By the time dusk fell, the dwarf had already returned to his workshop, yet the lessons between the witchers continued uninterrupted. The witcher didn't mind occupying the room that originally belonged to its previous owner; such trivial matters meant little to him.
With a casual gesture, he placed a barrier around the area—one that prevented anyone from entering and ensured that no sound would escape the room.
"Us witchers usually complete our missions alone," said Gonz, the witcher, his deep voice calm but steady. "Many of our assignments take years—sometimes decades—to finish. Some of us spend countless years hunting a single fallen cult leader, gathering intelligence and preparing meticulously, striking only when the chance of success is absolute—making sure that the one hunted is killed."
He paused, glancing at his apprentice. "And then there are others," he continued coldly, "who drown every person tainted by Chaos in the blood of Chaos worshippers."
"We are not assassins," Gonz went on, lowering his gaze as if recalling old memories. "Though we also kill from the shadows, we usually prefer to let our enemies die in fear—one after another—until the last one's blood spills dry. No mercy. No forgiveness. Extermination is our way, our creed."
His tone grew darker. "My teacher, Master Sheev Palpatine, once led me, still a young apprentice back then, into a Chaos-occupied territory. For sixteen months straight, we waged a relentless campaign against a newly converted Chaos warband. Day or night, through every season, whenever the opportunity arose—he would strike, taking the lives of a few heretic each time."
"In less than six months, that warband collapsed. During the following ten months, my teacher and I hunted down the survivors one by one, dragging them from their hiding holes and hanging their corpses back at their camp. When we found the last man, he had already gone mad from terror. As he screamed his confessions, I nailed him to the gate of their fortress—a warning to all those who worship Chaos."
His voice was low and rough, filled with the chill of old blood and vengeance.
"I tell you this so you understand," Gonz continued, looking straight into his apprentice's eyes. "We are neither warriors nor assassins. We are guardians—keepers who ensure that the world does not fall into Chaos. If we cannot stop people from worshipping it, then we will make them fear it. Anyone who serves Chaos will pay the price when we come for them."
"For thousands of years, Witchers and Chaos—along with its worshippers—have slaughtered each other without pause. Most extraordinary organizations have signed what we call the Flamebearers Pact."
"The Flamebearers Pact?" Aldric asked promptly, trying to look like an attentive student.
"The Flamebearers Pact," Gonz explained, "is an alliance formed among transcendents to defend against the corruption of Chaos. Ever since the first Chaos Gate was opened within the Osman Empire, it took only three months for that once-mighty empire to fall. That was when the world first realized how fast and devastating Chaos truly was."
"Later, people discovered that any mortal who learned too much about Chaos would inevitably become corrupted. The more one understood it, the more one's thoughts decayed, until they eventually turned into worshipping Chaos themselves. In fact, the first cultists to appear outside the Osman Empire were those same scholars and novice mages who assisted the mages in studying how to open the Chaos Gate."
He looked meaningfully at his student. "Those people became the first carriers of Chaos. Some of them still live to this day. That is why the most important clause of the Flamebearers Pact is this: all knowledge regarding Chaos must be sealed away. Mortals are forbidden from learning anything about it. Only the lords who are transcendents themselves know of this pact; others may have only vague awareness."
Gonz turned his catlike eyes toward the follower Terry beside them. In the darkness, the witcher's vertical pupils gleamed with a sickly green light. "Young one, if you don't wish for me to come for you one day, you'd better advance into a transcendent soon."
Terry, who had been stiff with fear for quite some time, went rigid at those words—and promptly toppled off his chair.
"For now, that's enough history about witchers," Gonz said. "After dinner, I'll teach you some of the combat techniques passed down by generations of witchers." He intended to pass on as much knowledge as possible before he left.
After the lesson, Aldric spent quite some effort calming Terry down. Only after promising that he would help the follower become a transcendent as soon as possible did the terrified young man finally relax. Sometimes, Aldric really didn't know what to do about his teacher's dark sense of humor.
Of course, Gonz hadn't been entirely joking. If Terry failed to become a transcendent, the witcher likely would "clean house." Still, given Terry's talents and attributes, it would be a tremendous waste if he couldn't become a spellcaster. Aldric decided to prioritize this issue soon.
But for now, he had no time to dwell on it. After having dinner in the dwarf's workshop, Gonz led his apprentice back to the sealed room to resume his one-on-one lessons.
This time, however, the lessons were of a more practical nature, so Terry wasn't allowed to stay. Being a mere mortal who hadn't yet advanced, the content would be useless to him anyway. Relieved, Terry slipped out under the witcher's cold gaze.
Gonz silently pushed the furniture—tables, chairs, everything—to one side, clearing a wide space in the middle of the room. Aldric followed suit, quietly helping clean the cleared floor.
Then, the witcher took two sealed glass vials from his coat and handed one to Aldric. "The first thing I'll teach you," he said, "is meditation."
Aldric stared at the vial in his hand. Inside was a deep emerald liquid, clear and radiant like a gemstone—it was the first witcher potion he had seen that didn't look poisonous.
"You come from the ancient Kingdom of Cerys," Gonz said, pulling out the cork from his own vial and gesturing for his student to drink. "That should help you understand this better. Witcher meditation is very different from that of spellcasters—it's closer to the meditative practices of monks, more popular in the East."
Gonz downed his potion in a single gulp, and Aldric followed suit. The taste was faintly bitter but surprisingly tolerable—much better than he expected.
"The witcher's body undergoes mutation," Gonz began explaining. "A thousand years ago, countless mages, sorcerers, and the first generation of witchers paid an immense price to stabilize this mutation, turning it into a controlled form of evolution. Though still dangerous, the process became predictable—almost like a non-inheritable bloodline."
As Gonz's low voice echoed in his ears, Aldric suddenly felt his heart pounding faster. A piercing hum filled his head, his muscles tensed, and he could feel the vibration of blood coursing through his veins. The sudden transformation made him panic slightly. As a martial artist, he had never lost control of his own body—not even in the game world.
(End of Chapter)