The Chief was silent for a moment, his gaze sweeping across the map.
Allen noticed his eyes pause momentarily on the southern bCorps of Temeria. But in the blink of an eye, the Chief looked away, shaking his head.
"It's not time yet. For now, the only place suitable for the Wolf School's growth is Kaer Morhen."
Not giving Allen a chance to ask more, he ended the topic and said, "That's enough about relocating the School. I'll write to explain the decision to Ellander and will arrange for Witchers to go there to eliminate monsters."
"Although we can't move the School there, maintaining a partnership from a distance will be more beneficial to both parties."
Allen nodded in agreement. He felt that this arrangement might be precisely what Duke Mason wanted from the beginning. Otherwise, if he were genuinely eager to invite a group like the Wolf School, he wouldn't have sent the invitation through a Witcher—an extremely informal approach.
It was a pity, though.
If they relocated to Ellander, the Wolf School could benefit from the protection of the Duke, buying them several years to grow while he was alive.
In that time, he could implement the skills drawn from the Witcher's Notes across the Corps, hunt monsters to refine elixirs, or strengthen members with cleansed spirits. But the Chief's analysis, however extreme, wasn't entirely wrong.
Considering the Witchers' lifespans, humans' promises aren't dependable. Duke Mason, after all, was old. How much longer he would live was uncertain. If he were to die before the School could firmly establish itself, all those benefits could vanish overnight.
Moreover, if they moved, even with the Duke's support, they couldn't avoid political conflicts. Being too close to populated areas would also reveal the rapid rise in the Corps's power.
Ultimately, Allen thought, the pros and cons balanced out.
Of course, Allen's willingness to concede boiled down to one reason…
The Chief of the Wolf School was still Sol.
How the School should evolve wasn't up to Allen.
Being given detailed reasons for Sol's decision was more than enough; in fact, it felt unexpectedly generous.
As he pondered this, a lingering thought echoed in Allen's mind: 'Do you want to be Chief?'
"Are you planning to go down the mountain this year?" The Chief interrupted Allen's wandering thoughts gently.
"No, not this year!" Allen replied hurriedly, feeling a bit guilty under Sol's somewhat weary expression. "I'm dedicating the next six months to strengthening the Corps…"
"Good," the Chief nodded. "The Corps has proven highly effective in boosting the School's strength; it's worth the extra effort."
Once they'd discussed all there was, Allen said a few final words and prepared to leave. But just as he turned to go, he remembered something.
"Oh, Chief, the two sorcerers that Vera brought back a couple of months ago…"
"Makarov is cooperative and says whatever is asked of him," the Chief shook his head. "But Tomas Moreau remains stubborn, very tight-lipped. Extracting what you're looking for from him won't be easy."
Just as I thought…
Should I just kill Tomas Moreau?
He could gain memories of other Witchers he killed, so wouldn't sorcerers be the same? If so, maybe he could get the location of the lab where Tomas completed his second mutation…
As Allen mulled this over, he asked, "Where are they?"
The Chief was silent for a moment, hesitating, then met Allen's gaze and advised, "You shouldn't get involved in the interrogations."
"Vera is quite experienced in this, and she's already contacted a specialist. Results should come soon."
It seemed the Chief didn't want Allen to be involved. Since Vera had made arrangements, Allen didn't press the issue further.
Before he left, he glanced once more at the ancient map on the long table.
On the southern border of Temeria, a place called Dodurak had an unusual notation—a nearly indecipherable script scribbled in a hasty hand. After leaving the Chief's chambers, he recalled what it meant—"Cave of Demons."
------------------------
Bang~
The wooden door closed.
Sol's gaze lingered on the carvings of the door for a long time, lost in thought.
Clack, clack, clack~
With a lazy step, a woman in a crimson robe emerged from an inner chamber.
"Your child has quite the ambition—just like you used to." Without looking back, Sol tapped the wide, heavy high-backed chair beside him. "The desire in his eyes is so obvious it can't be hidden…"
"He wants my place…"
"Well, he's your child, too," the woman rolled her eyes and sat in the rattan chair Allen had just left. "Besides, he's more than capable enough to sit in that old chair of yours."
Sol paused, glancing sideways at her, a bit helplessly. "You're as blunt as ever."
"But he still needs some help," Sol added, looking pensively at the old, worn chair. "It needs polishing, armrests added, and sturdy legs. Perhaps some engravings too, to show dignity and honor…"
"That way, he can sit securely and last longer."
"Then help him," she said softly. "Our miracle child needs that chair."
"I will," Sol nodded.
After a long silence, as she looked at Sol's face, new wrinkles seemed to appear since they'd last met. She wanted to say something, but the words eluded her.
A child she'd raised from infancy betrayed him, sought to destroy everything he'd built, and, in Sol's stoic silence, died in front of him.
Disfigured beyond recognition.
She couldn't begin to imagine the agony of facing that fate herself with Ianna. Luckily, Ianna hadn't done the same.
But Ianna… she was close to death herself.
Just then—
"Sigh…"
"Vera, I'm getting tired," Sol said with a long exhale, gazing out the window, cloaked in heavy clouds. "When our child is secure, let's return to Toussaint together."
"Henrietta saved me a vineyard in the Sansretour Valley, very close to our old home."
"The valley's vineyards produce grapes for wine as fine as Avelroose, Fiorano, Pomerol, and your favorite, Est."
"In the spring, we can plant vines, prune in summer, harvest in autumn, and come winter, we'll be sitting by a crackling fire, savoring our own wine…"
"Sol..." the woman couldn't help but softly call out.
But the man seemed not to hear her, or perhaps he was lost in some memory or fantasy, as he continued to speak: "I still remember the little tricks my father taught me... You can't water too much, need to consider the weather..."
"Your father, Viscount Ewen, always used to brag that if one could manage a vineyard well, they could govern a country..."
"Sol..." the woman's voice grew a bit louder.
"Oh, and since you know magic, we'll definitely be able to make wine even richer than anything our fathers ever produced. Maybe we could even win at the Toussaint Spring Wine Festival..."
"Sol!" the woman stepped in front of him, raising her voice even more.
The man finally fell silent, staring blankly for a moment as his foggy eyes focused on the woman's face.
"Sorry," he said, "I drifted off."
"Do you regret taking this path?" she asked.
He remained silent.
Looking around the room, he thought back to all the places he had fought, the monsters he had slain, and the people he had saved...
His right hand gripped the dark, timeworn armrest, the veins on his hand standing out.
"I don't know... Vera... I don't know..."
"It seems like the path of glory I yearned for may never have existed at all."
"Centuries ago, humans were killed by monsters, and centuries later, humans are still killed by their own kind..."
"Everything seems to have changed, yet somehow it hasn't."
"With or without witchers, humans still die. Dying at the hands of monsters might seem noble, but what is it to die at the hands of their own?"
"The people saved from a monster's claws often end up dying at the hands of their own kind... far more than any monster, even more than the mightiest dragon..."
"So what purpose do witchers really serve?"
The man looked at her pleadingly, as if hoping for an answer. He wanted to believe that everything he had given up—family, comforts, every hardship he'd endured—had meaning. But she couldn't give him the answer he wanted, nor did she want to give him a false one.
In fact, she knew he already had his answer in his heart.
All she could do was embrace him, feeling a surge of guilt, and try to warm him with her presence, as she murmured like a lullaby, "You still have us."
"When this is all over, we'll return to Toussaint together. We'll plant vines, make wine, join the festival..."
"We'll..."
"Go home, together!"
------------------
Castle Hall
"What? Sol raised Henselt as his own?" Allen gaped, scattering breadcrumbs across the table.
The more Allen thought about his talk with Sol, the more puzzled he felt after leaving the room.
Though Sol had only asked once whether he wanted to be the head of the School of the Wolf, something about his spirit and demeanor seemed terribly dispirited, almost as if he were a different person.
After noticing Vesemir's similarly somber mood earlier, Allen felt the two might be connected, so he quickly found Vesemir in the dining hall and asked him directly, only to get such a surprising answer.
"Shh!" Vesemir quickly shushed him. "Keep your voice down!"
Allen looked around the empty hall—no one else was there. But still, he lowered his voice since he was here to listen in on a bit of gossip.
"Not exactly raised him," Vesemir amended, realizing his words could have been misleading. "To be precise, the chief saved Henselt and his mother, then helped secure their place on the throne..."
Hearing the backstory of Sol and Henselt's connection, Allen felt a pang of understanding. No wonder Sol was so downhearted. It reminded him of the relationship between Ciri and Geralt in his past life's novels and games.
With no children of his own, Sol had evidently taken Henselt under his wing, hunting the country's monsters and finding mentors to support him. He'd treated Henselt as his own child.
Thinking about it, it was like if Ciri had betrayed Geralt, not only trying to kill him but also plotting against those close to him like Vesemir, Eskel, and Lambert...
And in the end, Geralt had stood by, watching her die, doing nothing.
Damn it!
That slob Henselt didn't deserve to be compared to Ciri!
Allen quickly rid himself of the distasteful comparison and cursed Henselt.
"Henselt's an absolute disgrace!" he spat.
Vesemir spat on the ground in agreement, saying, "He's worse than the scum from the School of the Cat!"
Coming from Vesemir, comparing someone unfavorably to the Cat School was as harsh an insult as it got.
While the Witcher world did believe in speaking no ill of the dead, an ingrate like Henselt didn't deserve that respect. So Allen and Vesemir spent the entire morning in the castle hall venting, swearing until their mouths were dry and lunch was almost upon them.
Vesemir's face looked much better afterward, and his spirits had clearly lifted.
In truth, Vesemir's early mood was likely downcast after seeing Sol's state that morning.
And from Vesemir's praise for Sol, almost venerating him, Allen thought it was clear that Vesemir regarded Sol as a true father figure—someone who had taught him swordsmanship, spells, and hunting skills, and inspired him on the path of honor.
Allen couldn't help feeling a bit envious of Vesemir and Henselt.
Who wouldn't want a father figure as powerful, wise, skilled, high in status, and patient as Sol?
Too bad.
In both past and present lives, Allen had been left on his own.
Though he deeply respected Vesemir's character, their bond felt more like that of brothers than one of elder and younger. After all, while he might be a little envious, he didn't really crave a father figure—he was well past that age.
But it did raise a question.
Why had Sol, who clearly had a dedicated "son" figure right in front of him, asked him about wanting to become the head?
Allen cast a slightly sympathetic glance at Vesemir, who was still cursing Henselt and extolling Sol, and thought: "Looks like you're not 'Dad's' favorite kid, either…"
.....
📢20 advanced chapters on p@treaon📢
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303. Who's Stronger, the Commander or the Deputy Commander?
304. My Apprentice Can Trick Me a Second Time?
305. Getting Serious.
306. The Sapphire's Sinister Red Glow.
307. The Golden-Furred Beast.