Chapter 3: Turtle Stone
Lan needed to determine whether this magical mist was toxic or otherwise harmful. If only the biological computer he had salvaged from his journey through the void still had any processing power left, he could have simply touched it with a finger to assess how the mist would affect him. Unfortunately, the computational power of his brain cells had been repurposed. Thus, the advanced intelligence from a high-tech world could only serve him in this limited capacity.
A sharp, acrid scent filled his nostrils, quickly becoming something his witcher body could adapt to. Lan nodded subtly; this toxin could corrode the lungs of an ordinary person within five minutes. But for a witcher, it would only cause discomfort and wouldn't inflict damage for at least half an hour.
It wouldn't affect his ability to fight.
He carefully stepped into the mist with his thin leather boots. With a soft "swish," Lan continued to advance, drawing the steel sword from his back.
The wooden grip, iron-gray crossguard, and blade of the sword were all typical of Velen—a symbol of cheap, inferior quality. While it lacked the effectiveness of silver against monsters, it would still be effective against corporeal foes.
From what Lan understood, this task had been commissioned by an elder from a nearby village. According to him, a type of delicious mushroom grew exclusively in this valley, the only thing the village could sell for a decent price to merchants in the capital of this region—Gors Velen.
However, a year ago, this mist had suddenly appeared, and those who went to harvest never returned. Now, the village didn't even possess a single intact iron tool for farming. Because they had no money.
After the witcher duo arrived, the villagers pooled their last remaining funds—fifty-three orens—to hire these two despised and filthy "mutants" to rid them of the "evil mist in the valley." When the village elder tossed the advance payment at them, his expression was one of disgust and fear, as if he were forced to interact with two lepers.
This constantly reminded Lan, with his modern sensibilities, that even after parting from his "teacher," his situation was far from favorable.
Yet, some matters took precedence over others; the difficulties of the future could wait. The immediate danger had to be faced now.
Lan's amber cat eyes prickled slightly in the toxic mist. But he didn't blink, refusing to moisten his eyes. The enhanced senses brought about by his mutation began to activate.
This biological enhancement, achieved through pathogens, potions, and magical energies, significantly amplified and altered human senses. It enabled witchers to fulfill the missions for which they were designed by mages—hunting monsters single-handedly.
The thin leather boots made a soft scraping sound against the ground, producing a noise as delicate as that of a mosquito.
"There's no heavy breathing here, not even the strong heartbeat of a monster. It's very quiet." In Lan's ears, only the sounds of his own footsteps and those of Bordon behind him could be heard.
Bordon's footsteps and heartbeat were even lighter than his own. It was hard to believe that a nearly two-meter-tall muscular giant clad in heavy armor could move so silently. The man possessed terrifying control over his body and exceptional physical abilities.
Lan could even picture the exaggerated scenes from movies where someone effortlessly lifted an adult by the neck and snapped their spine with one hand. His witcher "teacher" could genuinely do that!
As Lan continued to probe forward, both his tactile and auditory senses detected something abnormal. His cat-like pupils adjusted to focus.
"Something is trembling beneath the ground. Is it digging?" Soil and stones were being disturbed; something was moving below the surface. This wasn't a foglet!
Without a moment's thought, Lan instinctively arched his back like a startled cat, then quickly straightened. Like a coiled spring, he leaped a meter away.
With a loud "crack," a gnarly claw burst from the earth below. Moments later, the entire creature clawed its way out from beneath the ground.
It had a humanoid shape but was somewhat shorter, roughly the height of a dwarf, reaching just to the belly of a normal human. Its grayish-white skin was bare, and its mouth, stained with blood, twisted into a grotesque grin, layers of flabby skin obscuring its neck in a slick and repulsive mass.
Lan's grip on the sword tightened and relaxed repeatedly as he confirmed his grip.
This was a ghoul, a scavenger like the foglet, weaker in direct combat but with a crucial distinction:
—they were completely social creatures.
There was a saying on this continent: "If monsters are truly weak, they find joy in being in a pack."
"Ugh!" A cacophony of shrieks echoed from within the mist.
Lan's heart sank; his "teacher" had misidentified the type of monster, likely out of convenience.
He squinted, glancing back at Bordon, who, despite the swirling fog, showed no immediate intention of advancing.
Lan understood his thought process. While it was unlikely for foglets and ghouls to coexist, why not have the "tool" take the front line first for confirmation?
Caution and prudence were never excessive. The imposing figure stood back, coldly observing the standoff between the monster and the witcher.
In an unfortunate stroke of luck, Lan had never fully entrusted his life to Bordon's preparations.
"Seventeen ghouls, I can only use Quen and swordsmanship."
Lan surveyed the surroundings, mentally calculating his options. Quen and swordsmanship were the primary subjects in the curriculum laid out by his "teacher."
Seventeen ghouls were enough to decimate a village in sparsely populated Velen. Considering the elderly, children, and women, most villages had only twenty to thirty inhabitants.
Facing a foe of this magnitude, Lan had only been a witcher for about a month, and he had been wielding a sword and studying signs for barely three weeks.
Yet his face remained as cold as ice.
"Hmm, I can hold my own!"
In just three weeks, a well-nourished human, even if mechanically chopping wood, would need to focus on the correct and efficient movements for at least a week to master it. And that was just for achieving the correct technique, not guaranteeing every chop would hit the mark.
When it came to the variables of movement posture, terrain differences, and physical disparities in combat, reaching a basic level of proficiency in swordsmanship could take a year or two. Now, a young man who had only been wielding a sword for three weeks understood his capabilities.
Lan completed his assessment of the enemy's and his own strengths, while the monsters, sensing fresh meat at their door, lost their final vestiges of calm.
It was unclear which ghoul struck first, but the battle had begun.
***
The four soldiers clad in standard Temerian armor were now drawing closer to the valley shrouded in magical mist. They spat, laughed, cursed, and exchanged vulgar jokes from their mounts.
Yet, beneath their smiles lurked a cold indifference. It was the indifference of soldiers who disregarded human life and combat.
Among the four was a crossbowman, an archer, a halberd soldier, and a sword-and-shield soldier. The sword-and-shield soldier was the leader of this enforcement team. The shield on his back appeared quite new, emblazoned with the white lily emblem of Temeria on a blue background.
The crossbowman had just finished telling a joke about a prostitute and a werewolf, and their raucous laughter echoed for some time before dying down.
Afterward, he turned to his captain, a hint of hesitation on his face.
"Captain," he began, "we won't… won't fall prey to that mutant, will we?"
Before the captain could respond, the halberd soldier spat.
"Come on, you're not scared, are you? We have four capable hands here. I guarantee that as soon as that mutant shows its face, your arrows will strike true, and I won't need to lift a finger. You're armed with a crossbow, a fine one at that! Who can dodge a crossbow bolt?" The halberd soldier swaggered, his demeanor relaxed.
"But…" The crossbowman's uncertainty lingered. "I've heard people say those monsters can… can use magic!"
At the mention of "magic," the atmosphere suddenly grew tense, even the most carefree halberd soldier shivering slightly. It seemed as if they had touched something filthy.
"Don't worry." The captain raised a pendant in his hand. It was a stone carved into the shape of a Turtle.
"Lord Visserad instructed me; I brought the Turtle stone. Those filthy, dark magics cannot approach us."
The soldiers were well aware that common folk also spread tales claiming that the Turtle stone could counter magic. How could that possibly be wrong?
With this reassurance, the group relaxed once more, and even the crossbowman wore a broad smile. Before long, they followed the narrow path through the trees and arrived at the entrance of the valley.