Tissaia de Vries's response delivered the final word, and the topic of witchers came to an end.
Just as Fringilla Vigo had thought, as the eternal protagonists of the supernatural world, sorcerers—whether intentionally or not—would never allow a witcher to occupy too much time in such a solemn meeting.
Moreover, since Tissaia de Vries would issue an invitation, rather than arguing, debating, and researching an individual who was not present, it was better to observe and investigate him face to face.
As for whether the witcher might refuse—
That was not something worth considering.
In the Northern Continent, no one could refuse the unified will of the entire Brotherhood of Sorcerers—not even a king. A witcher naturally could not either.
Therefore.
The topic within the Gallery of Glory quickly shifted from discussing Allen the witcher himself to much larger issues, such as…
Whether the recent continuous agitation and intense aggressive anomalies among low-level monsters, together with the sharp increase in the concentration of free-floating elements in the air, proved that the Northern Continent was about to usher in a new wave of magical tides?
How the Brotherhood of Sorcerers and the human kingdoms of the Northern Continent would inevitably undergo a major reshuffling because of this series of events, and how to grasp the balance?
Kaedwen had fallen; Aedirn had suppressed its internal turmoil and now showed signs of mobilizing troops again, aiming to completely swallow Kaedwen—should the Brotherhood of Sorcerers intervene?
And the Wild Hunt…
And the lowering of the snowline in the Dragon Mountains and the prophecies…
-----------------------------------
Fringilla Vigo looked at the solemn and dignified scene that the High Council should have—planning for the future of humanity and the supernatural world—but for some reason, she felt none of the excitement she ought to have felt.
She twitched the tip of her nose, and a faint smell of rust seeped into her nostrils.
Beside her, the Crimson Fox, Vera, wore a blank expression, but blood was seeping from her palm from gripping too tightly.
Fringilla Vigo did not show any extra concern. Those who had a seat here needed no one's concern. Instead, she withdrew her gaze and, without drawing attention, cast it toward the opposite side.
Across from her, Belendil Rogrides's lips curled up, as if he had obtained some sort of victory.
Fringilla Vigo noticed that Belendil Rogrides made an extremely subtle nod toward the goateed sorcerer of the Redanian faction. The goateed sorcerer saw it as well, but simply closed his eyes and offered no response at all.
Belendil Rogrides's expression stiffened imperceptibly for a moment, then naturally returned to that elegant smile.
Had Fringilla Vigo not been watching closely, she might have missed it entirely.
"Redania's relationship with Rissberg Group's Civil Cooperative Organization is still not very good," Fringilla Vigo thought in puzzlement. "It looks like they cooperated temporarily solely for Allen, a witcher, just to make his name resound within the Brotherhood of Sorcerers…"
"Vera seems extremely angry, and Tissaia de Vries's response sounded somewhat reluctant…"
Fringilla Vigo tried to infer something from the faintly hidden entanglements here, but due to the lack of information—this was even the first time she had heard the name Allen—she could only vaguely realize one thing—
If the Crimson Fox stood on Allen's side, then Belendil Rogrides and the Redanian goateed sorcerer were Allen's enemies.
In that case.
Rather than wanting to elevate the witcher's reputation, Belendil Rogrides and the Redanian goateed sorcerer wanted to expose him to everyone's sight, making everyone fix their gaze tightly on a single witcher.
And Vera and Tissaia de Vries had precisely the opposite goal—at least, Vera's intention was the opposite.
What were they trying to hide?
What did Rissberg Group's Civil Cooperative Organization, Ban Ard, and Redania want everyone to see?
-----------------------------------
Thoughts stirred a violent storm in her mind. Fringilla Vigo showed nothing on her face, but her heart turned over countless times.
"A mere witcher who isn't even present can stir the minds of so many great figures and whip up such turmoil at the highest meeting of the supernatural world…"
"Allen—just who are you?"
-----------------------------------
As for the grand issues concerning the Brotherhood of Sorcerers, Northern politics, and humanity's future, naturally no results could be reached in a single meeting.
When the clamor and discussion gradually subsided, Tissaia de Vries timely emphasized once more the various stages of the expedition to Dol Dhu Lokke and the corresponding resource supplies, then announced the end of this long meeting.
At Vera's signal, Fringilla Vigo followed her, leaving the Gallery of Glory in the first group under everyone's gaze, behind Narses de la Roche and Tissaia de Vries.
At this moment, Vera still wore a blank expression, but the blood in her palm had somehow vanished completely.
When they reached the entrance of the Gallery of Glory, as Fringilla Vigo's left foot stepped over the low threshold and her right foot was about to follow, completely leaving the hall…
She suddenly seemed to sense something and looked back.
The five high-backed chairs in the central seats were already empty, allowing the sorceress—standing almost at the same height—to clearly see the oil painting depicting "The First Landing" behind them.
Jan Bekker stood upon an ancient sailing ship spinning amid waves and reefs, his head encircled by a bright halo. With a solemn, resolute, and wise gaze, he crossed thousands of years of time and space to meet her eyes.
The ever-shifting world political situation, wars engulfing half the Northern Continent, mythical creatures never before seen galloping through the skies and wreaking havoc, and the Conjunction of the Spheres—unseen for millennia—once again sowing disaster upon this land…
Fringilla Vigo suddenly had a premonition.
Perhaps this expedition, too, would one day be hung in the corridor of history like this "First Landing." Only…
Who would be among the figures painted on that wall then?
—
"Many people regard druids as cults that worship gods like Melitele and Kreve. That does make some sense—indeed, all druids worship the Mother of Nature much as one worships a deity."
"But fundamentally, they are absolutely unrelated. It's like a banquet lacking beer, and not only did you fail to buy beer at the market, you didn't even buy wine, but instead purchased a slab of smoked meat…"
"Do you understand what I mean, Allen?"
Sitting cross-legged in the forest clearing of the outer ring of the Mayena Druids' Circle, Allen—momentarily dazed by a sudden surge of spiritual intuition—nodded instinctively.
Opposite him, Zebi Ortega, with his long gray beard, sat cross-legged beneath a flourishing oak tree. He frowned slightly and said: "Allen, did you stay up too late enjoying last night's bonfire feast? Your focus isn't sharp enough today. Simmons, Olga—you as well…"
Allen did not argue. Together with the druids Simmons and Olga, he bowed in unison and apologized: "Sorry, Mentor Zebi Ortega."
Since earlier, his spiritual intuition had been seized by a sudden premonition—a feeling that his "unstable prophetic power" was about to act again, as if something unfavorable to him were about to happen. Yet it remained indistinct, like a sneeze stuck in the throat that simply wouldn't come out—uncomfortable in the extreme.
Normally, whenever this "unstable prophetic power" activated, it would silently and suddenly pull him into a scene; it should not have felt like this.
But the pressure brought by the previous prophecy still lingered in Allen's mind, forcing him to be cautious, to the point that Zebi Ortega noticed his distraction.
"Perhaps the bonfire feast played some role as well," Allen thought.
It wasn't that last night's feast had been so lively that it led to all-night revelry and mental fatigue affecting the prophetic power.
After treatment and the Grand Mentor's Hymn of Life, his injuries had fully recovered. Even several days without sleep would have been fine, let alone a single sleepless night.
Last night, after learning that he would stay to study the druidic path, the group that had come searching for Allen formally disbanded.
Vesemir and Danthe returned to Kaer Morhen through Ida Emean's portal.
The wave of refugees from Karl Village, guided by the Wolf School and, in secret, the Kaedwen restoration forces led by Philippa Eilhart, was no longer a major issue. However, the rapid increase in attacks by necrophages had stretched Kaer Morhen's manpower thin.
Moreover, as the Wolf School witchers returned one after another to prepare for winter, manpower was needed. The two witcher masters could not remain here waiting for him to step onto the druidic path.
Ida Emean also took Francesca Findabair with her.
Francesca Findabair had been reluctant to leave, but after Vesemir and Danthe persuaded Mary to return to Kaer Morhen with them, and set a time to come fetch Allen for the free elf camp, she could only depart reluctantly.
Jerome Moreau also bade him farewell by the bonfire and left the Mayena Druids' Circle early this morning.
After all, he was a Griffin School witcher rather than a Wolf School one. He needed to inform the Griffin School's Grandmaster Erland that he was still alive, as well as about the second mutation and cooperation with the Wolf School.
Considering that the avalanche that destroyed the Griffin School was very likely to occur within the next few years, Allen made a few veiled hints and did not stop him.
"Could it be that the avalanche that led to the decline of the Griffin School is this very year?" he wondered.
"Because of my hint, Jerome warned the Griffin School, preventing the original disaster from happening—so my unstable prophetic power is acting like this, all constipated?"
"Does this prove that fate is not as invincible as I thought, and that the destiny shown in prophecy can fail to occur due to external factors?"
"No…"
"The prophecy has not truly manifested before me. I have not seen fate being changed…"
Allen split his focus.
On one hand, he pondered the cause of the sudden premonition; on the other, he listened carefully to Mentor Zebi Ortega's lecture.
"I don't mean to belittle orthodox faiths like those of Melitele, Kreve, or Freya," Zebi Ortega carefully chose his words and continued. "They do guide human life and are important cornerstones of order and stability."
"But the Mother of Nature is different."
"The Mother of Nature requires no one's faith. She is the mother of all things and all spirits in the world. She requires no priests, and we druids are not her priests either—only gardeners who tend this 'vast' garden, pruning the rampant branches and vines that block other beings from absorbing sunlight."
"Natural power, and drawing close to the source of the Sacred Grove, are the Mother of Nature's reward to gardeners for their diligent labor…"
"And the method of meditation, letting the soul dream its way into the Sacred Grove, is how gardeners receive their wages and rewards…"
-----------------------------------
Zebi Ortega looked at Allen. "You've been unable to enter a meditative state. It may be due to some misunderstanding in your comprehension. Try again now…"
So Master Zebi Ortega has heard about my relationship with the Temple of Melitele…
Allen drew his thoughts back, sat cross-legged according to the druidic meditation method—actually just called meditation—and, after breathing at a set rhythm for a while, opened his eyes. He then gently shook his head toward the Great Druid Zebi Ortega, whose disappointment was hard to conceal.
"It's fine," Zebi Ortega comforted him gently. "You've always undergone witcher training. Having more barriers and distracting thoughts between yourself and nature is normal."
"This is only the fifth day. The person in the Mayena Druids' Circle who took the longest to activate meditation didn't have their soul dream into the Sacred Grove until the eighth day…"
Simmons and Olga also spoke up to console him.
Allen bowed apologetically to Zebi Ortega. "I just feel sorry for wasting Mentor Ortega's efforts…"
Zebi Ortega was indeed extremely conscientious.
Aside from the first meeting—when, at the call of the Grand Mentor of the Mayena Druids' Circle, he had Simmons and Olga introduce him to some basic druidic knowledge—he had personally taught for four consecutive days knowledge and meditation methods that were far too basic for a Great Druid.
And he was exceptionally patient, answering every question.
He even carefully analyzed the reasons after discovering that Allen's meditation "had problems," eliminating them one by one, just like today.
Unfortunately…
"This is my duty. Since you call me mentor, I should naturally teach with care," Zebi Ortega waved his hand. "But I can only teach you for two more days. The Grand Mentor has assigned me a task, and I will head to the Skellige Isles the day after tomorrow…"
"Still about that golden-furred beast?" Allen asked.
After being active in the Mayena Druids' Circle for four or five days, Allen had confirmed his suspicion: the golden-furred beast the druids were seeking was King Kanu.
In fact, including Zebi Ortega, the druids had no intention of concealing it. Without him even asking, Simmons and Olga mentioned it casually on the first day.
Zebi Ortega sighed and nodded. "Another group of druids has returned. All the mountain ranges of the Northern Continent have been searched, and there's still no trace."
"Actually," Allen considered his wording, "although I've never seen the golden-furred beast, among bears there are brown bears and grizzlies. Natural selection—survival of the fittest. Though they're all bears, those in snowy mountains have thicker fur, while those on the plains have thinner fur. Butterflies are beautiful, but at the beginning they're just caterpillars…"
"Could it be that the golden-furred beast hasn't grown up yet, or perhaps it's in another form?"
Hearing this, Zebi Ortega seemed to chew over his words, pondering for a moment.
"Your words are very interesting… natural selection… survival of the fittest…"
"You mean that the golden-furred beast changed in order to adapt to the environment of this world?"
Zebi Ortega felt as though he had grasped some natural truth. He looked regretfully at the witcher who couldn't even master meditation after four or five days of learning.
How could someone capable of such reasoning fail to learn meditation?
Could it truly be that the Mother of Nature despises bloodstained witchers?
"They're just some guesses," Allen gently shook his head.
"I think it's very possible…" Zebi Ortega stroked his long gray beard. Looking at the witcher's still-youthful face, a sudden sense of guilt rose in his heart.
A student who aspired toward nature, yet could not gain knowledge from his mentor—on the contrary, he was teaching the mentor the philosophy of nature.
But what could he do?
Zebi Ortega thought for a moment. Suddenly, his mind flashed back to earlier that morning, after seeing off a Griffin School witcher, when Allen had casually asked a few questions.
"Allen, you said this morning that you were looking for an elf who once lived in the Mayena Druids' Circle?"
....
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