"Scurver?" Allen's eyes widened instantly. "This is a 'Scurver'?!"
The world of the Witcher, compared to the game of the same name Allen had played in his previous life, always managed to be unexpectedly raw and unadorned.
The strength of monsters could often be discerned at a glance, especially with corpse-eating creatures like ghouls or alghouls.
In the game, although alghouls were called "giant," their actual size wasn't much larger than a regular ghoul. The most distinguishing feature was the "Mohawk" of spikes protruding from their spines, making them appear slightly more robust.
But in the world Allen now inhabited, alghouls stood at least twice the height of a man, and when on all fours, they were roughly the size of a two-story house. Their mere movement caused the ground to tremble, fully deserving the "giant" part of their name.
Even within the alghouls, there were notable size variations.
The larger they were, the stronger their physical power, agility, and magical affinity—making them that much harder to handle.
The idea that "bigger is stronger" played out vividly in these corpse-eating monsters.
But Allen hadn't expected that Scurvers—described in the original lore as human-sized and prone to exploding upon death—would grow to such enormous proportions here!
"Rumble—"
The ground trembled violently.
A massive crimson figure, like a moving mountain, barreled forward, snapping through trees and shrubs of all sizes in its path, leaving deep craters in the earth with every step.
From a distance, its crimson bone spikes looked as thick as Allen's thigh. If even one of those spikes struck him during the creature's self-detonation, he'd likely be sliced clean in half.
The acidic, putrid stench was carried on the wind, searing Allen's exposed skin even from twenty or thirty meters away.
The four alghouls that had charged earlier immediately retreated in the face of such overwhelming presence, leaving behind only the ghouls and rotfiends to continue their assault on the two Witcher masters.
"Are Scurvers always this big?"
"Or is this some aberration created by the One-Eyed God?"
Two questions popped into Allen's mind.
Of course, this flash of thought lasted only an instant, like the flicker of a candle, without slowing his actions in the slightest.
As he pivoted and spun to his left, he channeled the Aard Sign, pushing his right hand forward with a snap of his middle finger.
Aard.
"Boom!"
A translucent wave of telekinetic force blasted forth, shattering the frost-covered rotfiend into fragments of icy flesh, sending the remains hurtling toward the oncoming Scurver.
A fiery serpent of Igni followed closely, igniting the cold, pale surface of the rotfiend.
The rotfiends only had time to issue a few hoarse screeches before—
Boom! Boom! Boom!
One fiery explosion after another erupted, each bursting with blinding white light.
Trees splintered, and the shockwaves from the explosions kicked up a storm of dust and debris, obscuring everything in front of him.
'Did it die?'
Allen stepped back, dodging a ghoul's lunge, as this thought flitted through his mind. Just then, a claw latched onto his right arm.
"Run!" Vesemir shouted, pulling Allen with force. Without waiting for a response, the older Witcher cut down several ghouls blocking their path and dragged him toward the cliffside.
At that moment—
"Roar!"
A grotesque, spike-covered mass of flesh burst through the cloud of smoke.
The Scurver!
Even the explosive might of eight rotfiends hadn't left a scratch on its pale, decaying body.
Only a few questionable, dark red chunks of flesh clung to its spikes, swaying precariously.
Baring its fangs, dripping with putrid saliva, and spreading its blood-red claws, it pounced with an overwhelming presence that made the air itself feel heavy.
"Roar!"
For a moment, it felt like the entire Mahakam was charging at him.
Unstoppable! Unyielding!
In the blink of an eye, Allen forced himself to suppress the elemental dread flooding his mind, glancing quickly toward the cliff edge.
Below, the sparkling river looked like a thin white thread.
Using the momentum from Vesemir's pull, Allen stepped back and retrieved a vial of azure potion, snapping off its neck before downing its contents in one gulp.
"Let go of me!" Allen shouted.
Months of camaraderie and shared battles had forged an impeccable synergy between the two Witchers.
The pulling force behind him vanished instantly.
Then, Allen watched as the Scurver's grotesque face loomed closer and closer.
Its bloodshot eyes were veined with countless red threads, and its gaping maw, lined with jagged yellow teeth, dripped strands of foul saliva.
[Monster Hunt]
An icy calm enveloped Allen's mind.
He multitasked seamlessly, using mental suggestion to urge Vesemir to move away while activating his adrenal glands. In an instant, his brain turned cold and hyper-focused.
The cacophony of ghoulish howls slowed to an elongated drone, and the Scurver's massive legs, flailing with a filthy blur, became sluggish.
Allen seized this fraction of stillness brought by his Blizzard potion. At a pace just slightly faster than the creature's movements, he—
Sidestepped. Bent low. Ducking and spinning…
He slammed his foot into the pale, rocky ground with precision.
In a fluid motion, Allen narrowly slid past the Scurver's grotesque, spike-riddled hind legs. The razor-sharp barbs on its lower limbs passed so close to his face that they almost grazed the tip of his nose.
Allen exhaled instinctively.
The acidic, corrosive stench burned his nostrils.
Holding his breath, he reached out with his left hand—just as it left the shadow of the Scurver's legs—and raised his right hand, middle finger curled.
"Roar!"
Time snapped back to normal.
The cacophony of howls and screeches once again filled the forested mountain pass.
"Thunk!"
The Scurver's massive claw swung wide, missing its mark entirely and rending the air with a whistling gale. Its massive body lurched forward, teetering off balance.
It was still two meters from the cliff's edge—ample room to recover.
But at that moment—
Boom!
A distorted wave of telekinetic force slammed into the Scurver's lower back.
The rotting, pale flesh of its body caved in under the sudden impact, destroying its chance to regain balance.
"Crash!"
Its massive head smashed into the cliffside, breaking off a large chunk of rock, and the beast, flailing wildly, tumbled into the abyss.
"Allen, that was brilliant!" Vesemir's jubilant voice called from nearby.
But Allen didn't have the time to look.
Three more alghouls rushed in the moment the Scurver fell, accompanied by their horde of corpse-eating minions.
Unfazed, Allen retreated two steps to regroup with Vesemir, who had just slain several more ghouls.
Together, they carefully used Aard to push back the weaker ghouls, creating breathing room and openings to maneuver. They ignited rotfiends at opportune moments, turning the explosive creatures into deadly weapons to wreak havoc on the alghouls and their minions.
With the Scurver dealt with, the Witchers regained the upper hand.
Even so, the seemingly endless waves of corpse-eating creatures continued to press the narrow cliffside, claiming every inch of space.
Eventually, the alghouls grew more cunning. They stopped sending rotfiends and even avoided joining the fray themselves, opting to hide in the forest. Instead, they unleashed ghouls to wear down the Witchers' stamina and constrict their mobility.
It was clear they believed the Witchers were trapped and intended to exhaust them into submission.
It seemed that compared to ghouls, rotfiends and alghouls were more precious and harder to synthesize "resources."
Additionally—
The forest once again echoed with a commotion similar to the arrival of the previous cliff-dwelling Scurver. However, it ceased abruptly halfway, allowing the two witchers to finally let their suspended hearts settle as they breathed a quiet sigh of relief.
Reality was not like a game where NPCs lacked memory.
The same environmental kill might work on a second Scurver, but it certainly wouldn't succeed against a third, or against other monsters of the same level.
Still, it remained unclear whether this conservation of "resources" was part of a plan orchestrated by some dark god or the cunning of a lurking alghoul.
Allen and Vesemir exchanged a brief glance at one point and decided to leave it be.
To be safe, they gradually reduced the frequency of using their Signs, pretending to be fatigued and on the verge of collapse.
Then, not long after—
"Screech!"
A familiar cry echoed in Allen's mind, and his entire body jolted. His bright, sapphire-blue feline eyes instantly dilated.
"Whoosh~"
With a sweeping Aard, he sent seven or eight ghouls flying.
"Vesemir!" Allen turned his head and shouted.
The Witcher master, at this point, was covered in foul-smelling blood. Dark red chunks of flesh slid down his leather armor, his hair matted together and flinging drops of gore as he moved. His blood-smeared face was almost unrecognizable, a mess of filth and savagery.
Allen knew he likely looked no better; after killing so many monsters, the stench of blood had numbed his sense of smell entirely.
"Allen?"
Vesemir used Aard to scatter the ghouls in front of him.
"She's here!" Allen said softly.
He saw Vesemir's bloodied face, and despite the grime, the bright, amber-colored cat eyes widened sharply.
Vesemir tilted his head to glance past the ghouls crawling out of a mess of mangled corpses, his gaze settling on the forest.
Within the woods, the alghoul, its massive, red eyes wide with confusion, peeked out from behind a tree. It seemed perplexed as to why these two witchers, who were already its prey, suddenly seemed revitalized.
Its grotesque face, in Vesemir's perception, appeared downright idiotic at that moment.
"What's the plan?" Vesemir asked.
"Follow me!"
Allen's sharp eyes darted around. Without waiting for Vesemir to react, he grabbed the older witcher by the back of his collar and sprinted toward the cliff edge in giant strides.
"Allen?"
"Allen?!"
"ALLEN!!!"
Vesemir's amber eyes contracted sharply, and an instinctive roar burst from his throat.
He could already guess what Allen intended.
But the looming precipice grew larger and larger before them, and the Ismena River, originating from the Mahakam Mountains and famed for its breadth, looked as narrow as a thread below.
The witcher instincts screaming warnings of imminent danger made his scalp tingle.
No!
How reliable could a griffin tamed less than two weeks ago really be? This was a near-thousand-meter drop, and the Quen Sign offered little protection against fall damage...
"AAAAHHHH!!!"
Thud!
Before the necrophages could react, amidst Vesemir's reluctant screams, Allen's right foot slammed onto the jagged edge of the cliff left by the Scurver's earlier collapse, and he leaped.
The grim, monotonous sky swallowed them whole.
"Roar! Roar! Roar!"
The roars of necrophages echoed behind them in a chaotic chorus.
The alghoul, realizing what had happened, led the ghouls and rotfiends in a mad dash toward the cliff.
Just as they leaned over the edge, peering down to follow their presumed prey—
"Screech!"
An enraged and mighty cry pierced the skies, followed by the descent of a massive shadow carrying a fearsome presence.
The howling wind swept over the cliffside, blowing dozens of necrophages down the precipice.
The remaining alghoul stumbled backward in fear. When it finally mustered the courage to look again—
"Screech!"
The royal griffin had already soared into the sky, disappearing into the heavy storm clouds.
-------------------------
[Necrophage Group: "Alghoul" Lv61, "Scurver" Lv73 Defeated!]
[Rewards Summary: Tactical Victory - Base Rating: D; Outleveled Kill Bonus +3 - C; Decapitating Threat Bonus +3 - B; Overcoming the Odds +3 - A]
[Final Rating: A]
[Rewards Obtained: Scurver Essence x1, Alghoul Essence x7, Ghoul Essence x32, Rotfiend Essence x33, XP Orbs x12, Scurver Chest x5, Alghoul Chest x5, Ghoul Chest x5, Rotfiend Chest x5]
[Ding! Monster Codex Entry: Scurver Activated]
[Ding! New Hunting Contract: Scurver (0/10 Killed) Activated. Accept?]
"Could we try something a little less reckless next time?" Vesemir, pale-faced, glared at Allen, his hands gripping the griffin's black feathers tightly.
He was an experienced Witcher master.
He had scaled the steepest peaks of the Northern Realms, including the infamous Dragon Mountains. But never had he free-fallen nearly a thousand meters without any protection.
"Next time, I promise!"
Allen subtly shook his head, quickly accepting the new hunting contract, and turned his face away from Vesemir's resentful glare. He summoned his Witcher journal with a thought.
[Hunting Contracts: Ghoul I (92/100), Rotfiend I (33/50), Alghoul I (8/10)]
"Whew…"
Looking at the nearly completed tally on his task board, Allen finally exhaled, relieved.
While hunting the necrophages earlier, he had been mindful of their numbers.
He had left the ghouls for Vesemir to kill, merely using Aard to scatter them, ensuring he didn't accidentally complete the contracts prematurely.
But who could've guessed that one flap from the griffin's massive wings would send several alghouls and ghouls flying to their deaths?
Unlike Vesemir, the griffin's kills were credited to Allen.
Damn it!
Thinking about it now still made his heart race.
This was hardly the time to summon a Conjunction of the Spheres.
If something familiar like a Drowner King appeared, that was manageable. But if it summoned something more dangerous, like a Scurver or Djinn, and he couldn't capitalize on its moment of disorientation, things could spiral disastrously out of control.
Seeing Allen's "apologetic" nod and promise, Vesemir nodded in reluctant satisfaction.
As he recovered from the adrenaline rush, Vesemir adjusted the dwarven bombs strapped to his back and gazed at the layered storm clouds behind them.
"Allen, are we just leaving like this?"
.....
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