Vizima Cemetery has a long history that can be traced back to the era of elven rule. Its location is excellent, linking the city's Temple Quarter and Trade Quarter.
Besides the scattered gravestones, the cemetery also held many hexagonal ruins—crumbling remnants that looked like they had once been small temples or chapels.
Before the sun set, the witcher apprentice followed the signs of ghoul activity deeper into the grounds. In the end, he reached an enormous underground crypt. Even standing at the entrance he couldn't make out what lay within, but the heavy darkness down there felt like some fiend's gaping maw, ready to swallow anything that stepped inside.
Deciding instantly, Victor followed his instincts and withdrew to the spot where he'd dealt with five ghouls last night, then reset his traps.
He lit a roaring campfire, knelt with his back straight and his hands resting on his thighs, and began to meditate.
Witcher master Vesemir once said that meditation could help a person see into themselves, spot what was missing, and even deepen their understanding and application of Signs.
Unfortunately, none of that had much to do with Victor for the moment. His "meditation" was meditation in name only—he couldn't even keep his mind on the flames in front of him. He was merely replaying everything that had happened today.
…
This morning's deal with Ramsmeat hadn't gone as smoothly as he'd expected—because the man either had no eye for value, or far too sharp an eye. He had no interest in scalp-follicle regrowth, no desire to fade scars, and he was still young and strong enough to know exactly what he didn't need: hair tonic, scar salve, or a virility brew.
What he needed most was healing potions.
Salamandra, that comet-like organization that had risen out of nowhere, seemed to have some kind of powerful backers behind it. New as they were, they weren't easy to handle.
And with the Catriona plague raging in the background, both Salamandra and the Rams were consciously keeping a certain restraint. They all knew this wasn't the time for full-scale street warfare.
But small brawls were unavoidable. In that sort of situation, healing potions had plenty of room to shine. Both sides had their own herbalists, sure—but ordinary herbs couldn't compare to alchemical products that worked fast and healed far more effectively.
The problem was that any alchemist worth their salt scoffed at getting dragged into gutter-level power struggles. Either they had the strength to protect themselves, or they lived under noble protection.
So when Ramsmeat heard Victor had a channel, he set the terms immediately: selling a small amount of contraband was fine, but as for healing potions—however many there were, he wanted them all, and he wouldn't hesitate to pay over the market price.
…
In the afternoon, Victor went to the Order to complain to a Rose Knight and successfully got his hands on two crossbows. He wouldn't have to return them, but the stocks had been specially marked to show ownership. Siegfried told him that if they were damaged or lost, he'd better report it as soon as possible—ranged weapons were tightly controlled in a big city.
After that, the boy played courier again and ran to a banker's residence. Mr. Golan Vivaldi wasn't happy about it, but he still opened the door and accepted the letter.
Yaevinn had said there was no need to wait for a reply, so Victor left as soon as he handed it over. The boy guessed the previous letter hadn't gone well, and this one probably carried the weight of a final warning.
Since that wild girl Angoulême was still nowhere to be seen, and Shani wasn't coming today either, the witcher apprentice simply ate early. Before dusk fully fell, he entered the cemetery to look for the source of the monsters.
While he was thinking, a familiar smell drifted in on the wind and snapped him out of his meditative trance. He'd only encountered the stench for the first time yesterday, yet because it was so foul, so nauseating, it had branded itself into his memory.
The direction the monster howls came from was the underground crypt—so his earlier assessment had been right. This new batch of gluttons likely used to feed on the graves outside the Swamp Village, but with food scarce lately, they'd somehow found their way through the sewers into the city.
In other words, the closer he got to that crypt,
the higher the chance he'd become the main course at their little fireside feast.
Victor rose to his feet. His silver sword was already coated with necrophage oil. He didn't drink any potions—he simply planted himself in the middle of more than a dozen bear traps laid in a ring around the campfire. That absolute terrain advantage filled him with the confidence that he couldn't lose.
As their thick reek went from a faint hint to a visible haze, the ghouls also "got a good look" and decided he was the tasty kind of human. If they'd been backwoods louts from rural Temeria, this was the moment they'd probably crow, "Well I'll be—aren't you a treat? Smellin' downright delicious!"
…
At the same time…
"Victor! Run!!" Ciri jolted awake from her dream drenched in sweat. She'd dreamed that Victor—the boy she cared for like family—was trapped in an icy, desolate graveyard, surrounded by six ghouls.
The scene she'd seen was blurry, and Victor looked very different—most noticeably, he was much taller—but she still recognized that plain, familiar face. That was him, the one she treasured most, and he was in danger.
She grabbed the towel by the bed and wiped off her cold sweat. She knew her brief respite was over. Even though, with a unicorn's help, she'd managed to bring Geralt and Yennefer back after they'd once died, and she'd escaped into this world, the Wild Hunt hadn't stopped. They were still searching for her.
She hopped off the bed, pulled her leather armor back on, and stepped out of the room.
It was the year 2077—some neon-soaked, near-future cyberpunk world. In the living room, a bearded middle-aged man who looked like Keanu Reeves was sitting on the couch watching TV. He had the kind of face that made countless girls swoon and made gamers scream, "Shut up and take my money—release it already!"
"You're leaving?" he asked, lifting his left hand—an entirely metal cybernetic arm—to rub his beard.
Ciri slung Zireael—her sword—across her back. "It's the boy I care about. He might be in danger. I don't know what's happening to him, but my journey has to begin again."
Keanu Reeves smiled kindly. "Brave girl. I hope this time you manage to break through to the right place. And if you ever get the chance, you're welcome to drop by again."
"I will. Thanks, mister."
…
Victor suddenly felt a chill, like someone had been watching him for a split second—yet the sensation vanished as quickly as it came.
He lifted his silver sword and brought it down in a straight plunge. The last ghoul, caught in a trap and howling, was pierced through the skull, the blade driving deep and granting the cruel creature its release.
"Completely silent… killing monsters doesn't trigger that strange sound," Victor thought.
He pulled his sword free and swept his gaze around. He cut off the ghouls' ears as proof for the bounty, then dragged the remains into a rough pile, doused them with oil, and set them alight.
He returned to the campfire, knelt again, and took a deep breath. Victor reached into his herb pouch and felt its size with his mind. "It really has expanded a lot… proof that my will is getting stronger. If it used to be one meter by one meter by one meter—one cubic meter of strength—then now it's one and a half by one and a half by one and a half… 3.375 cubic meters of boldness. I'll be able to fit more things in it from now on."
When the flames died down, he cleaned up the scene in a hurry. Next, he still had to report to the Eager Thighs before curfew.
This morning, after Griffarin pointed it out, Victor was startled to realize he hadn't even noticed the faint corpse-stink clinging to him—and that kind of getting used to it was absolutely unacceptable.
Even if he was going to be a witcher, he expected himself to be a witcher of a new age. Not the sort who wallowed in piles of bodies, reeking to high heaven, with a tangled scruff beard and hair you could comb lice out of; but the sort who bathed every day, kept himself neat and clean, with hair and beard deliberately styled—an elegant, gentlemanly monster hunter.
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