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The Witcher Library Edition

Fiendhunter

When the port of Franik chokes on briny fog thick with the reek of decay, a witcher pierced through the heart by a pitchfork opens eyes that no longer belong to him—Bai Lang, a 21st-century zoologist, now inhabits this scarred body. Hired by a tavern keeper for three silver coins to dredge up a drowned earl’s bastard, he finds a spoon stamped with royal wax in the corpse’s bloated stomach. As fishing nets haul up indigo cloth fragments from the New World, the gallows creaks under the weight of its seventh “witch,” her charred ankles swaying above the harbor. Twelve letters bearing disparate noble crests steer Bai Lang toward a fractured silver sword’s trail: a sarcophagus in a monastery crypt weeps with a banshee’s lament, a cyclops’ birthmark glows upon a fishergirl’s collarbone in rhythm with the tides, and Crusader curses fester as sentient barnacles devouring sailors in a merchant ship’s belly. Yet the deadliest snare lies in the crown prince’s chambers—a unicorn tapestry woven from twelve bastards’ umbilical cords, every thread stitched with the witchers’ vanishing truth. Shrouded sails pierce the North Sea’s fury as the fabled Isle of Witchers emerges from mythic fog. When pyres of burning witches stain the horizon and the Pope’s dagger presses against a laboring mother’s fevered throat, Bai Lang clutches the final shard of silver and understands: the plague ravaging the Old World is no act of God, but a funeral orchestrated by New World capitalists and Old World theocrats. The last witcher’s blade, once plunged into monstrous hearts, must now carve an epitaph for the devils mankind has birthed—and bury an era in its silver grave.
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