Today, despite waking up early, Allen had been busy. He spent the morning learning from the leader how to construct a fortress and later sat in the castle hall with Vesemir, grumbling about the late King Henselt and chatting about the people and events they'd encountered on their journey.
Before he knew it, it was already noon.
The school's cook entered the castle hall and, after fiddling around in the side kitchen for a bit, brought out baskets of warm bread to place on the long table. They then hung a large pot over the fireplace, beginning to stew lunch.
Yes.
The School of the Wolf even had its own dedicated cook, and just like noble families, they had a baker too.
If it weren't for Kaer Morhen's unsuitable climate for growing grapes, they might even have had their own brewer. Of course, these people weren't ordinary folks either.
These cooks and bakers were former witchers who had lost their fighting abilities after unsuccessful battles with monsters.
Kaer Morhen had many such witchers working side jobs.
They had once fought for the school and humanity, so when they lost their ability to fight, the school continued to care for them, allowing them to do what they could at the ancient fortress.
And since many of them were decades or even centuries-old veteran witchers, their skills in these secondary trades weren't bad either. Put simply, even the bread they baked in the morning was far superior in texture, softness, and taste to anything Allen had eaten after leaving Kaer Morhen.
Even the bread from the Temple of Melitele couldn't compare to what these old witchers made.
"Lemon, is it busier this year than usual?" Vesemir greeted as he saw someone coming over, pausing his debate over whether Henselt was scum or something worse.
"Of course," said the witcher named Lemon, who, with his hood up, didn't turn around as he continued to add meat and vegetables to the stew pot. "Usually, there aren't this many people still hanging around Kaer Morhen. Those little brats would eat us out of supplies!"
"Don't you get tired of it?" Vesemir teased.
The old witcher shot Vesemir a sidelong glance and grumbled, "Who do you think you're underestimating? When I fought a wraith for two days and nights, you were still playing in the mud with drowners."
"If it hadn't been for that cursed great bramble tree, I would have reached master level before you…"
Vesemir seemed well-acquainted with Lemon and, hearing this, didn't get upset. They chatted a bit more.
In their words, there was neither pity nor envy. Those skilled in swimming drown, and those skilled in riding fall. Even a master witcher can't guarantee victory in every battle against monsters.
Compared to those who perished in nameless places or never made it out of Kaer Morhen, Lemon's fate was already a good one.
Both Lemon and Vesemir believed this.
The pot began to bubble, releasing an enticing aroma.
The old witcher fell silent, focusing on stirring the coals before placing a lid on the pot to let it simmer.
After finishing these steps, the old witcher glanced at the door and murmured to himself, "It's good to have more people around… good indeed…"
Then he gave Vesemir a glance, nodded to Allen, and returned to the kitchen to prepare other ingredients.
It was then that Allen noticed Lemon's face beneath the hood's shadow, scarred as if eroded by some kind of acid, a frightening sight.
One eye socket was empty, while the other was clouded with a murky white film.
Since drinking that cup of cheap milk tea and crossing over to this world, Allen had devoted himself to increasing his strength, quickly descending the mountain once spring began.
He'd never really paid attention to this group in the ancient fortress.
For a moment, he was struck by a hazy sense of fate.
As if he were their past, and they were the future that awaited him…
Allen didn't like that feeling.
Bang!
Just as Allen was lost in thoughts about his fate, the castle doors burst open.
"Starving, absolutely starving! I wonder what Uncle Lemon's made for soup today…"
"All you think about is food! Didn't you meet the commander yesterday? Tell me what he looks like…"
"Commander this, commander that… you're not even eligible for the Witcher Corps yet…"
The hall was suddenly filled with the lively sounds of chattering voices.
"Being young is nice!" Vesemir remarked at the sound, then turned his head to look at Allen, "Come to think of it, you're only fourteen, so why are you so gloomy, like an old man with a world of worries?"
'No kidding…'
Allen rolled his eyes inwardly.
As soon as he'd crossed over, he'd been harshly tested by the Trial of the Grasses. Then, just as the high-stakes Mountain Trial was about to begin, threats came from both the king and sorcerers.
After dealing with Henselt, a Wild Hunt appeared, and even the long-dormant Melitele had emerged, presenting him with choices to make…
One challenge after another, each harder to resolve than the last, weighed heavily on him.
Who could enjoy life under such circumstances without a hint of worry?
The more you know, the less happy you are – it's true.
The cheerful sounds of the witcher apprentices ceased as they entered the dining hall.
"Commander Allen!" a familiar voice exclaimed.
Allen looked over and, sure enough, recognized an acquaintance, Erni.
Erni was part of the first group to join the Witcher Corps after Hughes, Pont, and Fred. If Allen recalled correctly, his loyalty had reached 80…
As they exchanged casual greetings, Allen mentally accessed a screen.
Hm?
[Name: Erni]
[Loyalty: 93]
[Attributes: Strength 9, Agility 8.6, Constitution 11.2, Perception 7.4, Mystery 4.5]
[Skills: Wolf School Two-Handed Sword LV2 (23/100), Ice Spear LV1 (3/100), Quen LV1 (46/100)...]
It had been a while since they'd met, but not only had Erni's loyalty not decreased – it had even increased by four points.
Curious, Allen checked the profiles of six others from the first group of Witcher Corps members near Erni.
Each one's loyalty had also increased, with scores above 85, and some even reaching 90.
These were impressive numbers.
In terms of previous-life game language, above 50 was neutral, 60 was friendly, 70 was trustworthy, 80 was intimate, 90 was loyal, and 100 was absolute loyalty.
In terms of the member permissions system Allen had been considering over the past few days:
Reaching 80 meant he could teach them his skills without reservation.
At 90, they could be entrusted to hunt large monsters and access the portal.
Remembering the commotion at the gate tower yesterday…
'Could it be that Mary spreading stories of my journey had an effect?' Allen speculated inwardly.
Just as he pondered, intending to subtly inquire, the whispering apprentices suddenly quieted down. Soon, a witcher with twin swords on his back, a black beard, and golden cat-like eyes approached.
"Long time no see, Aristo." Vesemir greeted, patting his arm.
"It hasn't been that long. This time, I'm actually early compared to usual." A rare smile broke Aristo's normally stoic face.
Seeing Allen, he nodded respectfully before sitting beside Vesemir.
"Though I must say, I heard of your achievements even here at Kaer Morhen," Aristo said admiringly, casting an envious look at Vesemir. "In just half a year, you all have been through quite a lot!"
'That's a lot?'
Aristo probably didn't know what they'd encountered after leaving Ban Ard.
Vesemir chuckled bitterly, shaking his head. "A lot happened. I almost didn't make it back."
Aristo's hand paused mid-reach for the breadbasket. Vesemir's words hinted at stories unknown to him, so he asked curiously, "Oh? After leaving Ban Ard, did you run into something more thrilling than witnessing a king's death?"
Around them, the apprentices quietly took their seats, not one reaching for the bread on the table. They all perked up, their eyes eagerly fixed on Vesemir.
Vesemir glanced at Allen, who gave a subtle nod, then looked around at the witcher apprentices. Clearing his throat, he said, "It wasn't quite as intense as having a king die in front of us, but it definitely wasn't far behind."
Then he fell silent, his gaze fixed on Aristo.
More intense than a king's death?
Aristo, who had just broken a piece of bread to dip in the steaming stew, suddenly perked up, intrigued.
Seeing Vesemir teasing, he put the bread down and asked with feigned impatience, "Is this story worth a bottle of the usual?"
"Absolutely!" Vesemir laughed, glancing at Aristo, "A archgriffin, the Wild Hunt, hundreds of specters, and then…"
He paused, giving Allen a sideways look before continuing, "...and a knightly knighting ceremony and Kreve's Rite of Glory…"
"My old friend," Vesemir flashed a grin, revealing his white teeth as if he had Aristo hooked, "this is not a story you can hear for just one bottle."
Aristo, already reluctant to agree, felt a pang in his heart as Vesemir mentioned each intriguing detail.
At that moment, the great hall of the castle was deathly silent. The fire crackled in the hearth, and the apprentices' ears were all perked up. All their movements had stopped, their gazes fixed on Aristo, as if fearing he'd refuse.
"How many bottles?"
Even Aristo's beard seemed to tremble.
When Vesemir triumphantly held up five fingers, he felt his powerful, thumping heart skip a beat.
After a long silence, he gritted his teeth. "Your story better be worth it!" He glared at Vesemir's smug expression and shouted, "Lemon, bring out five bottles of the old stuff I have stashed away."
"Don't worry, you won't be disappointed!" Vesemir laughed heartily.
Soon enough, Lemon, wearing his hood, returned with a beautifully carved oak box. The observing witchers finally understood what "the usual" was.
It was the nearly 300-year-old Toussaint treasure—Eastern East wine. And it wasn't just any wine; these bottles had been bottled over thirty years ago.
Technically, wines don't necessarily become more flavorful the older they get. Most wines are best consumed within one to two years of bottling, with only about ten percent suited to age five to ten years, and just one percent, the finest, reaching their peak after ten years.
The Eastern East belonged to that one percent.
The witchers couldn't even imagine the value these five bottles would fetch at an auction.
"Going all out, huh?" Lemon remarked, surprised, as he carried the wine over.
Even though many witchers, with their long lives, were accustomed to keeping wine, a thirty-year-old bottle of Eastern East was considered a rare luxury in Kaer Morhen.
"Lemon, stay and bear witness for me." Aristo shot a sour look at Vesemir. "I want to see if his story is really worth it."
"If it isn't worth five bottles, you're taking me to his stash," Lemon said, eyeing Vesemir.
"No problem!" Vesemir laughed confidently, grabbing one bottle with a tattered paper label.
As he skillfully twisted open the cork, a rich smoky aroma mingled with the scent of grapes filled the air.
Around the castle hall, there was an audible gulp.
"This wine isn't for you youngsters. Stick to stew for now," Vesemir chuckled, pouring a glass for Allen.
Watching the liquid pour out, as vibrant as a ruby and thick as honey, Erni and Klar glanced at each other, swallowing another gulp. If they remembered right, Captain Allen was only a year older than them…
Yet, seeing Aristo's serious face, they wisely kept their thoughts to themselves.
Taking in the aroma, they gulped down two big spoonfuls of stew, which tasted surprisingly bland compared to the wine.
"Go on!" Aristo poured himself and Lemon a glass, urging Vesemir.
"Don't rush!" Vesemir took a small sip, savoring the wine, and began telling his tory.
"After leaving Ban Ard, we followed our plan to head toward Ellander…"
Though Vesemir's lectures could be dry, he had a gift for storytelling.
With the fireplace's light flickering and the wine's heady fragrance filling the room, it was as if he transported everyone to Vengerberg, then Port Flotsam, then Ellander…
The massive griffin's looming presence, the skeletal riders galloping overhead, the horde of specters with their ghostly green lanterns marching on human cities…
Throughout his tale, Vesemir downplayed his role, as he had after Ellander's May Festival.
Allen knew that wasn't quite true.
Whether it was the giant griffin or the May Festival, Vesemir's contributions were crucial, even if Allen might have made the greatest impact. Several times, Allen tried to correct him, but Vesemir subtly brushed him off.
Each time Allen opened his mouth to speak, Vesemir signaled with a look: "Shut up and let me tell it!"
At first, Allen didn't understand. In Ellander, it was to boost his own reputation so that Vesemir's larger name wouldn't overshadow him.
But in Kaer Morhen, why?
However, slowly, Allen noticed the increasing awe and admiration in the apprentices' eyes.
An idea struck Allen.
[Name: Erni]
[Loyalty: 94]
------------------
[Name: Erni]
[Loyalty: 95]
As he checked Erni's stats, his loyalty increased by one point, and the same was happening with the other witcher corps members' panels. The story wasn't even finished, yet all their loyalties were above ninety.
And the new apprentices who'd just passed the Trial of the Grasses? Judging by their looks, their loyalty would undoubtedly be high when they joined.
Even Aristo and Lemon were looking at him differently now. Finally, Vesemir finished his story.
"Was it worth it, Aristo?" Vesemir asked, catching his breath with a teasing grin.
Aristo didn't answer. He looked at Allen for a few moments, then cast a glance at Vesemir with envy and even a hint of jealousy.
"If only I'd been chosen as the combat trainer back then instead of you," he sighed inwardly.
It was clear.
People are simply different from each other.
Vesemir's apprentices returned from their travels with a heroic tale as if they were legendary human heroes, while his apprentice, Sully, had abandoned his companions without even seeing the enemy's face.
Vesemir laughed heartily.
At that moment, a murmur broke out among the apprentices:
"Between the esteemed witcher master Aristo and their Captain Allen… who is stronger?"
.....
📢20 advanced chapters on p@treaon📢
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304. My Apprentice Can Trick Me a Second Time?
305. Getting Serious.
306. The Sapphire's Sinister Red Glow.
307. The Golden-Furred Beast.
308. Surviving Together.