The scorching sun sent its golden rays through the gaps in the tall sycamore leaves, casting flickering patterns of light on the avenue in front of the temple.
Though it was midsummer, the temperature in Ellander, nestled against Mahakam, wasn't unbearably hot.
Instead, thanks to the lush sycamore branches and leaves, walking down the mountain road, accompanied by a gentle breeze, felt pleasantly comfortable.
After leaving the temple, Allen and Lysa walked in silence for a long time, as if they had suddenly become strangers.
But come to think of it, the time they had spent together overall might not even add up to a week.
"A month ago, when you left Ellander's city gates to return to Kaer Morhen, I thought I wouldn't see you again until at least next year."
Lysa tucked a strand of hair blown loose by the wind behind her ear. "That place is so far from Ellander—it's on the very edge of the map revised by the temple."
"I didn't expect to come back so soon either…"
Allen chuckled bitterly. His original plan after returning to Kaer Morhen had been to focus on improving the strength of the Witcher Corps.
Even if he took contracts to hunt monsters and earn battle points, they would mostly have been near the Kaer Morhen Fortress.
Who could have expected to encounter Vilgefortz using a Artefact compression spell right after descending the mountain? And to make matters worse, Lady Vera happened to be away at the time.
"A friend from the Wolf School got caught up in the war between Kaedwen and Aedirn and sent a plea for help. A lot happened afterward, and…" Allen shrugged. "Here we are."
"War…" Lysa, dressed in a white linen short-sleeve shirt, paused, her movements slightly stiff as she asked awkwardly, "Who won? I mean, between Kaedwen and Aedirn…"
"For now, Aedirn. When we left the southern border of Kaedwen, they had already lost nearly all their fortresses along the Pontar River," Allen recalled.
"I see…" Lysa murmured, her tone ambiguous, making it hard to discern her feelings.
Allen noticed her odd behavior and suddenly remembered her background.
Lysa's father had been a viscount of Kaedwen. According to what Vesemir had revealed back at the Orchard, Viscount Hudson had been a pure-blooded military noble.
The nation her late father had defended with his life was now ruled by the offspring of those responsible for her family's massacre...
Allen hesitated before awkwardly changing the subject. "How's life in the temple? Are you used to it after all this time?"
"Ah?" Lysa blinked and glanced at Allen before breaking into a smile. "It's been great. Mother Nenneke, Mother Ianna, and the other priestesses have been very kind to me."
"And I seem to have a knack for divine magic. I mastered basic healing spells in less than a week, while it usually takes other acolytes at least a month to learn."
"But Mother Nenneke and Mother Ianna usually don't let us use divine magic on the injured. They say combining it with herbal remedies is the best way to heal wounds..."
Talking about her life in the temple seemed to brighten Lysa considerably. She eagerly recounted her experiences from the past few months, leaving almost nothing out.
Her eyes sparkled with an indescribable light, making it clear to anyone that she genuinely loved her life as a priestess-in-training.
Listening to her, Allen felt as though he were experiencing her daily routine—learning divine spells, medicine, and theology under the rising and setting sun, carefully helping senior priestesses heal every wounded soul, and receiving their gratitude and blessings.
Even on their journey, they encountered many women—whether poor or wealthy—who greeted Lysa with respect in their voices.
This wasn't something unrelated to him.
He had rescued her from an abandoned mine and a deceitful vineyard, and now, she was living a good life and even had the strength to save others.
Allen turned to look at Lysa.
It was hard for him to associate this calm, serene, and respected young girl with the rebellious one who had once been determined to go to Kaer Morhen and become a Witcher for revenge.
The feelings welling up inside him were complicated and difficult to put into words.
As they talked, they strolled through the shaded walkway, where the traffic of people and carriages gradually became busier. Soon, they reached the boundary between the temple district and the city.
It was here that Allen's ears twitched, and he involuntarily slowed his steps.
"What's wrong?" Lysa asked curiously.
Allen, his expression complicated, turned to look at her. "I think I know why they wanted me to come here."
Lysa paused, then instinctively looked at the three-story red brick building ahead, which blocked her view. After a moment, she smiled. "I almost forgot—a Witcher's hearing is much sharper than ours."
They stopped talking, moving quietly as if afraid of disturbing something. They rounded the three-story red brick building.
The May Festival's sea of flowers was long gone, but the scene wasn't the wasteland of rubble it had been a month ago, either.
On both sides of a long stone-paved path were rows of scaffolding.
Workers were busy rebuilding and repairing the houses, with the owners helping from the sidelines.
For those whose homes were intact, simple white flowers adorned their doors and windowsills.
In the aftermath of disaster, humanity's tenacious vitality was like that of wild grass in the wilderness—no matter the sun, wind, fire, or rain, nothing could stop "humans" from growing with all their might.
The overflowing vitality was astounding.
But that wasn't what surprised Allen the most.
Five mischievous little children were chasing each other with wooden sticks. Three of them had white linen sheets draped over their heads.
"Smack!"
"Smack!"
The haphazard clashing of wooden sticks mixed with the sound of hammering nails.
"Don't run, you damned wraiths! Take this—the world's one and only Blue Death Knight of the May Festival, Ellander's heroic knight Allen, with his sword Elsa! Made of pure silver, it can vanquish you with a single strike!"
"Ah! Spare me, Blue Death… Ow, ow, ow! Noi, why are you hitting me for real?"
"Call me Lord Allen, the Blue Death!"
"No way! You've hit me so many times—I'm fighting back!"
"Ah! Ow—damn wraith, how dare you? I'm the Blue Death All—ow… David, Henselt, you two hit me so many times… Ow! Why are you still hitting?"
The world's one and only Blue Death Knight of the May Festival, Ellander's heroic knight Allen, stood with his twin swords on his back, dumbfounded at the scene.
Truth be told, with Lysa looking at him with an amused expression and the children's exaggerated lines ringing in his ears, Allen's first thought was to correct them.
Elsa was indeed a silver sword, but it wasn't made of pure silver—it was forged from several metals far more precious than silver.
Pure silver was too soft to be forged into a weapon.
Then, he suddenly laughed.
Who would have thought there would come a day when he, too, would become like those characters children pretended to be, their Elsa akin to some "legendary sword"?
"What does it feel like?" Lysa asked with a smile.
"Uh…" Allen thought for a moment. "Hard to describe… but it's… fascinating."
Lysa parted her lips slightly as if to ask another question.
Not far away, the children had already fought from one end of the street to the other, and a new argument was brewing.
"You've been the Blue Death all morning—it's our turn now!"
"In the afternoon, I'll… Ah… still fighting… The Black-Hatted Witcher Vesemir, the unparalleled Blue Death of May Festival, the knightly hero of Ellander, Allen, summons you. Come help your master defeat these wraiths!"
The child, called "Vesemir," actually started yelling "Aaaah!" while waving a wooden stick that was slightly less straight than the one in "Allen's" hand, joining the battle.
A soft chuckle came from nearby.
Allen shrugged helplessly. "Good thing Vesemir didn't come along…"
He could hardly imagine how awkward it would be if Vesemir were to see this scene.
But honestly, deep down, he was somewhat looking forward to it.
He really was a bad witcher!
Lysa stood beside him, watching Allen, who was focused on the children's antics. She stared for a long while until he seemed to notice her. When he turned his head, she suddenly said, "Let's go. I'll take you to the next place."
"Alright… Watch out!"
In a flash of movement, Allen reached out to stop the stumbling "Allen," who, while fleeing in panic from a group of "Wraiths," almost crashed into Lysa and was about to fall. Allen's left hand caught the wooden stick that was about to hit Lysa.
The tiny "wraiths" slowed down their pace, lowering their heads as they walked over, realizing they might have caused trouble.
"The real Allen wouldn't be this reckless."
Allen gently picked up the small "Allen" and set him down on the ground.
"Hmph! Thanks! But how do you know the real Allen isn't like me? You're not the Blue Death!" The small "Allen," now steady, still retorted defiantly. "Besides, the 'wraiths' were unfairly outnumbering me!"
"The real Allen wouldn't shirk responsibility!" Allen replied.
The little one patted his clothes, already thinking of how to explain the new stains on his clothes to his mother. Hearing the adults repeatedly mention Allen's name, he suddenly snapped:
"Why do you keep calling him Allen? Allen is you—"
Before he could finish his sentence.
He suddenly noticed the three "wraiths," draped in white sheets, were staring wide-eyed behind him, stepping back in a panic and muttering softly:
"Blue eyes… cat-like eyes… Is he… Is he…"
"But witchers always carry two swords on their back…"
In Ellander, there was no need to conceal himself. However, when leaving Aedirn in a rush and with no plans for hunting today, Allen hadn't switched to his usual attire. He still wore his mercenary outfit: a red leather jacket with a longsword at his waist.
As for his eyes…
Well, they weren't that noticeable unless you looked closely.
The small "Allen" abruptly turned, lifting his head to take a full look.
"Ah! The unparalleled Blue Death of May Festival, knightly hero of Ellander, Allen, has come to life!"
Real Allen: ?
When did I die?
"Is he really Allen?"
The "wraiths" froze, their sheet coverings slipping to the ground.
They had never met him in person, but Noy certainly had—at least several times, during the May Festival and at Ellander's funeral.
Otherwise, they wouldn't have chosen him to play "Allen" first.
"I am Allen, but not the unparalleled Blue Death of May Festival, knightly hero of Ellander," Allen said helplessly, waving a hand. "I don't have such a long list of titles."
"And, by the way, Vesemir is my mentor, not my pet."
It felt necessary to correct these ramblings from imaginative kids.
"Pfft!" Another soft laugh escaped from beside him.
The small "Allen" widened his dark, deer-like eyes and nervously gulped.
Then, for some reason, his gaze dropped, pausing for a moment on the straight wooden stick in Allen's hand before shifting to the silver sword at his waist. Taking a bold step closer, he asked, "You're not scary?"
Allen was surprised.
Even though these kids admired him, liked him, and played pretend as him, they had still backed away far when they saw his cat-like eyes and learned his name.
"Not scared!" the small "Allen" declared loudly. "My mom said that Allen the witcher is the hero who saved Ellander."
He then stepped even closer, his gaze glued to Allen's silver sword. "Is this sword Elsa?"
"She's so beautiful!"
Allen glanced down.
The silver sword, Elsa, had its entire blade sheathed, with its pommel, grip, and crossguard tightly wrapped in gray bandages.
It looked plain and dull.
"Can I… Can I touch her?" The child's large, shiny eyes pleaded pitifully at Allen.
Allen exchanged a look with the smiling Lysa and, with a sigh, nodded.
The small "Allen" widened his eyes in delight, carefully wiped his hands on his clothes, and then, with an expression of reverence, lightly touched the bandaged hilt of Elsa with his tiny hand.
He immediately pulled back, then screamed, "Ah! I touched Elsa!" "I touched Elsa!" while running back to his friends, waving his hand like a trophy.
The "Vesemir" and "wraiths" around him looked on in envy, itching to do the same but not daring to approach.
Allen chuckled softly, turning to Lysa with anticipation in his gaze. "Let's go. Where to next?"
"Follow me."
They visited many places next.
In the tavern, a bard played a lute, singing 'The Death Knight from the North':
"… He came from the north… He came from the north…"
"… The blue cat-like eyes opened, summoning the reaper…"
"… The fourteen-year-old knight of Ellander named his beloved silver sword Elsa…"
"… With this sword, he slew wraiths, drowned the fears of the living, and defeated the drowners…"
In the city square of Ellander, a talented florist had arranged flowers in the newly built large flowerbed, forming a vivid depiction of 'The Witcher with Blue Cat-Like Eyes'.
For the blue eyes, they used rare blue roses brought all the way from Toussaint and even further south to the distant Nazair.
From the lower town to the upper district, intricate wooden sculptures of a witcher carrying two swords could be seen at street corners and alleys. Groups of children, around the same age as the small "Allen," would often gather around these sculptures.
Some even carved his image onto wooden doors.
-------------------------
If Allen were truly just a fourteen-year-old witcher, knowing his likeness was so widespread might have been overwhelming.
Most of it stemmed from the Duke's recognition of him. Of course, that recognition carried significant political intent, using his image to bolster the citizens' morale.
Otherwise, he might have lost himself in this city that was saturated with his presence.
On the way back, at the corner of the red-brick building between the temple and the city districts, Lysa gently patted the floating, dreamy witcher and smiled.
"The hero who saved Ellander—your legend is everywhere in this city."
"So, have you reconsidered?"
"Will you choose to stay?"
.....
📢20 advanced chapters on p@treaon📢
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363. Flying to Ban Ard?
364. The Smoke of Ban Ard.
365. The Wild Hunt – A Sorcerer's Coveted Treasure: A Legacy from an Old Friend.
366. While two dogs are fighting for a bone, a third runs away with it?
367. The Guiding Hand of Fate.