The silver sword guided John on his way.
After some days of travel, he finally emerged from the Blue Mountains.
Along the road, he slew more than a few magical creatures.
One of them was a mantis-like beast with an unusually high resistance to magic.
His time at Kaer Morhen had yielded plenty—witcher combat techniques and their special potions had benefited him greatly.
In alchemy too, he could feel his own progress.
The fusion of witcher alchemy with wizarding methods gave him a sense of foreboding—by the time he left this world, he might well reach Level 7.
He had reforged his Meteor Boots, granting him the ability to fly, though he still preferred to ride on horseback.
Boro, after the long winter, had grown somewhat lazy.
John suspected the stallion had taken a liking to Geralt's mare.
"Guess I'll give you a chance to make your dream come true someday," John said, patting Boro's neck.
Using mind magic, John sent his thoughts to Boro, rousing the horse's spirits.
He replaced Boro's horseshoes so the stallion wouldn't injure his hooves on the rocky roads.
A column of soldiers marched past them.
"This continent is heading for war," John murmured, his eyes darkening.
He was now in the Kingdom of Lyria.
Along the way, he had heard troubling news—a place called Cintra had been attacked.
A massacre had claimed the life of the Lioness of Cintra, its queen.
Some southern kingdom had somehow gathered the strength to strike so fiercely.
War was always cruel. That never changed—whether in his original world or this one.
Witchers stayed neutral, never taking part in wars.
John, though not a witcher in the strictest sense, kept to that same neutrality.
At times, he even paid out of his own pocket to buy information about magical creatures from war orphans. Though he always insisted it was merely a transaction, the people remembered him as a generous traveler.
His reputation seemed to improve as he journeyed on—the Black Witcher, Yadani, now carried a touch of mercy in his name.
John watched the soldiers march off, his thoughts drifting back to his time with Geralt.
"I remember… Geralt supposedly has a child of surprise in Cintra," he murmured.
He paused for a moment, then drew his silver sword and examined it.
The seventh rune, earned during his long journey of slaying magical creatures, was only a shade dimmer than the first six.
"Well, I don't really have a destination anyway. Might as well head that way and take a look."
Riding with his sword on his back, he occasionally encountered bandits taking advantage of the chaos. Without exception, they became part of the growing legend of the Black Witcher.
Starting from Redania and passing through the Blue Mountains, John's path was eventually traced by certain watchful eyes.
Among them was a sorcerer.
Stregobor.
His legs had been severed by the mutant girl, Renfri, and his body left grievously injured.
But sorcerers had far more resilient constitutions than ordinary men. He had managed to flee and return to the Brotherhood on the Isle of Thanedd.
There, he recounted his ordeal to the other mages.
With a twist—he presented himself as the victim.
And claimed that the Black Witcher, in league with the mutant girl, had committed heinous crimes in Blaviken.
"They intended to slaughter an entire city."
When Stregobor said this, the sorcerers present felt a surge of indignation.
The mutant girl, reviled as a monster, and the witcher, likewise treated as a monster—
Together, they had crippled the esteemed Master Stregobor, severing both his legs and his hands.
"This is an abomination," said a dark-skinned sorcerer who seemed to hold considerable standing.
Stregobor, using an illusion to conjure the image of hands and feet for himself, let the corners of his mouth curl upward at the remark.
But he quickly suppressed the pleasure it brought him.
"I propose we prepare ourselves and rid the world of that devil of a witcher."
He leveled his accusations against the Black Witcher, placing John in opposition to the Brotherhood.
Only he knew what truly occupied his thoughts.
That witcher, capable of wielding powerful magic, was far more worthy of study than the mutant girl, Renfri.
He was convinced it was a curse—an extraordinary curse that had forged an extraordinary witcher.
The gathering began to deliberate.
"We need to focus on preparing for Nilfgaard," one sorcerer countered.
"They're no different," Stregobor said arrogantly. "Both are butchers—both slaughtered an entire city."
"Nilfgaard is the greater threat. They're recruiting sorcerers and plotting a war of unprecedented brutality."
"The witchers won't intervene," another sorcerer replied. "They remain neutral."
The sorcerers of the Brotherhood exchanged glances.
But the arrogance inherent to their kind kept them from taking a mere kingdom seriously.
After all, behind them stood the entirety of the Northern Kingdoms.
That attitude left one of the sorceresses present quietly deep in thought.
…
John knew nothing of the sorcerers' quarrels.
He had seen firsthand the devastation this war had wrought.
"These sights," he thought, "will one day be recorded in history books, but no written account could ever convey the true impact."
He had left Lyria and was now tossing down a freshly killed deer.
It was for a merchant's family—the father was away, leaving behind a woman with her children.
As John dropped the deer, the daughter glanced nervously at the sword strapped to his back.
"Could you tell me if there have been any monsters in the area?" John asked the girl.
The girl didn't quite look like a farmer's child.
She had a high forehead, neatly arched brows, and a wide spacing between her eyes that gave her a striking charm.
Her hair was white.
John glanced down at her hands—slender, delicate fingers, far too refined for someone raised in a place like this.
He didn't dwell on it. He had already decided that before heading to Cintra, he would light the seventh rune.
Out here in the wild, a deer was often worth more than gold.
John dropped the carcass of a deer at the doorway, startling the woman inside the house.
Kristida saw the stranger and at first thought he meant harm.
In times of war, there was no shortage of men who did terrible things.
She instinctively grew wary of John, but relaxed a little when she understood he was proposing a trade.
For a widow with children, it was only natural to feel nervous at the sight of an armed man.
"If you're looking for monsters, there's a reed marsh not far from here," Kristida said. "Three corpse-eating wildcats have been lurking there."
At the mention of corpses, the little girl beside her shivered.
John gave a short nod. "If that's true, then our trade will be a pleasant one."
He looked at the woman and added, "I'll need someone to guide me there."
Kristida looked a little uneasy. She clearly didn't want to go out with an armed stranger.
Just then, the girl John had first questioned spoke up. "I'll take you there."
"Ciri," Kristida said to her adopted daughter.
The white-haired girl showed a resolve far beyond that of an ordinary child. "I'll guide you, but you have to give us the deer first."
"Of course," John replied, glancing at the girl who looked about the age of a first-year Hogwarts student.
For all his composure, John himself wasn't yet sixteen.
He held out his hand to her. "I hope you don't mind sharing a horse with me."
"Of course not." Ciri clasped his hand, and John helped her up into the saddle.
Kristida still looked worried, but Ciri reassured her.
"Let's go."
Ciri reached out and took the reins. John loosened his grip, letting her guide Boro.
Ciri had ridden horses before, but none had been as steady as this one.
As they passed a narrow trail, part of the embankment crumbled with a loud crack.
Yet the horse showed no fear—didn't even turn its head.
That surprised Ciri. She asked curiously, "What's this horse's name?"
"Boro." John kept his hands well away from the girl, doing his best not to get too close.
"Boro?" Ciri called the name tentatively.
But Boro didn't react at all, leaving her rather frustrated.
"He's deaf, so he can't hear you," John said casually. "How much farther, Ciri?"
Ciri looked ahead, a little displeased at his dismissive tone. "Just past that bend."
Fair enough.
John felt he might as well get off and walk—staying in that one posture just to avoid brushing against Ciri was starting to strain his back.
Ciri noticed, a bit surprised.
She knew she wasn't plain.
At first, she had volunteered to guide him only because of the deer he'd brought.
Since fleeing Cintra, she had been taken in by Kristida, whose kindness and fairness she deeply appreciated.
Helping this traveler was her way of repaying that kindness.
Now, seeing John's restrained manner, she let go of the annoyance she'd felt at his earlier tone.
"We're here." Ciri pulled on the reins, bringing the horse to a stop.
John dismounted and looked ahead. Before them stretched a dense reed bed.
With the sun dipping low, long shadows reached into the reeds, and crows cawed harshly overhead.
The place felt eerie and foreboding.
Ciri got down from the horse, trying to keep her composure, but she still edged behind John and whispered, "Those three carrion cats started prowling around here three days ago."
John noticed human bones scattered among the roots of a nearby tree, gnawed clean.
"Stay behind me," he told her, drawing the sword from his back.
Ciri felt a surprising sense of safety looking at his broad back.
They stepped into the reeds.
John lightly tapped the blade against the ground, sending out an invisible ripple.
Before Ciri could react, John spun around, seizing her shoulder and pushing her down.
A flash of silver swept over her head, followed by a chilling, bloodcurdling screech.
A single drop of blood landed on her ear.
Turning slightly, she caught a glimpse out of the corner of her eye—a blood-red feline, as big as a lynx, hung impaled on John's sword.
It had been stalking them silently the moment they entered the reed bed.
If not for John's swift reaction, the creature would have torn out her throat.
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