Vesemir's skill at harvesting materials was far more practiced and efficient than John's, even with all of John's alchemist training.
Working together, the two of them had the manticore fully processed and packed up before the snowstorm rolled in.
"Something you bought off a wizard?" Vesemir asked with a curious glance as John stuffed the beast's teeth and feathers into a small handbag.
Even an ordinary person could tell there was something strange about a bag that never filled up.
The surplus—the lion's head and claws—was lashed to Boro's back for transport.
Even so, there was still an entire manticore's carcass left behind.
"It really was a big one. Honestly, this thing was no easy kill." With John's permission, Vesemir collected some of the beast's blood.
"There wasn't one of these around last year."
Vesemir led the way, with John walking beside him, leading Boro.
They followed the riverbed forward, crossed another ravine, and climbed onto a mountain path that wound upward.
John paused at one point, gazing into the distance at a crumbling fortress huddled among the rocks.
It bore the scars of old wars—battered and half in ruins.
Only the foundations of the defensive walls remained; a few towers and the gate still stood, along with the massive, thick-walled central keep.
John's voice was thoughtful as he said, "Looks like the witchers' situation hasn't exactly been prosperous."
Vesemir's eyes held a trace of nostalgia as he walked ahead, saying, "We're not exactly welcoming to just anyone."
John only shrugged. Naturally, he regarded this man as a witcher.
Back at the history walls of Jovonovich, John had already guessed at the witchers' situation.
And Vesemir's presence here only confirmed for him that the people of Jovonovich were different from those here.
He had never seen his uncles wear those medallions, and their pupils had been perfectly normal in color.
If John wanted to understand the witchers, he had to find one.
The silver sword in his hand had all but guided him to them, and so he had followed its lead.
Snow had already buried their boots up to the ankles by the time they entered the castle.
Leaving Boro in the stable by the gate, John unloaded the gear strapped to the horse.
Vesemir watched him work, then remarked suddenly, "That's a fine bearskin."
"Shame about the shoddy craftsmanship."
John shrugged. "I only finished half of it. They weren't too fond of me."
"Fair enough," Vesemir said with a brief nod.
"This way.. Yadani."
As the last living master among the witchers, Vesemir treated John with notable courtesy.
He led John deeper into the castle.
They walked through dim corridors and pushed open the oak doors to the main hall.
The place was quiet and cold, as most witchers had yet to return.
"Witchers usually come back in the winter. This is where we can stay undisturbed," Vesemir explained.
"I'll take you to find a room first."
John casually set the griffin's head down on a table, then walked over to a tree hung with many medallions and paused in front of it.
Vesemir stepped up beside him. "These are the last mementos left to us by those who've gone."
There were many medallions on that tree. Witchers were not welcome in the world...
Some died at the claws of monsters.
Others died at the hands of humans.
Neither monster nor man.
Being caught in between was the hardest lot of all.
"You've never thought about changing that?" John asked.
Vesemir glanced at him and shook his head. "Witchers remain neutral, lad."
"But neutrality—don't you know all too well what it brings?"
John's gaze swept over the hall, lingering on the walls still bearing scars from the old wars.
"Is that why you destroyed the walls of Balvic?" Vesemir clearly knew this witcher—knew his deeds even better.
"That was their choice," John said casually. "I won't protect people who throw stones at me."
The young witcher's clarity of thought surprised Vesemir. If he wanted to teach this boy properly, it would take some effort.
"Your swordsmanship is impressive, but it's not a witcher's way of fighting." Vesemir stepped to the side, tossed some logs into the hearth, and with a wave of his hand sent a ripple of heat to ignite them.
He had crossed blades with John before—though briefly, it had been enough to sense the young man's unusual fighting style.
A witcher's combat relied on weapons, enhanced physique, and those Signs that wizards often scorned.
But John had drawn a wand, looking nothing like a witcher at all.
"Truth is, until not long ago, I didn't even know I was a witcher," John said, resting his wand across a pot.
The empty pot instantly filled with clear water, leaving Vesemir momentarily stunned as he had been about to scoop snow to melt.
"Just a simple 'Aguamenti'," John said with a faint smile, then turned his head toward the corridor. "The rooms are over there, right? I'll pick one for myself."
Vesemir gestured for him to go ahead.
John went to pick a room, surveying the old stone chambers that looked as if they might collapse and bury someone at any moment.
In the end, he chose one that was relatively decent. Two mice scurried about beneath the bed, only to dart away in fright when he startled them.
He tapped the bedframe with his wand, and the dust gathered into a ball and swept itself out through the window.
"Magic is convenient," Vesemir said from where he leaned against the doorframe, "but relying too much on it will dull your swordsmanship."
His eyes shifted to John's silver sword, and he gave a kindly smile. "We still have time before the others return."
"Then please, teach me."
…
John and Vesemir stepped outside the castle.
Snow was falling, but it barely affected the two witchers.
As witchers, their bodies were far more resilient than ordinary humans.
Vesemir also drew his sword.
It was John's first time witnessing a witcher's true fighting style.
Vesemir's swordplay was steady and direct, utterly free of unnecessary flourishes.
Every stroke of his blade was aimed solely at defeating his opponent.
Even with his Level 6 mastery of the greatsword, John found himself repeatedly forced to give ground under the older man's attacks.
"Level 7 swordsmanship."
John's eyes narrowed as he gripped his sword in his right hand and met Vesemir's blade head-on.
This was the peak of human swordplay. After more than twenty exchanges, John found Vesemir's sword tip pressing against his throat.
Compared to John's disheveled state, Vesemir looked calm and at ease.
"Like Dumbledore with a sword…" John muttered, lowering his blade in faint frustration.
The last time someone had put this kind of pressure on him had been people like Dumbledore or Voldemort.
In pure swordsmanship, John simply couldn't mount an effective counterattack against Vesemir.
But…
A wand slid out from John's sleeve.
He wasn't just a swordsman.
"Protego!"
Vesemir's sword was deflected aside as John's wand flared, sending a jet of white light at the older witcher—only for it to crash against a yellowish shield Vesemir had raised with his left hand.
"Aard Sign."
"Expelliarmus!"
The shockwave sent John flying backward, and at the same time Vesemir's sword was knocked out of his grasp.
John rolled twice across the snow to bleed off the force of the blow, then rubbed his shoulder—he felt as if he'd been rammed by a bull.
Vesemir, meanwhile, glanced at his own sword lying some distance away, stuck in a snowdrift, momentarily taken aback.
John walked over, pulled the blade free, and handed it back to him.
"You're the finest swordsman I've ever met," John said, his tone entirely respectful.
Then he asked, "If I wanted to learn from you, what would it cost me?"
Vesemir sheathed the sword and shook his head. "No price. I can already tell you don't belong to any known school."
Long ago, one witcher school had betrayed the others. That was why Vesemir had tested John—to see if he was a spy from that school.
Now, he was certain this young man was different.
Though Vesemir had bested him in swordplay, John's unpredictable use of magic made Vesemir doubt he could guarantee victory in a real fight without preparation.
Vesemir's own school relied heavily on preparation.
It was that past betrayal that had once plunged Kaer Morhen into flames.
Few from his school remained, and bringing in a promising recruit like John would be an invaluable investment.
"I haven't said this yet," Vesemir said as he stepped up to John and offered his hand. "Welcome to Kaer Morhen, Yadani."
"This winter, I'll train you—to make you a true witcher."
John clasped his hand and smiled. "It's my honor, Mentor Vesemir."
Vesemir's weathered face softened into a smile.
The Black Witcher officially became part of Kaer Morhen.
As the snow deepened, more and more witchers returned to the keep from every corner of the Continent.
This was Vesemir's favorite yet most bittersweet time of the year. His only wish was that all the witchers he had personally trained would come back, safe and whole.
But reality rarely granted such wishes.
The witchers returned—fewer than the year before.
A fleeting shadow of sorrow crossed Vesemir's face. Among this group, he was both mentor and father figure.
The last to arrive was a man with milk-white hair, carrying two swords across his back.
________
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