Long ago, there was a heretical sorcerer named Cosimo Malaspina who, in the underground laboratory beneath Kaer Morhen, blended an elixir that could trigger mutations.
After Cosimo, his student Alzur—an immensely powerful mage renowned throughout history—continued refining the formula. Using magic to control the progression of each mutation stage, he successfully produced witchers in great numbers.
But at some point after Alzur, the lineage broke. Magical knowledge and power vanished with it. Even though witchers still had herbs and the Trial of the Grasses, even though they still had laboratories and knew the potion recipes, they no longer had mages who understood how to control the mutation process.
And so, from that day on, the Trial of the Grasses' mortality rate remained terrifyingly high.
Until now—until those dust-covered bottles and jars, those alembics and furnaces in the laboratory… found new life in the hands of their new owner: Victor.
Fifteen days after the first snow — a snowy night
"See? This bowl here is the beggar-tick mushrooms we ground up yesterday. After you add bear fat and formic acid and let it ferment overnight, it turns into this. Now we mash the endrega embryos into a paste, pour them into the fresh batch of beggar-tick mushrooms we just took out and mix it evenly, then—while it's still hot—scald it with boiling dwarven spirit. After that, strain the juice out, then chill it for one minute."
"Beautiful, isn't it!" Victor lifted the crystal-clear, bright green Thunderbolt after it had been chilled, and offered it to Lambert, who'd been waiting at the side. He deliberately lowered his voice and said, "Drink up, witcher. It's your destiny." Even if nobody understood, that didn't stop him from cracking the joke and enjoying it.
Ignoring Victor's strange intonation, Lambert had gradually developed an immunity over the past few days to that odd sense of humor from somewhere east of Zerrikania.
He downed the so-called Thunderbolt potion made with the "improved process" in a single gulp. His face turned ashen, his pupils dilated and webbed with bloodshot veins, his breathing went shallow, his heartbeat accelerated—adrenaline surging hard enough to flood his entire body with strength.
Feeling the potion's feedback coursing through him, he pumped his fist in excitement. "Damn it! I know I said it yesterday, but I'm saying it again today—by Melitele, you little bastard, you're a damn genius! No wonder the old man handed you the whole lab."
Victor only smiled. Once you got used to it, Lambert's foul mouth had a certain punch to it. Honestly, aside from the bad temper, the sharp tongue, the know-it-all attitude, and the constant bickering, he was pretty easy to get along with—at least Victor didn't find him difficult.
"The toxicity's down by about a quarter, and the effect didn't drop at all. Vic—this stuff is incredible. Think you could make a few more bottles for old Lambert?"
"Of course. But along with the Blizzard potion from yesterday, I'm going to need a tiny bit of help—some fresh materials… You understand, right?"
"Oh! Mr. Victor, you know me. Even if it's freezing outside, old Lambert is always delighted to be of service." As he said it, he exaggeratedly bent at the waist in a butler's bow to a noble.
Victor didn't stand on ceremony either. Like a highborn lord, he deliberately used the tips of two fingers to pinch a note and pass it over. "Here. This is the list of materials I need. I'm counting on you, Butler Lambert."
Truth be told, there's such a thing as fate between people. It makes some strangers feel like old friends the moment they meet, while others can know each other for years and still remain strangers. Over the past half month, it had become clear that Victor's bond with the two witchers who'd returned home ran deep.
Yawning, Victor stood up. "Alright. Time to head back and sleep."
"Hey! It's still early! You're not going to whip up something else and let me see another miracle?" The potion's effects clearly had Lambert buzzing with extra energy.
Victor extinguished the flame and rinsed the residue from the filter screen. "Nope. I need at least six hours of sleep every day. At my age, I'm supposed to get a full eight. Go find Eskel and bother him instead."
Being turned down put Lambert in a sour mood, and he couldn't help letting his poison tongue loose. "Fine, fine. Go sleep, you brat who drinks milk every day!"
It did nothing to Victor. "I drink milk and I'm proud of it.
Warm milk helps me sleep better, grow taller, and keep my hair thicker."
The key words made Lambert freeze for a second—then he realized he'd been mocked, but Victor was already far down the hall.
"Shit… does milk really work? Hey! Herb master—besides drinking milk, got any other good advice?"
"How about adding half an hour of stretching before bed."
…
With just two more people, Kaer Morhen felt far more alive. While Victor and Lambert traded barbs in the alchemy lab, Eskel and Vesemir sat by the fire in the main hall, chatting.
"Victor, from Bell Town somewhere east of Zerrikania, really is a remarkable boy. I can understand why you dared to let him hunt alone. Aside from the fact his body hasn't fully grown, his ability to handle himself is completely on par with an adult."
After using the poker to adjust the logs in the hearth, Eskel sank back into his lounge chair, took a drink of Mahakaman mead, and let out a satisfied belch. "And just his skill at making furniture is something else."
Vesemir didn't respond. He had no way to explain that the lounge chair had been "cooked" out of the big cauldron in the back courtyard a few months earlier—watching Victor toss in a pile of wood scraps, rotten timber, dead weeds, stir it up, and somehow turn decay into a miracle by producing a beechwood lounge chair.
That scene had genuinely made him think: live long enough, and you'll see anything.
After that, Victor had clearly been lying in wait. Once he started, he couldn't stop—pushing a full replacement of the old furniture, and in just a few days, dragging the castle's living standards from "peasant" to "comfortably middle-class."
Life afterward was undeniably more comfortable, but furniture that belonged in an upper-middle estate showing up here needed an explanation. So before winter, the two of them agreed to use "Victor the woodworking expert" as the story.
They even fabricated his hometown—Bell Town, supposedly east of Zerrikania. After Ciri brought him here, it conveniently lined up with a custom that young people must spend several years away from home gaining experience, so there was no rush to return.
After all, in this era, even someone from Zerrikania was rare—going farther east than that was essentially impossible to verify.
Hearing Victor and Lambert bickering faintly upstairs, then the sound of a door closing, Eskel smiled. "He's a likable kid. Gifted, talented, and a fine temperament—top notch across the board. Still, it's hard for me to imagine why you placed your trust in him so quickly."
Vesemir took out a pipe, packed it with tobacco, and lit it, smoking leisurely. "Heh. It's really only for two reasons. You already know the first—Ciri.
If you could've seen her face when she entrusted Victor to me, Geralt might've wanted to draw his sword and hack Victor apart, and Lambert would laugh at Ciri for ages. They've only lived together for half a year, but I'd wager Ciri would be willing to live with Victor until the end of the world."
Eskel raised an eyebrow. "Love? He's how old?"
"When she brought him here, it was probably just seeing him as a younger brother. But after being apart… who knows. Time catalyzes a lot of things into different shapes. For example, Victor's height half a year ago and his height now aren't even close."
Outside the window, the snowfall grew heavier. You could faintly hear the cold wind howling, but with the newly replaced window frames and mullions standing guard, the hall—once drafty on all sides—felt warm as spring this year.
"And the second reason?"
Vesemir chuckled. "That goes back to our very first day together. After reading the introduction about us on the bookshelf, he said he respected us… respected our struggle against monsters."
Eskel's hand paused mid-lift with his cup.
Vesemir continued, "Even though he refused to become a formal apprentice, when he spoke of respect, I could feel it was sincere."
The fire crackled. Eskel took a sip of his drink, then wiped his mouth.
The fire crackled. Vesemir narrowed his eyes and exhaled a ring of smoke.
"Winter will pass soon. What about next spring? Master—will you stay here and keep training him?"
"No. He hasn't said it yet, but I have a feeling… next spring, he'll be leaving this place."