Vilgefortz returned to his tower.
The elegant Lydia sat gracefully in the studio, surrounded by numerous tranquil landscape paintings, conversing with a hovering kingfisher in midair.
It should have been a beautiful scene.
Unfortunately, the kingfisher would make a hen-like "clucking" sound, making the entire atmosphere feel awkward and somewhat amusing.
"I shouldn't be thinking like this," Vilgefortz mused. "After all, behind the kingfisher is a sorceress with a refined appearance…"
Compared to mental projection spells, Sigurii's magical transmission technique could only establish one-on-one communication and did not allow the participants to see each other's faces.
However, the alchemical medium of the "kingfisher" was far less expensive than the equipment required for mental projection spells, and it consumed much less magical energy to maintain. Many sorceresses preferred using it.
Especially since the medium—while using the same alchemical formations—could vary greatly in value, with the highest-grade versions being worth hundreds of times more than the standard models.
Vilgefortz shook his head and gestured to Lydia that nothing was wrong. Lost in his thoughts, he made his way back to his study.
"Sigurii's magical transmission technique still has plenty of room for improvement in its spell model and casting method. Perhaps I should refine a new alchemical medium for Lydia…"
Seating himself in his high-backed chair, Vilgefortz waved his hand, summoning documents on Elder Blood and the Child of Miracles back onto his oak desk.
His previous research had been destroyed in a moment of impulsive frustration, so he had to start over. But with his thoughts now clearer, inspiration struck him—he had discovered a new angle for his research.
He believed this perspective might allow him to grasp the truth, to see the future.
However…
As ancient engravings, elven hymns, and prophetic verses piled up across the finely carved oak desk, Vilgefortz didn't immediately follow the spark of insight that had flashed through his mind. Instead, he closed his eyes.
Research was just research. The vague and cryptic nature of prophecy meant that the identity of the Child of Miracles would only be confirmed as events unfolded over time.
Prophecies were always understood only in hindsight, after they had already come true.
"…Born in a land of bitter cold… death and rebirth… neither human nor elf… the blood of elves… destroyer of nations…"
Muttering to himself, Vilgefortz let images surface in his mind.
A snow-covered castle nestled among the mountains, a desperate survival after consuming mutagenic potions, piercing blue bestial eyes that seemed to devour souls…
And in each of these visions, the protagonist bore Allen's face.
Only his appearance shifted with age—sometimes young and fearful, sometimes resolute and unwavering…
"But is Allen truly the Child of Miracles?" Vilgefortz asked the empty air.
The Conjunction of the Spheres, the deaths of kings, the May Day catastrophe in Ellander, the Wild Hunt's devastation of Ban Ard…
Over the past six months, nearly every major event in the Northern Continent had involved Allen in some way. But was the connection strong enough to be conclusive? Hardly.
The Child of Miracles would undoubtedly fit every element of the prophecy. But simply aligning with parts of it didn't necessarily mean someone was the prophesied one.
Even the same prophetic element could manifest in dozens or hundreds of different ways, and the true indicators still needed to be carefully filtered.
"The Child of Miracles cannot remain hidden forever. As events unfold, their true nature will inevitably be revealed."
Vilgefortz lowered his head in deep thought.
"But the sooner I deduce it, the greater my advantage."
"I cannot wait until everyone else knows his identity before I make my move."
"By then, it would already be far too late…"
"So my approach has been wrong."
Vilgefortz opened his eyes, tapping his index finger against a copper-etched plate of The Miracle Child of Ithlinne.
"I shouldn't be hoarding the Miracle Child's whereabouts like a dragon greedily guarding its gems and gold."
"The Miracle Child… The Miracle Child…"
"The one who can create miracles and survive even in the most extreme adversity—of course, that person is the Miracle Child."
Vilgefortz stood up, walked to the window, and looked toward the library.
Under the night sky, it was empty—only the deepest, most impenetrable darkness remained.
"The matter of the Wolf School's hunt is only known to me, Sunny, and Miguel."
"If I don't reveal the miracle now… By the time Allen tames the royal griffin and the isolated Ban Ard learns about the Ellander dark god incident, several days will have already passed."
"With the radicals' current predicament, the kings' attitudes, and the looming threat of the Wild Hunt, they already have enough to worry about. Even if the news reaches them, they might not notice the details. More likely, once the incident is over and the dark god is expelled, no one will even pay attention to the records…"
"But now, Sunny—who already despises the Wolf School and would order assassinations on any witcher he encounters—is surely enraged. He probably wishes he could burn Kaer Morhen to the ground and kill every last witcher. However…"
"Can Ban Ard, already ravaged and completely estranged from Kaedwen, still pose a threat to the Wolf School?"
"Can it still generate flames hot enough to smelt gold and forge iron for the Miracle Child?"
To be honest, Vilgefortz didn't know. Just as he also didn't understand why the Rissberg Group's Civil Cooperative Organization had decided to help Ban Ard.
Sunny's excuse had been weak—too perfunctory.
Trying to capture a live Wild Hunt warrior? Personally stepping in was clearly not a wise move, and an organization as profit-driven as the Rissberg Group would never act without benefit.
"But no matter," Vilgefortz thought.
"Life always needs a few surprises."
------------------------------
While Vilgefortz was leisurely anticipating whatever surprise Sunny had in store, the man himself, deep in the underground library, was not enjoying the two surprises Vilgefortz had brought him.
Under the soft glow of lavender magic lamps, the once desolate library—so quiet whenever Vilgefortz was present—was now bustling with activity.
Some were trying to contact the Rissberg Group's Civil Cooperative Organization. Others were organizing responses to an impending Wild Hunt attack. Yet others were arguing over who to approach for information about the war.
The male mages had completely withdrawn from the war front of both nations. Even Kaedwen's King Lado's court sorcerers had returned, and the Wild Hunt had utterly destroyed Ban Ard.
Now, the male mages' academy was like an isolated island within Kaedwen.
There was still some possibility of contacting other Northern Kingdoms, but obtaining internal updates about Kaedwen itself was nearly impossible.
Of course…
Though sorcerers who could use portal magic were rare, there were still a few among the radicals. Yet, with the Wild Hunt lurking just outside the academy, no one was willing to travel to Ard Carraigh.
After all, while Ban Ard wasn't far from Ard Carraigh, reaching it required two portal jumps.
And portal magic itself was an advanced discipline—any sorcerer capable of casting it held considerable status among the radicals.
Thus…
The high-ranking mages all spoke with feigned concern, urging Sunny to consider the bigger picture—to deal with the Wild Hunt first before worrying about anything else.
And so…
Sunny had no choice but to compromise.
He was no Hen Gedymdeith.
His rise to leadership among the radicals and his current hold over Ban Ard's greatest authority didn't come from overwhelming power or research prowess.
It came from his ability to stir emotions and from the male mages' dissatisfaction with Hen Gedymdeith's conservative stance.
If he wanted to lead Ban Ard, he still needed these people's support.
"Is this matter really that serious?"
Miguel noticed Sunny sitting on the sofa with an unpleasant expression and whispered to him.
He didn't understand why a witcher taming a royal griffin seemed more serious than the Wild Hunt's attack.
"Serious?" Sunny scoffed, his frustration evident. "If that damned witcher really tamed Aedirn's royal griffin, do you know what will happen?"
"What will happen?"
Miguel, a sorcerer specializing in ritual magic, truly didn't grasp the deeper implications.
In fact, he wasn't even aware that the royal griffin had once attacked Aedirn.
And besides…
What could an unplanned royal griffin possibly change?
Kaedwen's national strength and military power had always far surpassed Aedirn's.
Sunny glanced at Miguel, opened his mouth as if to speak, then simply waved his hand in frustration.
Of course, he could analyze the power dynamics and the consequences of the royal griffin leaving Aedirn, combined with Ban Ard withdrawing its male mages from the frontlines.
But what was the point?
Explaining these things to Miguel wouldn't change the situation in the slightest.
"Let me go," Miguel offered. "Even though my expertise is ritual magic, I can still use portal spells. I can go to Ard Carraigh—"
"No!" Sunny cut him off via telepathy. "You're the person I trust most in Ban Ard."
"But…" Miguel hesitated.
------------------------------
"Actually, I've already asked people from the Rissberg Group's Civil Cooperative Organization to gather intelligence. Once they arrive, they'll bring back the news."
"Then why did you—" Miguel started, but midway through his sentence, his tone stiffened, and he fell silent.
He wasn't politically astute, but he wasn't stupid either.
Sunny was testing his influence and authority among the high-ranking radical sorcerers. Unfortunately, the results weren't promising.
And this was closely tied to his losses in the Passolon Forest.
"That wasn't your fault." Sensing Miguel's disappointment, Sunny consoled him. "Even if I had gone personally, I wouldn't have fared much better. I might have even died in Passolon."
Miguel sighed and shook his head.
He scanned the library, watching the seemingly busy figures moving about.
The radicals had yet to rise to power, Hen Gedymdeith had yet to be properly dealt with, and yet… cracks were already beginning to form.
"Creating a nation for sorcerers…" Miguel thought, lost in his own musings. "Is something like that even possible?"
The two sorcerers sat in silence for a while.
Under the purple glow of magical crystal lamps, the library bustled with activity, appearing vibrant and thriving.
But in reality…?
"Once this Wild Hunt matter is settled," Sunny said, his gaze dark and calculating, "make sure the news spreads that the Wolf School has broken neutrality and interfered in the war."
"But… no one will believe it, right?" Miguel was momentarily stunned.
Through Tissaia de Vries, they had indeed received news that the witcher named Allen had tamed the royal griffin. Vesemir, the target of Vilgefortz's assassination, was also present.
So even if they couldn't obtain information from within Aedirn, they could still deduce that the royal griffin was almost certainly the one from Vengerberg.
But the others didn't know that…
Compared to Ban Ard's reputation, the Wolf School was still seen as more credible.
"Unless we expose the fact that we sent assassins—"
"It doesn't matter," Sunny shook his head. "All we need is an excuse."
He paused for a moment, then gritted his teeth and said: "We were just too busy dealing with the Wild Hunt before, so we didn't have time to deal with those damned obsolete experiments."
"The Wolf School, just a few dozen witchers, actually dares to take revenge on Ban Ard? Once we drive out the Wild Hunt, I'll make sure to have some fun with them…"
Before he could finish his sentence, Sunny's expression suddenly froze, and he abruptly stood up.
"What's wrong?" Miguel followed suit, standing up as well.
"The Rissberg Group's Civil Cooperative Organization representatives have arrived!" Sunny's face showed a mix of excitement and apprehension as he looked toward the library's brass doors. "Leading them is Ortolan…"
"One of the five legendary mages of Chapter of the Gift and the Art, on par with Hen Gedymdeith—Ortolan."
------------------------------
Two days later.
Mahakam Mountains.
Sharp fangs pierced through a throat, and blood trickled down the razor-sharp teeth, dripping onto the ground.
The forests at the turn of summer and autumn never failed to reward a powerful predator.
Each ghoul carried a freshly killed prey in its jaws, making its way deeper into the woods.
"Ssss—"
The lead alghoul suddenly sniffed the air and halted.
The ghouls behind it also stopped, scanning their surroundings.
At that moment—
From the low shrubs nearby, several dark figures suddenly burst forth.
"Roar—!"
The alghoul immediately dropped the heavy corpse of the black bear from its mouth and let out a furious howl to warn its pack. Just as it was about to turn and flee by instinct—
It suddenly noticed that there were only nine humans.
The alghoul tilted its grotesque head, covered in black spikes, hesitating for less than two seconds.
In the blink of an eye, one of the figures shot forward like an arrow loosed from a fully drawn bow.
In an instant—faster than the alghoul could react—the figure had already closed the distance.
Before it could even process what was happening, the alghoul saw a pair of piercing, beast-like blue eyes.
A flash of cold steel—
The world flipped upside down.
The alghoul lost consciousness.
------------------------------
"Has the captain gotten even stronger?"
Clay watched as Allen effortlessly severed the alghoul's head with a single strike—making it look even easier than when he himself killed a drowner.
"What nonsense are you talking about?" Erni drew his sword and shouted against the roaring wind. "When has there ever been a time when the captain hasn't gotten stronger? Isn't he always stronger than he was in his last battle?"
Clay was momentarily at a loss for words.
That did seem to be the case. Every time he watched Captain Allen fight, he was stronger than before—no matter how much time had passed between battles.
"I know that, of course. What I mean is, this time he's absurdly strong."
He recalled the last time they encountered an alghoul—Captain Allen had at least used a roar and an Axii sign. But this time, it took just one sword strike.
The alghoul died without even a shred of dignity befitting a large monster.
For a brief moment, Clay even thought—maybe he could do it too.
Maybe today was the day he would become the youngest witcher master, even surpassing Allen.
Then he stepped closer.
Even with the alghoul already dead, the lingering presence of its oppressive aura made Clay's hands tremble slightly, sending a shiver down his spine.
He instantly knew.
If he tried—he definitely wouldn't make it.
Allen killed effortlessly.
Clay would die effortlessly.
.....
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