Everyone knows that even a not-so-great-looking celebrity will suddenly get called handsome if he puts on a long coat, wears dark glasses, and has a solid, muscular build.
And after a few months of letting his hair grow, on top of his existing side-part, Victor even tied it back into a ponytail.
Dressed like this, the young man had absolute confidence: in Lindenvale, he was the best-looking man in the whole village.
Using the secret "O" technique on crafty, sharp-eyed peasants always landed double critical hits, so it didn't take long before he, too, arrived at Fergus's smithy.
He swung down from his scrawny horse. His spurs whirred. His boot heels clicked sharply against the ground. A top-tier heartthrob, five hundred years ahead of his time, made his dazzling entrance.
Victor's change in appearance came from the realization he'd reached ten days earlier during meditation: since he already wore the identity of an outsider, then he might as well live like one. "When in Rome" was strictly optional.
So he started with the outside—making changes that kept his body comfortable and his mood bright. Like this "Van Helsing" outfit. It had no defensive value, but during the ride here he hadn't met a single man more striking than himself.
He strolled step by step to a spot a short distance behind Angoulême's side—close enough to hear her conversation with Fergus—and stopped.
Her instincts could sense danger, but they were completely useless against Victor. And Catherine, cooing by the window, certainly wasn't going to warn her.
Angoulême was speaking seriously, laying out her demands. "The armor I need forged has to be high quality. Light, durable, and it can't restrict movement. And I must be able to put it on by myself."
"Ha! Is that all? Want it to clean itself too? Or wipe your ass after you take a shit?" Master Fergus snapped back through his swollen drinker's nose, thoroughly unimpressed.
Angoulême's eyes went wide in genuine surprise. "It can do that!? You can make that for me?"
"Are you an idiot? Of course not."
"Then comfortable, sturdy, and light will do."
Fergus thumped his own shoulder with grave sincerity. "Listen, girl—armor follows a basic rule. If it's sturdy, it can't be light."
"What kind of nonsense is that? If your skills aren't good enough, just say so! The Mahakam craftsmen I met in Vergen all said it's no problem." Angoulême shot back instantly, refusing to yield.
Fergus reacted like someone had stepped on his foot. "What the hell do you know about armor? You can't even use a sword properly, you—uh!"
He wisely stopped.
Angoulême's Mahakam blade slid free with a hiss, the tip pressing against Fergus's throat. "You know what? I'm saving you. I've met too many dwarves just like you, so I know what comes next—a long string of filth.
Like calling me some slut with two ** sticking out, or asking why I don't just open my ** and earn some coin before I come back here.
And you should know my temper isn't exactly great. So to avoid chopping your head off, I'm telling you to shut up ahead of time. Understood?"
Victor rubbed his nose. So that was how fierce Angoulême was when he wasn't watching. He didn't believe whatever Fergus had been about to say would be even half as brutal as what the girl had already said herself.
"Uh… understood."
"Light and sturdy armor does exist," the assistant at the anvil suddenly cut in. "You just need the right tools—like the ones the Clan Tordarroch family uses on Undvik."
"Yoana! I keep telling you not to butt in when I'm talking to customers!" Fergus barked, sweating hard despite the cool autumn air and the cold swordpoint at his throat. "Stop bothering people with those Skellige fairy tales and—"
Victor felt a strong sense of déjà vu. Folding his arms, he looked Yoana up and down.
Was Angoulême some kind of chosen one? Just like the moment the hawk had bonded—why did ridiculously low-odds events always happen around her?
Yoana planted her hands on her hips and answered seriously. "It's not a fairy tale, and it's not nonsense. My grandfather used to go to Undvik whenever he forged armor. He said the Clan Tordarroch people made the best armor there is."
"Is it really that incredible?" Angoulême asked, intrigued. "Sounds like it's worth trying. If I find those tools, will you forge armor for me?"
Fergus hurried to cut in. "O-of course! But you need to bring the tools first, and… could you move the swordpoint away?"
Slash—Angoulême sheathed her blade. "That Clan Tordarroch family. Where do they live?"
"In a cave in the north of Undvik," Yoana answered. "The family carved the cave out of the rock themselves."
By now, Victor was completely certain. Angoulême had triggered the must-do master armorer quest.
It was a memorable chain: the dwarf was all show, and the true master was this woman. He'd forgotten her name because she wasn't pretty enough to stick in his memory, but it was definitely her.
"What's this lady's name?" A familiar voice suddenly came from behind.
Angoulême turned and saw Victor, her face instantly twisting into surprise and delight at once.
At first glance, his all-black outfit could make someone mistake him for a Nilfgaardian—what northerners often called the "blackcloaks." The term came from the southern empire's devotion to the sun and its love of black; from clothing to armor, the most prestigious style was black trimmed in gold, stamped with a golden sun.
But a closer look made it obvious he wasn't Nilfgaardian at all. There was no sun emblem. The silver buttons and the moon-pattern necklace were far flashier, closer in spirit to Redanian taste.
Yoana replied without hesitation, open and steady. "Yoana. My name is Yoana."
"Excellent. Then, Lady Yoana, here's the situation." The stranger spread his long coat and casually swept his hair back. "I'm Victor Corion, from Bell Town, far to the east of Zerrikania. I'm planning to open an alchemy workshop in Novigrad, with a smithy attached. I'd like to know whether you have any interest in coming to serve as the chief master of that smithy."
When Victor finished, both Fergus and Yoana froze.
Novigrad—the jewel of the North, the most prosperous city in the witcher world. It was the kind of place that, for a rough comparison, held the same position New York did in a Marvel story: the best and the worst things always seemed to happen there.
Now this traveler, claiming to be from the far east, was talking about opening a shop there like it was nothing—making the whole thing feel a little unreliable. If not for his striking clothes and imposing presence, Fergus would've already mocked him for being delusional.
Yoana blinked, staring at the outsider with the side-parted ponytail and dark glasses, hardly believing him.
The four scars on his face made him look rugged and masculine. Imagining what kind of young, strong body lay beneath that well-cut, finely stitched black coat, her impression of him only grew better.
Still, the smith didn't soften her words. "I don't know you, stranger. Why invite me? And how do you even know I can forge? You haven't seen any of my work. Why should I believe what you're saying?"
Victor calmly pushed his dark glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Not knowing me is fine. My reference—"
A heavy pouch of orens flew into Yoana's arms.
"—is King Foltest."
She opened the bag, and her eyes went wide in instant shock. Nearby, Fergus's eyes turned red with greed.
Angoulême had never heard about opening a shop in Novigrad either, but she knew the boss always had a plan. As a member, it was her job to back him up.
"And Radovid the Fifth is willing to vouch for us too!"
With a clatter, she poured a bag of crowns onto the table—coin after coin, each stamped with a regal eagle and Radovid's face, shining with credibility.
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