The wind blew from the mountains toward the land.
Clouds drifted past the sun, hovering over the jagged forests.
A large griffin swept through the sky, and the gusts it brought tore the clouds into shreds, casting massive shadows across the ground.
Dark green, jagged treetops carved into the towering mountains.
The witcher reined in his horse and stopped.
Ahead lay a wide river, splitting the vast forest into two.
"The tributary of the Yaruga River," Vesemir said, pulling a map from his saddlebag. He ran a finger along the yellowed lines on the map's leather surface.
"It seems we can only track it this far today," Allen squinted, watching the griffin's silhouette. In just a few seconds, the enormous creature became a small black dot, disappearing behind the oaks.
It was the height of summer, and the tributary of the Yaruga River was fast and furious, with whitewater crashing over itself in the rapids.
In the game, Geralt could leap into any body of water—be it a stream, river, or sea—and swim to the other side as long as one didn't mind wasting time.
Reality, however, was different.
Although the two witchers wore relatively light armor, consisting of leather mixed with metal plates, once they plunged into the river, sinking would be inevitable.
And the rushing current certainly wouldn't let them sink peacefully to the bottom to use the Killer Whale potion and walk across the riverbed to the other side.
This kind of swift current could drag the witchers who-knows-where, or even cause them to accidentally hit their heads on a rock, knocking them unconscious—only to wake up and find themselves washed ashore in Cintra...
No, based on the Yaruga River's flow, they might even end up in Red Fort's harbor.
"It does seem that way," the witcher master said, marking an "X" on the map with a charcoal pencil tied to it by a black string. "Let's move along the riverbank. We'll find a crossing point today and wait for the griffin on the other side tomorrow."
"This way, we can also avoid the crowds."
Allen nodded slightly and tugged on the reins.
Carrot, who had been lowering her head to drink from the river, flicked her ears and snorted reluctantly before lifting her head and beginning to trot along the river.
"Hunting monsters is what witchers do," Vesemir said, gazing into the distance along the tributary of the Yaruga River. "Even to take down a few drowners that sneak into a farmer's house and steal chickens, ducks, or livestock, we've got to spend half a day."
"Larger monsters nest deep in the mountains and forests. Finding them within a week is considered lucky."
"Master Vesemir, I have patience," Allen replied, understanding that Vesemir was concerned about him becoming impatient and losing the calmness required for traditional monster hunting.
"That's good," Vesemir said, a satisfied smile appearing on his face.
He couldn't explain why, but monsters that used to be rare and elusive were appearing one after another this year, almost as if they'd gone mad.
They didn't even need to go out of their way to find them; the creatures just kept showing up.
The Drowner King, Giant Swamp Hag, Giant wraith, Griffin, White Widow, Alghoul…
Since coming down from Kaer Morhen at the start of the year, the two witchers had killed many monsters with unusual frequency—and most of them were quite powerful.
Allen, in particular, had reportedly dealt with quite a few on his own.
It almost felt like some sorcerer had cast a monster-luring ritual on them.
Because of these hunts, they had earned considerable bounties. Allen had even risen to the rank of a noble in Ellander shortly after becoming a witcher, thanks to these monsters.
This had worried Vesemir somewhat. He feared Allen would start viewing these exceptions as the norm, losing the calm and patient mindset required of a witcher in pursuit of prey.
Such complacency was extremely dangerous for a witcher.
When they returned to Kaer Morhen from Ellander, Vesemir had noticed the problem.
In the past, whenever his traveling apprentices showed such signs, he would scold them or even give them a few beatings, which usually set them straight.
But Allen...
How should he put it?
Allen's progress was so rapid that even Vesemir couldn't fully comprehend it.
In the past, one could chalk it up to his witcher eyes. But just a few days ago, Allen had slain a giant ghoul with ease, relying only on Axii and that peculiar roar of his.
Vesemir was certain that, just a month ago, if they had excluded the use of all those potent potions, he could have still matched Allen in a fight.
Now?
He... likely wasn't Allen's opponent at all.
How should he advise him?
Fortunately...
"Fortunately, Allen is still as mature and dependable as ever," Vesemir thought to himself with relief.
They chatted idly as they rode along the riverbank upstream but found no shallows or bridges.
At the end of the river, the watercourse split into two.
After much effort, the obstacle separating the witchers from the forest on the other side changed from one river to two.
"Let's turn back and check further downstream," Vesemir said, helplessly marking the branching nameless river on the map. "Houghton was right—wolf school witchers rarely come to Aedirn."
"If this were Kaedwen, Redania, or Temeria, we could at least follow the atlas all the way to the base of the Adrel Mountain."
Hearing this, Allen looked up.
The ever-frozen peaks of the Adrel Mountain seemed even farther away now.
"By the way," Vesemir said, gently nudging his horse to move faster, "when all the witchers return to Kaer Morhen for winter this year, don't forget to copy an atlas."
"Next year, you'll have to rely on it to find your own way."
Allen paused at this, catching the underlying meaning in Vesemir's words.
"The Path Trial lasts five years, doesn't it?"
"It does for most witchers," Vesemir replied with a warm smile. "But I don't think there's much left for me to teach you."
"How to meditate, how to track monsters, how to find safe resting places..."
"There's not much the Path Trial teaches."
"The reason it usually takes five years is that witchers fresh out of the Trial of the Grasses are still too weak. They need five years to let the mutagenic potions enhance their strength, agility, stamina, senses, and magic."
"In the meantime, they learn to survive in cities and the wild, improve their swordsmanship and Signs, and deepen their knowledge of monsters."
"And five years also gives younger witchers time to build a network and reputation, so they don't starve to death after leaving Kaer Morhen."
"But you, Allen..."
Vesemir's gaze softened with pride as he looked at Allen:
"You've already learned everything you need to know."
"Swordsmanship, Signs, physical abilities—you're already stronger than me."
"I know this very well," he added, raising a hand to prevent Allen from speaking. "And it's not just me. Soon, you might even surpass the Grandmaster."
"As for connections..."
Vesemir thought for a moment and chuckled wryly.
"Lady Vera and High Priestess Ianna favor you. The Duke of Ellander knighted you, and the Kuhn family of Redania, famed for their city-building legacy, even gifted you Zatret Voruta's legendary sword..."
"Honestly, Allen, not many people I know hold such high status."
"As for your reputation, just yesterday, I heard a bard in a tavern singing your praises…" Vesemir's gaze instinctively drifted to Elsa, standing behind Allen. "I believe that by year's end, Kaer Morhen will be overwhelmed with invitations addressed to you, filling every pigeonhole."
"Perhaps you haven't realized it yet, Allen, but you're already a qualified master witcher, even surpassing most of the master witchers from the School of the Wolf in many aspects."
"If I let you continue traveling with me next year, it wouldn't benefit you at all. It would just be me taking advantage of you." Vesemir's tone was sincere, his demeanor practically urging Allen to leave.
But Allen was deeply moved.
Though six months wasn't a long time, and they hadn't spent most of it together, Vesemir had selflessly imparted everything he knew and understood, withholding nothing. He'd even done things against his own principles, like this hunt for the Royal Griffin.
Gazing into Vesemir's soft, golden cat-like eyes, Allen felt a surge of words wanting to pour out. But when he opened his mouth, all he managed to say was: "Thank you, Master Vesemir."
Allen turned slightly, looking directly into Vesemir's golden cat-like eyes, his voice full of sincerity.
"Master Allen," Vesemir laughed heartily, tipping his wide-brimmed black hat. "From now on, just call me Vesemir."
The birds resting in the forest scattered in all directions, startled by Vesemir's laughter.
-------------------
The light clatter of hooves echoed across the ground.
The weather shifted gradually from muggy to cool.
The golden-green waters of an Yaruga River tributary flowed between the bridge's crumbling piers, shimmering under the setting sun.
"Can't find a way to cross downstream either?" Vesemir sighed, staring helplessly at the rotting wood and rusted rivets amid the rushing waters.
Rivers usually had only one ideal location for a bridge. Since there was a broken bridge here, based on Vesemir's experience, it was unlikely they'd find another crossing downstream anytime soon.
Feeling the damp wind on his face, Allen looked across the glimmering river.
Despite having told Vesemir earlier, "I'm patient," the wasted effort of half a day left him somewhat frustrated as he stared at the broken bridge.
He wished, almost desperately, for a flying mount to carry him across.
"We need a flying mount to cross, but we can't cross without one…"
"This is ridiculous," Allen sighed inwardly.
"Hunting monsters as a witcher is often like this," Vesemir said, inhaling deeply, as if comforting both Allen and himself. "You'll get used to it."
"Still, bridges are usually near villages or human settlements," Vesemir added. "Once we're back on the main road, we can ask around about any nearby villages along this tributary of the Yaruga River."
"Alright." Allen breathed deeply, the damp air carrying a faint scent of the river, and exhaled slowly.
They turned back, mounted their horses.
"If only we could deal with the Royal Griffin in Vengerberg," Vesemir mused, climbing onto his brown horse. "In the narrow, confined city, with the help of city guards, it would've been dealt with quickly."
"Too bad it's not an option," Allen said, regret lacing his tone.
Fighting the griffin in a city would indeed have been ideal.
For a moment, vivid images flashed in Allen's mind.
Scaling tall buildings, leaping between rooftops, dodging and rolling through the cityscape, and finally landing on the back of the griffin attacking ground soldiers.
As the monster grew enraged and turned to retaliate, he'd hurl a Clan Cyclops' great beast rope, snaring its eagle-like head and subduing the griffin in one smooth motion.
Perfectly executed.
But even setting aside the School of the Wolf's neutral principles, Allen wasn't keen on letting others witness him using a Clan Cyclops' Behemoth Snare to capture the griffin.
"Yeah, too bad it's not an option," Vesemir echoed, though the deep furrow of his brows suggested his concerns were different from Allen's.
-----------------------
As the sun dipped below the horizon and darkness fell, they realized how far they'd strayed from the main road while chasing the griffin.
Without the Royal Griffin's oppressive presence during the day, Vesemir and Allen encountered several packs of drowners, ghouls, and wild wolves on their way back.
The combination of these factors meant they didn't return to the main road in Aedirn until the stars were shining brightly in the night sky.
It was far too late to ask about villages near the tributary of the Yaruga River.
Besides, Erni and Claral were still waiting for them at the inn.
So, as the two witchers rode along the main road, they tacitly avoided mentioning this matter and spurred their horses toward the inn with urgency.
-----------------
Carrying torches, the two witchers disguised themselves outside the village before leading their horses into it.
The inn where they were staying was no longer the one they had used after leaving Vergen. This new inn was both closer to Vengerberg and more secluded.
"I wonder if those brats caused any trouble today," Vesemir muttered as he tied his black horse in the stable.
Because they couldn't openly accept contracts as witchers, the younger witchers had been forced to stay cooped up in the inn for days, bored out of their minds. This had led to them causing trouble on several occasions, nearly exposing their identities.
"We punished them yesterday, and with Erni and Claral keeping an eye on them, there shouldn't be any problems… right?" Allen replied, though he sounded uncertain.
"Let's hope so."
The two witchers entered the inn.
The first floor of the inn served as a small tavern, sparsely occupied by a few farmers nursing mugs of ale.
Judging by the look of things, these mugs had probably lasted the farmers an entire day.
The innkeeper, an elderly woman, stood behind the counter, idly polishing glasses. When she saw Allen and Vesemir enter, she quickly came over with a fawning smile.
"Welcome back, sirs! Would you like something to eat…?"
Before she could finish, Vesemir suddenly raised a hand to stop her.
"Wait!" he said urgently.
A faint sense of dread rose within him, as if they had suddenly stepped into the lair of a sleeping dragon.
Both witchers turned and rushed out of the inn simultaneously.
To the north.
The low-hanging night sky shimmered with crimson auroras, like the blood-red eyes of a demon opening wide.
.....
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342. The Disappearance of the Seven Witchers.
343. Vesemir's Anger and Astonishment.
344. The Limit of Attributes.
345. Ambushing Vilgefortz.
346. Is the Name Deserved or Not?