The beautiful capital of Temeria lies on Lake Vizima. Leave through the southern gate and you'll find the ferry landing—boats here can take you across to the swamp forest on the far shore. There used to be only a tiny village over there, scraping by on whatever fish and game it could sell.
But ever since a commercial logging zone was established in the swamp forest, scheduled boats have been making regular round trips across the lake every day. And thanks to that, those once-ignorable bloodthirsty plants now needed to be cleared out.
After two days of meticulous preparation, this afternoon the Phantom Troupe headed into the forest to eliminate the Archespores—not only to protect the loggers' lives, but also for the rare materials that could be harvested from the creatures.
And, incidentally, for a bounty of four hundred orens.
Sitting braced near the bow, the alchemy apprentice counted on his fingers, quietly calculating the expected haul. "Archespore sap… archespore tendrils… I need to gather a lot of both. After I set aside Kalkstein's share, I still want enough left to test potency myself…"
It made him look distracted, miles away in his own head. So as the boat was about to dock, Angoulême had to lean close and remind him at his ear, "Boss, we're about to land…"
Blinking himself awake, Victor raised both hands and stretched lazily. "Mm. Then we do what we agreed—once we're ashore, we sprint into the forest and let them chase us. I'm really curious why Ramsmeat's men are tailing us with such obvious malice."
That afternoon, the two of them hadn't gotten far from home before Angoulême first noticed they were being followed—then Victor noticed too… and he could even tell there were seven of them. Not because he was some unmatched tracker, but because their stalking was painfully amateur—more like they didn't understand what hiding even meant.
It was summer. All seven wore the same getup: dusty wide-legged trousers with wrapped calves, a red sash cinched tight around the waist, and a belt with copper buckles—basically a local thug "uniform." From a distance, the only difference between them was how much chest hair showed under their open short jackets.
And when a bunch of "fantasy-medieval bandit stereotypes" are trailing you with knives and axes—no matter how far back they keep—staying relaxed becomes pretty difficult.
As Angoulême put it, their hostility was so blatant she could feel it on the back of her neck.
Victor had his own indicator—his amulet was burning hot against his chest. He didn't know how the mages of Ban Ard managed it, but as long as you were stared at with sustained ill intent, this "mischief-warding amulet" would heat up.
They'd been followed from the Temple Quarter all the way onto the boat, and now they were about to dock. Victor could hardly wait to find out why they'd come.
He desperately hoped it wasn't the reason he suspected.
But it was the most likely answer.
…
"Stop! Don't let him get away!"
"You little bastard, you think you can run after skipping out on your debts?!"
"Ramsmeat's business! Out of the way—move!"
That afternoon, as the boat docked at the Murky Waters landing, a small commotion broke out. Seven of Ramsmeat's men chased two people—without entering the village at all—straight into the forest.
Ramsmeat's reputation wasn't the absolute worst, but it was still nowhere near "normal," which meant the people he was chasing were probably not the bad guys—and the excuse being shouted didn't need to be taken seriously.
To those who witnessed it on the pier, it was just another everyday bit of gossip to chew on. They upheld the local tradition with admirable consistency: help neither side, and watch with cold eyes.
…
To emphasize yet again: that ancient sport known as cross-country obstacle running tests more than technique—it tests endurance. Ten-plus minutes of all-out sprinting through rough woodland is enough to break anyone whose stamina isn't up to it.
So when the seven finally caught up to their targets in a clearing, even the thickest among them could tell something was wrong…
Compared to their own panting exhaustion and sweaty disarray, the mercenary-dressed girl still looked like she had plenty left in the tank.
And the boy—their primary target—looked downright relaxed. Arms crossed, he stared at them. Four pale, faded knife scars were clearly visible on his face.
He spoke calmly. "Sorry to trouble you, friends of Ramsmeat. Could you tell me why you're chasing us? I don't recall ever having any dispute with Mr. Ramsmeat."
At that, several of the men exchanged looks. They all felt this pair was a bit strange—but Victor's young, ordinary face misled them. A few signals passed between them.
Then the leader stepped forward: a bowl-cut with a black tattoo covering half his face. He shouted, "You're Victor Corion, aren't you?! Don't bother denying it—Griffarin, the owner of the Hairy Bear, already told us your name! You owe money and won't pay, you stole valuables, and you even beat women. Now it's time you pay the price!"
"Pff—hahaha!" Before Victor could respond, Angoulême burst out laughing. She pulled a face at him, eyebrows dancing. "Wow… I really didn't expect you to have done all those big things, Boss. Truly. Who would've guessed?"
Victor drew in a breath, tamping down a thin flare of irritation. He didn't bother with her. While the thugs quietly spread out and tightened their encirclement, recovering their breath as they moved, he continued speaking.
"So you're here to 'uphold justice'?" Victor asked. "And you're not going to verify whether I actually did any of that?"
The wind hissed through the clearing. Grass rustled with a soft, constant shiver. Strangely, there were no birdsong or insect sounds anywhere nearby.
No one noticed the wrongness of the silence. They only noticed their circle was nearly complete. The bowl-cut leader couldn't be bothered talking anymore. He yanked out his axe and roared, "Now! Kill them!"
Facing the sight of his fellow humans refusing dialogue and raising blades and axes with eager intent, Victor decided there was nothing left to say. He lifted his right hand and shouted, "Spar dh'oinne!" (Shoot the humans!)
This was the third time Victor had heard that sound—"hiss… hiss-hiss…"—as a rain of arrows swept in. Bathed in the volley, every one of them was instantly skewered by several shafts.
Then Victor raised his right hand again. "Caelm, evellienn!" (Stop, everyone!)
He looked over the butchered scene. None of the seven would survive.
Victor walked over and crouched beside the leader, who still had a breath left. He met the man's eyes and spoke seriously. "Last chance. Tell me—who sent you to kill me? That person deliberately sent you here to die. You should understand by now: they never expected you to succeed. Don't you want revenge on the one who used you?"
The bowl-cut's face was slick with blood. An arrow through his chest made gore bubble up in his throat. He gathered what little strength remained and tried to spit blood into Victor's face—Victor dodged, and it splashed across his boot instead.
The man's final words came out broken and vicious. "You damned son of a b*tch… you're working with the Scoia'tael… you traitor to humanity, you—"
An arrow punched straight through his temple, cutting off the rest of his prepared torrent of filth.
The elven scout Victor had met days ago lowered his bow and gave Victor a slight, respectful dip of the head.
The witcher apprentice stood and returned the nod.
Fine… one advantage of having few enemies is you don't have to worry about blaming the wrong one. Even without the bowl-cut saying it, Victor could already guess: Falwick's hired swords had arrived.
First they used local muscle to find him. Then they bought a few thugs and pushed them into taking a swing at him. If it worked, great. If it failed, then Victor still ended up entangled with Ramsmeat.
And all the while… he still knew nothing about the real people behind it.