When Valeriu was still an apprentice — the day he left his homeland and first arrived in Kaedwen, to study at Ban Ard — he began to hear a single name whispered again and again from many lips.
Kaer Morhen.
The Witchers' holy citadel.
The fortress of wolves.
The nest of freaks.
The ancient stronghold by the sea...
There were countless titles, each colored by the speaker — whether peasant, merchant, mage, or noble.
The darker epithets, of course, came most often from other mages, especially the ones who'd grown up in Ban Ard's shadow.
Born in the riverside kingdom of Cidaris, Valeriu had never understood why the mages of Ban Ard regarded their witcher neighbors with such scorn, hatred, and fear.
To him, witchers had always been something else entirely —The miraculous living creations of the legendary alchemists Cosimo Malaspina and Alzur,the highest achievement of mutation and applied sorcery.
He revered them. He envied them. And yet, haunted by the rumors, he feared them too.
Never had he imagined that one day he would stand this close to that "cursed ground" mages so despised, close enough that the towering black walls of the fortress seemed almost within reach, looming through the darkness like a slumbering beast waiting to awaken and crush them in the shadows.
"Valeriu, what are you staring at?!"
Shaquiel's low, harsh whisper cut through his thoughts, snapping him back to reality. Valeriu quickly tore his gaze away from the distant fortress.
"Master Shaquiel," he murmured, "I heard the Grandmaster of the Wolf School hasn't left Kaer Morhen for years. He should still be inside."
"Do you really think the war beasts from the Rissberg Group's Civil Cooperative Organization can deal with that legendary witcher, Sol? He's older than my grandfather!"
Shaquiel didn't look back. His eyes were fixed on the great fortress not far away.
"The freaks from Rissberg were thrilled when they learned their precious pets were to be released at Kaer Morhen," he said quietly.
"They even adjusted the beasts — tuned them — specifically to face witchers."
"And as you said, Sol is ancient. Unlike us — children of elements and magic — years are not his ally. For witchers, time eats away at the body."
"So who knows? Maybe he stopped taking contracts because he's weary of battle… or maybe his strength simply can't keep up anymore."
Shaquiel shrugged lightly.
"Of course… even if those war beasts can't kill Sol, it doesn't matter."
"What Sunny wants is simple — for the Wolf School to bleed."
"Even if those beasts fail to slay Sol, they'll still slaughter the so-called witcher masters, not to mention the helpless apprentices still in training."
"Tonight, the holy ground of witchers will drown in blood."
Valeriu shuddered.
The thought of witchers crushed in their sleep — torn apart, devoured, or hunted down like prey — filled him with dread.
He was so lost in the image that he stumbled and bumped into Shaquiel's back.
Before he could apologize, Shaquiel's face twisted sharply.
He yanked Valeriu into the tall grass beside the trail and clamped a hand over his mouth.
Rustling noises came from the fortress walls.
A voice — faint but distinct — drifted through the night, followed by the flicker of torchlight.
A witcher had appeared on the battlements, scanning the slope where they hid.
Valeriu froze. He crouched even lower, his heartbeat thundering in his ears like drumbeats of panic.
"Gone."
Shaquiel's whisper finally came. Valeriu dared to look up — the figure on the wall had vanished without a trace.
Cold sweat poured from his body, soaking through his undershirt.
"The witcher schools may only gather around the winter solstice," Shaquiel muttered coldly, "but that doesn't mean their fortress is ever empty."
He grabbed the trembling young mage by the arm and pulled him to his feet.
Valeriu swallowed hard, his voice unsteady.
"They… they knew we were coming?"
"Nonsense," Shaquiel snorted. "Kaer Morhen belongs to witchers, not prophets."
Valeriu still couldn't shake his unease.
"Then why would an empty fortress deep in the mountains still have people patrolling at night?"
"Who knows?" Shaquiel replied carelessly.
"Maybe an apprentice tried to run away. Maybe something was stolen. Or maybe it's just a bunch of potion-poisoned lunatics wandering in their sleep."
"None of that matters. What matters is this — stay on my heels, stay cautious."
"Do that, and I'll bring you back alive and whole. Understand?"
Valeriu opened his mouth but said nothing in the end.
He nodded hard, then followed Shaquiel quietly, crawling through the grass — deeper into the shadows surrounding Kaer Morhen.
What he didn't see was, as Shaquille turned his head, the casual, confident expression he always wore crumbled into confusion and unease.
According to the information Sunny had provided, Kaer Morhen was supposed to be exactly as Valeriu had described—a fortress without any real defenses.
His current caution was simply a matter of habit.
Even when the Witchers of the Wolf School all returned for the winter gathering, the gates were left open and the halls filled with laughter and mead through the night. So why, now that autumn had only just begun, was the place so heavily guarded?
A bad premonition settled deep in Shaquille's chest. He could already tell—today's mission would not be simple.
Sure enough—
When they reached the gates of Kaer Morhen, the torches blazing on the drawbridge illuminated two young Witchers standing watch, their backs against the inner wall of the gate.
And from the ramparts, flickering lights moved now and then—signs of more guards patrolling.
For a moment, Shaquille almost believed he was looking not at the long-abandoned fortress of the Wolf School, but at the fortified new city of Ban Ard, just after a Wild Hunt incursion.
"Master Shaquille, do we release them here?" Valeriu whispered, keeping close to him.
Shaquille shook his head and gestured toward the thick, stone wall.
"The so-called war beasts from the Rissberg Group's Civil Cooperative Organization can't tell friend from foe. They'll only be useful once they're in the right arena."
"Once they're locked inside the cage, then they'll clash with the Witchers of the Wolf School—beasts against beasts."
"Behind that wall is the best place for the release. The stronger the walls, the more frenzied the war beasts become—thrashing, tearing apart every living thing they can find."
"But if we release them here…"
Shaquille paused, shaking his head lightly.
"If the guards notice anything strange, they'll raise the drawbridge and close the gates. The war beasts won't get inside, the mission will fail—and we'll alert every Witcher within the fortress."
"And those half-finished abominations from the Rissberg Group might just turn on us instead, smashing us into pulp."
Valeriu shuddered at the thought, his voice trembling. "Then what do we do, Master Shaquille?"
"We find a way in," Shaquille replied coldly, eyes fixed on the heavily guarded fortress ahead. "We'll open the portal from inside the castle. For now…"
"We wait." He clenched his jaw. "It's already midnight. The Wolf School could have raised the drawbridge and sealed the gate, yet they've left two guards standing there. Someone must not have returned yet."
"You're the illusionist, aren't you?"
"When that person arrives—we'll follow right behind them and slip inside."
Valeriu's face went pale. Yes, he was chosen by Sunny for his talent with illusions.
But Sunny had never mentioned the mission would be this dangerous. What was supposed to be a simple ritual had turned into a suicide infiltration.
"But even if we get inside…" Valeriu whispered, pointing at the guards by the gate and the torches patrolling the walls, "with security this tight, will we even be able to get out?"
"Won't we just end up as target practice for those half-finished monsters from the Rissberg Group?"
At that, Shaquille fell silent, staring into Valeriu's eyes until the young mage's spine went cold.
Then, in a low voice, he said—
"Would you rather take a little risk here…"
"…or go back empty-handed and face Sunny?"
Valeriu said nothing after that.
Shaquille and Valeriu had both once been praised by the former dean of Ban Ard, the great Hen Gedymdeith himself.
This mission was their trial by fire—their pledge of loyalty. If they failed, their futures would be as good as dead.
Worse still, Sunny's methods had grown increasingly cruel. Outwardly calm and refined, he was in truth vindictive and ruthless beneath the surface.
Half a year ago, several mages who had merely contradicted him in passing found their research funding suddenly slashed under flimsy pretenses.
And those who had openly questioned Dean Hen Gedymdeith' decisions had vanished altogether soon after the Rissberg Group's Civil Cooperative Organization settled into Ban Ard.
Some whispered that the Alliance had "offered them work" outside the academy. But most believed they hadn't just disappeared from Ban Ard—they'd disappeared from the world itself.
"Have you decided?" Shaquille asked without turning, eyes still fixed on Kaer Morhen's defenses.
He already knew what Valeriu's answer would be.
The young always thought the same way, danger was never high on their list of priorities.
"How long do we wait?" Valeriu swallowed hard, forcing the words out.
"As long as we have to," Shaquille rasped, the torchlight flickering in his eyes. "Until…"
"Our chance arrives."
-----------------------------------
Infiltrating the camp turned out to be far easier than Allen had imagined.
From a distance, the vast Ban Ard encampment seemed impenetrable—torches blazing, sentries at every post, watchtowers fully manned, and soldiers patrolling in neat formation.
But once inside, the truth revealed itself.
The sentries were gossiping idly.
The watchtowers stood empty.
And those "patrolling soldiers" with torches in hand— their uniforms were ragged, their faces pale and gaunt.
They looked less like trained soldiers…and more like refugees.
No—something was very wrong.
They really might have been conscripted—refugees, dragged here by force.
They wandered the camp like lifeless puppets, moving in dull routine, occasionally lashed by the overseer's whip. The place looked less like a military encampment and more like a noble's slave mine—one driven by greed rather than purpose.
Only the camp's center was truly guarded. The soldiers there were disciplined, armored, and alert.
But what they guarded wasn't a granary or an armory.
It was a massive tent—from which drifted faint, languid music and the stench of roasted meat and cheap wine.
Disgusting.
It didn't take Allen long to cross the entire camp under the cover of "Nightshade"—a twin-piece artifact:Night, a mask that rendered the wearer invisible in darkness when infused with a small pulse of magic and Shade, a headscarf that silenced breath, footsteps, and even the beating of one's heart.
Moving through the shadows, Allen had time to think—to remember.
He thought back to the first time he'd infiltrated a camp—the abandoned mine of Viscount Hudson.
He'd been just as cautious then, and that was where he met a reckless elf.
Who could have imagined that, half a year later, he would once again be breaking into a human encampment… for that same elf?
He left the camp behind and entered the deep mountains.
The dense canopy quickly swallowed the sounds of drunken laughter and clattering armor.
At first, he considered using tracking signs to find traces of human presence—or to detect hidden dangers lurking in the wild.
But he soon realized there was no need.
Near the camp, the forest floor still bore many human footprints—but the farther he walked, the more wrong the air became.
A few hundred meters in, corpses lay sprawled along the path-human remains, rotting and pale, picked apart by unafraid ravens.
Deeper still, the dead grew in number.
Wild dogs gorged themselves on flesh, bellies swollen and slick with blood.
When they heard the Witcher's footsteps, they froze for a moment, eyes glinting sickly green in the darkness—then, deciding he was no threat to their feast, turned back to feeding.
A mistake.
They died before they even realized he'd drawn his sword.
After that came the ghouls—first a few, then packs of them—and soon Alghouls, commanding hordes of necrophages, until the forest floor was nothing but death.
Among the remains, there were few of the long-eared mountain folk.
Almost all were human.
The cheapness of human life was laid bare before his eyes.
Judging from the sheer number of corpses, Allen almost wondered if Francesca had been deceiving him.
It wasn't the mountain folk on the verge of collapse—it was humanity itself.
Ding!
[Monster group "Alghouls" Lv. 53 defeated!]
-----------------------------------
[Loot Acquired: Alghoul Heart Essence…]
[Ding! Hunting Quest: Ghouls II (Kill Count: 250/250) — Completed!]
[Ding! Hunting Quest: Rotfiends II (Kill Count: 100/100) — Completed!]
[Ding! Hunting Quest: Alghouls II (Kill Count: 20/20) — Completed!]
"Clang!"
Allen sheathed his sword, but his eyes showed no joy at the completion of several hunting quests or the thought of more "conjunction of the spheres."
Instead, confusion clouded his face.
Why… after walking at least three kilometers, had he not seen a single living person?
Did Ban Ard's army care nothing about logistics?
And more importantly…
With so many dead left to rot, had Ban Ard's army really turned entirely to necromancy? Were they so unbothered by mutiny that they left corpses unburied?
Allen didn't claim to understand warfare—but what lay before him made no sense.
Until—
He took one ordinary step forward, brushing past a gorse bush.
"—Aaaahhh!"
A chorus of shrill screams erupted all at once, echoing in every direction.
The Witcher's azure cat eyes narrowed into slits, reflecting before him a living hell.
...........
📢Advanced chapters on p@treaon📢
For advance chapters: [email protected]/Uchiha_Itachi007 (replace @ with a)
1. 20 advanced chapters of The Witcher: Wolf School's Hunting Notes.
2. 30 advanced chapters of What year is this? You're still writing a traditional diary?.