Mary's body tensed the instant she heard that melodious voice.
She could already picture the appearance of the voice's owner.
Long dark-gold hair, falling loosely over slender shoulders; skin exposed to the air, pale as snow; bright blue eyes like those of a gentle doe.
The gray-green dress she often wore had lace trimming that rustled softly with each step, the swaying hem sounding like an accompaniment to every graceful movement as if she were dancing.
Female mages were always beautiful, because in the magic academies they transformed their bodies and appearance through magical means.
Mary had seen many beauties: girl-next-door types, intellectual scholars, elegant noblewomen, lively young maidens…
But before meeting her, Mary had never imagined that someone in this world could be so beautiful—beauty itself given human form, making all other beautiful things seem ashamed before her.
If she were just a stranger, Mary could have enjoyed that beauty calmly—after all, no one dislikes beautiful things.
But unfortunately, she wasn't.
Unfortunately, between them existed a fundamental, irreconcilable contradiction.
A witcher.
"Why would she come?" Mary couldn't understand. "Looking for Allen—what could that possibly have to do with an elf who can hardly protect herself…"
You won't want to know this so soon…
Her mentor's slightly pitying voice flashed through Mary's mind, and Mary suddenly realized something.
The message bird!
Allen actually "lent" our message bird to that girl?!!
Mary's pale cheeks puffed up in anger at once, flushing bright red.
"How could Allen have gone miss—" The bell-like voice suddenly grew clear, then abruptly stopped.
Mary also quietly took a deep breath, the redness on her cheeks fading in the blink of an eye.
When she turned around to face the direction of the portal, not a trace of emotion showed on her pretty face.
She stared blankly at the girl in front of the orange-red portal—not wearing a long skirt today, but dressed in a refined adventurer's leather outfit—still just as delicate and impossibly beautiful. Her cherry lips parted slightly, stunned as she looked at Mary.
Francesca Findabair, the "Daisy of the Valleys" true to her name—the Elven Princess.
The air instantly grew quiet.
Danthe and Vesemir exchanged a glance.
"Outstanding witchers are always this popular. Allen is just like I was back then." Vesemir raised a brow at Danthe.
Danthe gave a look of agreement in return, meaning, 'Yes, that's how it is for exceptional Wolf-school witchers.'
Jerome Moreau pressed his lips together as he watched the scene.
"Boom~"
Ida Emean stepped out of the portal. Francesca Findabair and Mary simultaneously moved their gazes away from each other.
"Are the Free Elves all right?"
Vera, as if nothing whatsoever had happened, looked at Ida Emean with a blank expression.
Ida Emean looked at Mary, then at Francesca Findabair, and rolled her eyes faintly at Vera: "They're all right… but not exactly well."
"Because of an unexpected Conjunction of the Spheres, we seized the chance to break out of Ban Ard's encirclement. But even so, in this war, the People of the Hills suffered disastrous losses…"
"Conjunction of the Spheres?" Vera asked in surprise.
Ida Emean nodded, cast a glance at Francesca Findabair, and said meaningfully: "Yes. Coincidentally, at the most difficult point in the battle, a Conjunction suddenly manifested…"
"Yes, very… very coincidental…" Francesca Findabair cut in nervously, "It… it must've been the gods… the gods heard the prayers of the People of the Hills…"
Gods?
Vera paused, looking at Francesca Findabair's flustered appearance, thoughtful.
'Oh, little fool, you've exposed everything…' Ida Emean sighed inwardly at how panic made Francesca lose her composure, and casually changed the subject: "Allen returned how—wait…"
Ida Emean instinctively swept her gaze across the barren wilderness around them, then froze: "Where… where is this place?"
"Ban Ard." Vera raised her hand, cutting off the elf linguist before she could speak further. "If there's a problem, talk about it on the way. The message bird?"
Mary, with a hint of indescribable tension, silently glanced toward Ida Emean—only to see her turn her head toward Francesca Findabair.
"It's with me…"
Francesca Findabair cast Mary a faint, almost unnoticeable glance, then took out the crystal-clear bird from her budding chest.
Without needing anyone to say anything, she cupped it in both hands and tossed it into the sky.
In full view of everyone, the message bird fluttered in mid-air, then headed west.
-----------------------------------
[Where is this place?]
He walked in darkness—complete, pure darkness without a trace of light.
Walking… no… even the concept of walking was muddled.
Walking required one's feet to step firmly on the ground, yet the ground gave him no sense of support—no solid touch at all. In fact, in this darkness, he couldn't distinguish up from down, nor left from right, like wandering through a dense primordial forest where one cannot tell whether it's uphill or downhill.
Perhaps, just like the deep sea of his previous life, it was equally impossible to distinguish direction—though he had never dived into the lightless ocean trenches.
But he was definitely not suspended in mid-air.
He didn't move, yet he was advancing—he could only call it advancing—moving forward, toward the place he should head to, drawing closer.
Wait…
[Previous life… deep sea… what is that?]
He felt as if he remembered something—something seemingly insignificant, yet also extremely important.
He thought for a moment, then gave up thinking any further, drifting in confusion as he continued forward through the profound and silent darkness.
He did not know how far he had gone; he seemed to have no concept of distance at all.
But as time passed, he slowly, slowly began to lose patience…
[How much farther must I go?]
He asked—not only asking himself, but asking the darkness.
No one answered from within the darkness, and fury rose within him.
A nameless rage surged in his heart, burning fiercely, illuminating the darkness.
But not much of the darkness—only the part right before his eyes.
In pure darkness, fire or no fire made little difference.
A tiny flame could not pierce the heavy black curtain.
Up, down, left, right—in every direction—was still darkness.
[No! It's different!]
He suddenly sensed something, a flash of insight rising in his mind.
[I can see myself!]
Although he did not understand: if the faint firelight could not illuminate the path ahead, how could illuminating himself help him escape this abyss of darkness?
But instinctively, he "lowered his head"…
Dark, sharp claws scraped at the void. Ginkgo-leaf-shaped black scales spread from the sharp claws and the powerful, thick lower limbs, extending upward, up to a shield-shaped black scale.
"Hummm—sssss—"
The "rage-fire" illuminating his entire body flickered within that shield-shaped scale, burning like a breath.
At the moment his "gaze" fell upon that burning "rage-fire," he suddenly realized—
[I… am a dragon!]
"ROAR——"
With a violent, world-annihilating roar, his vision spun wildly, shaking intensely.
When the roar ended, his vision stopped shaking.
And he—floated before the shield-shaped scale that was no longer burning red, lifting his head to gaze up at the mountain-like, towering figure.
Hot breath carrying a sulfurous scent spurted from the nostrils, and the scarlet, restless vertical pupils glared wide.
The black dragon… was staring directly at him…
"ROAR——"
A dragon's chant, deep as a great bell and anciently solemn, shook even the deepest and quietest darkness. The sound rose and fell, trembling without pause.
[What?]
He shouted loudly, desperately wanting to understand the dragon's song, but the black dragon only gazed at him silently, no longer singing that solemn, steel-clashing melody.
Then…
The black dragon slowly closed its eyes, and the rage-fire illuminating the darkness slowly dimmed as well.
A vast wave of regret surged instantly in his heart, overwhelming him, making him freeze in terror, his whole body turning cold—his heartbeat even slowed for a moment.
[Wait!]
[Wait…]
The scarlet dragon eyes closed completely, and the world… returned to darkness.
—
"How is he? Is he any better?" A deep voice, carrying the metallic clang of steel.
"I don't know what counts as 'better.' Honestly, when I 'encountered' him last night, I didn't think he could survive, even if he is the toughest among witchers," a woman's clear and sweet voice said, carrying a complicated tone.
"In this area, there's only Brokilon and the Amell Mountains…"
"Is there any monster out there that can inflict wounds like this and not kill the one it attacks?"
The man fell silent for a while. "You've stumped me, Nana. I'm just a knight without a title, not a witcher."
"To be honest, in monster lore, I only know Drowners and Leshens…"
"Shh," the woman hushed him. "Leshens are not monsters. They are intelligent beings just like us humans. Don't mix that up—especially near Brokilon…"
"All right…"
"Don't just stand there—help me turn him over, Korin. I need to apply medicine."
"Yes, my beautiful, charming, and kind lady…" the knight named Korin replied with exaggerated flirtation.
Allen seemed to hear the faint sound of lips touching, then his body was moved and turned over.
In that instant, it was as if the pain only awakened when he was flipped. His throat, chest, arms, and calves were all struck by nerve-burning agony, as though lightning had hit him, splitting him alive and grinding his soul into powder.
"Uhh—ah—"
He wanted to shout, to relieve the pain, or to make himself hurt so much he would faint.
But his stuck-together lips were too weak—opening them was a luxury. What slipped from his throat was lighter than a whisper, a whimper like a woman crying.
[What happened? Why is my voice like this?]
"N-Nana…"
A soft clinking of bottles and jars sounded.
The man called Korin suddenly hesitated and called out, "Nana… this… this witcher seems… seems to have made a sound…"
The clinking paused.
Hurried footsteps approached, along with the scent of juniper, mint, and heartleaf.
"Can you hear me?" the woman called out joyfully.
Allen tried to respond, but at that moment, he couldn't even make a whimper.
"Looks like he's not awake…" the man concluded awkwardly.
"Maybe I misheard…"
The woman was silent for a moment.
With the faint remnants of his witcher senses, Allen vaguely felt a breeze brush over him.
"No, you didn't mishear," the woman said. "He is awake—just far too badly, far too severely injured…"
"Don't be afraid. You're safe now." She leaned close to his ear, using a soft voice to soothe him.
"Bzzzz~"
The wolf medallion trembled slightly. The soothing voice contained magic.
Allen truly felt better, though still drifting in confusion, as if in a dream. He struggled to open his eyes.
In the hazy dim glow, a cluster of fiery red burned under sunlight.
No… not flame—that was the woman's long hair.
Beautiful cinnabar-colored red hair, just like Vera's.
In a daze, he barely pried open his sticky lips, nearly calling out.
What stopped him was not embarrassment—but the sudden cold striking his chest, followed by even more intense, heart-piercing, bone-splitting pain.
This time, he finally got what he wished for.
The dream quickly collapsed under the pain, and the pain and exhaustion dragged him back toward nothingness.
In the last moment before his consciousness melted away, he heard the man and woman speaking with pity.
"Don't worry, poor child," the man said.
"The one treating you is Visenna, the future mistress of the Mayena Druid Circle. You'll definitely be fine."
The woman thumped the man hard, but perhaps because they were in front of him, she didn't argue. Instead, she used that same magically infused, clear and sweet voice to soothe him again: "Sleep for a while, poor child. When you wake up, everything will be alright."
[Visenna… Korin… I feel like… I've heard those names before…]
A thought flashed through his mind, but before he could think any further, his consciousness sank into nothingness.
—
"Crackle crackle"
When he woke again, the thick scent of tree resin drifted through the air, and the sound of flames licking dry branches came from nearby.
Has night fallen?
He wondered.
His mind was still muddled and heavy, but at this moment he at least realized he had been severely injured—more severely than ever before.
[Why was I injured… that black dragon… was that a dream or…]
The moment he tried to think, sharp pain split through his skull. He had no choice but to abandon all thought and empty his mind.
"Ah, what a pitiful child," the woman's angry voice came from not far away, from the same direction as the crackling flames.
"He's not even fifteen yet, is he? Who is this witcher's mentor? To irresponsibly leave a child like this in a place like this…"
"Witcher mentor?" the man said doubtfully.
His voice came from right next to hers—as if the two stood side by side. "Witchers have mentors? I always thought they worked alone—taking contracts and hunting monsters…"
"Of course witchers have mentors," the woman chuckled softly.
"His bone age is only fourteen. He has a school medallion, which means he passed all the trials of the School of the Wolf. But after that, he must spend at least five years following a witcher mentor—learning how to take contracts, how to fit into society, how to deal with greedy nobles…"
"Normally, during those five years, a newly made witcher and his mentor never separate."
"I just don't know why his mentor…"
The woman suddenly thought of a possibility.
Her voice choked, and she said no more.
The man also fell silent.
The School of the Wolf was not the School of the Cat.
For a new witcher to be this severely injured, the mentor could only be worse.
But to be more severely injured than this child… there was only one possibility…
Vesemir: ?
Allen, whose head felt like it was splitting apart, didn't notice the man and woman's misunderstanding. He only suddenly remembered the question from before his last collapse.
[Korin… Visenna… aren't those the birth parents of Geralt the White Wolf?]
........
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