only to be caught by a firm hand.
John's eyes narrowed. He swung his left fist, but the man tilted his head aside, letting the punch pass.
Seizing the opening, John lashed out with a kick to the man's knee, forcing him to loosen his grip. John twisted the sword in his hand, slashing sideways, but the stranger bent at the waist and slipped under the strike.
The two men drew apart, sizing each other up.
The newcomer had silver-gray hair and a weathered face. Though he didn't look young, his physique was the kind that would make even younger men envious.
Amber eyes watched John with a mix of sternness and a trace of hidden warmth.
He wore leather armor and carried a sword across his back.
A wolf-shaped pendant hung at his chest.
John studied the man; the man, in turn, studied him.
After a moment, the man finally spoke, his voice carrying a trace of approval.
"Good vigilance. To take down a manticore on your own proves your skill. Where are you from, kid?"
Sensing no hostility from him, John lowered his sword to his side and answered calmly,
"Redania."
"That's quite a distance," the man remarked, his gaze lingering on John's sword.
"You're a witcher?"
Before John could reply, he went on, "Black hair, a witcher's silver sword, no medallion… You must be the Black Witcher—Yadani."
From John's appearance alone, he had deduced that John was the much-talked-about Black Witcher.
Judging by his demeanor, however, he wasn't here to pick a fight.
Instead, after a moment of thought, he said, "There's something unusual about you, but we can talk elsewhere, kid."
He extended an invitation.
"My name's Vesemir. I'm heading to our wintering grounds. Will you come with me?"
John sheathed his silver sword, raised his head to glance at the approaching heavy snow, and nodded.
"Not like I've got any other options."
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