That afternoon, in the forest behind Vergen, near the Scoia'tael camp.
Blades collided, and the ringing of steel echoed among the trees.
"You can't win!" Iorveth narrowed his eyes and rotated his sword.
"Can't win?" Victor Corion repeated. "Impossible. I'm merely deciding how I'm going to win!"
The elf and the witcher clashed fiercely.
"Not bad." The collision forced each of them back a step. Panting, Iorveth said, "Not bad, Vic. As expected of a witcher, your strength and speed are extraordinary. But when it comes purely to swordsmanship, you still have a long road ahead of you."
"Bold words."
Victor drew a deep breath. Their exchange had made him realize that his chances of winning this duel were not high. The old elf's physical abilities were a match for his own. Not only was Iorveth exceptionally fast, but his strength was also astonishing.
However, defeating Victor would not be easy either. Lightning Reflexes compensated for many of his shortcomings.
This was a friendly contest of swordsmanship, so Victor had not used any potions. Otherwise, once bombs and Signs were added to the equation, very few ordinary people could defeat him.
Since this was a contest of swordsmanship...
The witcher made his decision.
He rotated his blade and assumed a new stance. He began circling the elf, moving faster and faster, forcing Iorveth to turn constantly while remaining in place.
"You tried this the last time we were in Flotsam," Iorveth said. "These tricks are useless against me. Have you learned nothing?"
Victor abruptly accelerated, advancing with spinning steps, sweeping strikes, and leaps. His sword movements were light and fluid, yet every collision was swift and heavy.
Iorveth turned and rotated the sword in his hand.
Clang!
"That won't work on me." He spat to the side. "And I'm tired of watching it!"
He took two steps forward, closing the distance.
"You want to dance as well?" Victor leaped forward and attacked again.
Iorveth twisted aside without moving from the spot, then jumped. His left foot landed firmly, and he immediately thrust his sword.
Before his blade could collide with the King's Guardian, Victor had already circled past him and delivered an unwavering horizontal slash. His elbow bent at an unnatural angle, allowing the sword to come from an extremely treacherous direction.
Momentarily flustered, Iorveth nevertheless managed to block it. Using the momentum, he swung his sword back from the opposite direction.
Victor clearly saw the movement. Bending his knees slightly, he avoided the blade by the narrowest margin.
He immediately pressed the attack, hacking and slashing with his steel sword. However, after regaining his footing, Iorveth deceived the young man with a feint.
Victor lunged at empty air and nearly lost his balance. Although Lightning Reflexes allowed him to twist away, the elf's sword still struck his shoulder and split open the padding of his thick jacket.
Noticing Victor's hesitation, which lasted only a fraction of a second, the experienced Iorveth naturally refused to let the opportunity escape. He immediately attacked Victor's right hand, moving with vicious speed.
At that moment, Victor suddenly drove his left fist forward.
The blow slammed heavily into the side of Iorveth's arm, causing the elf to stumble and lose his balance instead.
In the next instant, the witcher extended his right arm to its full reach and brought down his sword in a devastating finishing blow...!
...
Some time later, the two exhausted, sweat-drenched men lay on the grass, gasping for breath.
"You've improved incredibly quickly... Especially that magnificent sword dance at the end. It was completely different from your usual style. Unless I'm mistaken, that was the White Wolf's pirouette?"
"Yeah... It was a pirouette. I used it to cut off Loredo's head in Flotsam."
"Heh, impressive. The last time we sparred, it was only an empty performance. Today, you were able to use it in a real fight."
Victor did not respond to the elf's praise.
He knew perfectly well that it was still little more than an empty performance. Without the murderous instincts granted by Corion's crimson eyes, using that technique in the middle of a crowd was practically begging to be cut down. He would keep spinning until someone killed him.
It involved one of his deepest secrets, so the witcher had no desire to discuss it. He deliberately changed the subject.
"By the way, didn't they already agree at the council meeting to accept your people? Why haven't you moved into the city?"
Iorveth laughed loudly.
"Hahaha! It's not that simple. Convincing them not to drive the elves away was difficult enough. If the Scoia'tael moved into the city, none of the humans would sleep at night! Besides, remaining vigilant is not a bad thing.
"We let them enter the city during the day, but it's better for everyone to return to the camp at night."
The divide between humans and nonhumans could not be erased by a few promises.
Victor decided to change the subject again.
"I never realized you were the kind of bastard who abandons his friends for a pretty woman."
He was referring to Iorveth revealing the time limit concerning the mist yesterday. Victor had specifically warned him not to tell Saskia, yet the elf had immediately sold the witcher out and even caused the Dragonslayer to visit him personally for an explanation.
Fortunately, the Virgin of Aedirn had not confronted the sorceress that morning. Otherwise, Philippa might have returned home and treated Victor with open hostility.
"..."
The elf remained silent for a moment.
"I'm sorry, but that information concerns an important military matter. You could choose to conceal it, but if I remained silent, I would have been irresponsible toward the revolution."
"I understand your position. If I were truly angry, I wouldn't have come here to practice swordsmanship with you, you bastard who abandons his friends for a pretty woman!"
The opportunity was too good to waste. Not being angry did not mean Victor would refrain from mocking him.
"Could you stop calling me that?"
"Certainly. How about a fool who forgets his friends whenever he sees a beautiful woman?"
"..."
Faced with Victor's deliberately malicious teasing, Iorveth refused to respond.
The two men lay quietly together.
...
Summer had arrived. The forest air was crisp and fresh, filled with the endless sounds of insects and birds.
"Truthfully, I envy you," Iorveth suddenly said, resting both hands behind his head.
There were far too many things about Victor worth envying, so he had no idea what the elf meant. He turned his head and looked at him from the corner of his eye.
"Perhaps it's because you saved her in the mist two days ago... Over the past few days, whenever Saskia finishes discussing military affairs, she often asks me about you. Where did you come from? Have you really slain a dragon? What kind of person are you? What interests and hobbies do you normally have?"
At this point, Iorveth turned his head toward the witcher.
"I've known the Virgin of Aedirn for quite some time. She had never before asked me what food you 'hated,' yet yesterday, she specifically brought pressed haggis to your house..."
Faced with the elf's complicated gaze, Victor turned his head away. He stared casually at the treetops and began to whistle.
Unfortunately, Iorveth had no intention of stopping. His voice remained calm.
"I know it isn't love, but Saskia genuinely values you. It is extremely rare for her to value anyone in that way. That is why I envy you."
Victor would have been lying if he claimed that he was not pleased that Saskia the Dragonslayer, the Virgin of Aedirn herself, had deliberately brought him pressed haggis as a prank.
However, anything he said at that moment would sound like boasting, so the witcher remained silent.
A cool breeze passed through the forest. Catherine's eagle cry rang across the sky, while the cheerful laughter of Angoulême and Lansi drifted from the distance.
The two young women had returned from their hunt.
...
Biography: Seltkirk of Gulet
During the Second Upper Aedirn War, Seltkirk, commander of the Aedirnian defenders, repeatedly drove back the invaders. Unfortunately, despite possessing exceptional virtue and unyielding courage, he was no more capable of escaping his fate than any of the other soldiers who died during the Siege of Vergen.
...
That evening, Victor and Angoulême returned to the city. At the Cauldron, the witcher treated Dandelion, Zoltan, Yarpen, and their companions to dinner and drinks.
Every additional friend opened another road. That was the secret behind Victor Corion's invincibility.
To be fair, the Cauldron did not offer a particularly pleasant dining environment. Bare-knuckle fights took place in one corner, while others held gambling games and arm-wrestling contests. Every conceivable variety of entertainment could be found there.
The profanity roaring around them flowed without end, accompanied by all kinds of baffling slang that was nearly impossible to decipher. It was quite harmful to the appetite.
However, everyone at Victor's table was already accustomed to it.
For example...
"Bite his balls!"
"Smash his nose!"
Those shouts came from the bare-knuckle fighting ring.
"Come on, madam, could you hurry it up? Someone pour the lady a mug of cream ale!"
"A Grand Slam!? You dare call a Grand Slam? I'm telling you, if you pull it off today, I'll eat this table right here!"
Those remarks naturally came from the card tables.
"Ah... I really feel like getting some exercise. Where's that cow from yesterday?"
"You're remembering it wrong. It was clearly a sow!"
...
Occasionally, there were conversations that made no sense whatsoever.
In any case, Yarpen, commander of the dwarven forces, and Zoltan, his deputy, were seated at Victor's table. Naturally, Victor intended to exchange information with them.
After the witcher hosting the meal raised his cup in a toast, Angoulême took two heavy swallows of Vizima Champion and impatiently questioned Yarpen.
"How is the training going? Are those recruits ready to fight?"
"They're like whores in a brothel, much better at getting stabbed than stabbing anyone themselves! Saskia's army is filled with fellows who know more about clutching their cocks than holding weapons. Fortunately, they're eager to fight. With my and Zoltan's help, they'll soon catch up. They'll learn to let go of their cocks and grab what they should actually be holding!"
Victor casually interrupted.
"Could you stop talking about cocks? Also, trust me, fighting spirit alone will never defeat Henselt's regular army."
"Oh! Then we'll show you what an army that permits victory and forbids defeat can accomplish. Victor, we have no other choice. Henselt is a thoroughgoing racist. Vergen absolutely cannot fall into his hands," Zoltan said seriously, supporting Yarpen's position.
Victor had no doubts about that. Henselt's racial prejudices guaranteed that Vergen would resist him to the death.
Just as Victor was about to continue the discussion, Dandelion spoke at the perfect moment.
"Please, gentlemen. Must we waste such a wonderful evening debating an uncertain future? Let us enjoy the present! By the way, are the rumors true? Did Saskia really kill a dragon?"
Realizing that the subject had aroused everyone's interest, Yarpen tapped the table.
"I don't know much about the dragon-slaying business, but that's what everyone says. If you want the details, Biggerhorn should return from his trading journey next year. I'll have him tell you the whole story. Supposedly, he witnessed it himself. Besides, Shit-ennis, the prince, awarded her a medal in Vengerberg for the deed, so it appears to be true."
The terrible "Shit-ennis" joke instantly provoked an explosion of laughter.
It was not only Victor's table. Yarpen's booming voice caused the people at several nearby tables to burst out laughing as well.
The relaxed, energetic atmosphere continued until everyone began playing cards, at which point it became even livelier.
Victor recalled living here several years ago, when he had also spent every night drinking himself senseless. He was in an excellent mood.
After returning from the privy, he noticed that a nobleman was fighting a commoner in the bare-knuckle ring.
Recognizing the man responsible for recording the wagers, Victor approached him.
"Hey, Sheridan! Since when did nobles start entering the ring to fight commoners?"
The townsman, who wore a cloth wrapped around his head and a felt jacket, shrugged.
"Ah, Victor. Welcome back. You've returned at a fine time. This is a sign of the new age. Saskia treats commoners and nobles equally. Once you let a dog sleep inside the house, it'll never agree to sleep in the kennel again.
"But I don't care about any of that. The important thing is that fighting earns money. Are you planning to enter the ring again?"
Several years earlier, the young Victor had briefly dominated the Cauldron's fighting ring. With the cheerful atmosphere and the pleasant buzz of alcohol affecting him, he nodded.
"If the rules are the same as before, find me a few strong opponents!"
As he finished speaking, the fight in the ring ended.
Victor twisted his neck and entered the fighting area to face the victor, a human soldier covered in bulging muscles.
Sheridan's excited roar came from beside them.
"Place your bets, everyone! Entering the ring now is Victor Corion! This young fellow is the greatest fighter I've ever seen! He once knocked several plow horses flat with his bare hands, and he earned so much money from fighting that even nobles turned green with envy!"
Hearing those long-missed, wildly exaggerated boasts, Angoulême left the dining table and approached the ring.
Victor handed her his coat for safekeeping, revealing the enormous winged dragon tattoo covering his back.
The cheers around them immediately grew louder.
The delighted announcer drew out his words.
"And his opponent will be..."
Someone placed a hand on Sheridan's shoulder, preventing him from introducing the opponent.
Sheridan turned and discovered that the newcomer was Sir Silgrat, the younger brother of Seltkirk. He wore a nobleman's broad-brimmed hat decorated with a songbird's tail feather and a magnificent padded jacket with elaborate shoulders.
Victor recognized him as the man who had sat beside him during the council meeting two days earlier. He was a nobleman, but carried himself like a warrior.
Seeing him interrupt, Victor walked to the edge of the ring and listened to their conversation.
"Listen, you're making a terrible mistake! Only I am worthy of defeating a warrior like Dovahkiin!"
"Sir Silgrat, it's rare to see you here, but you're thinking too much. This is merely a brawl. As I recall, you always claimed that fistfighting was an outdated pastime for commoners!"
"A true knight battles a genuine gentleman under the admiring gaze of elegant ladies!"
"Yes, I will always remember Seltkirk's glorious performance at the tourney."
"My brother displayed his glory on many occasions. Alas, what has become of the world? A knight must now fight commoners merely to demonstrate his valor!
"Fortunately, this witcher has appeared before me... Although his bloodline cannot compare with mine, his martial skills are exceptional, and tales of his honor are told throughout many kingdoms.
"Dovahkiin, perhaps when he lies miserably defeated on the ground, everyone will finally understand that I am not merely Seltkirk's younger brother. I am the renowned Silgrat, the dreadful nightmare of every witcher!"
After finishing his declaration, Silgrat raised his chin high and stared down at the witcher through his nostrils.
"Victor of Kaer Trolde, I challenge you! The wager will be two bags of gold. Believe me, Silgrat of Gulet does not ordinarily issue challenges to elderly serfs."
Faced with this proud challenger, countless thoughts passed through Victor's mind.
From Silgrat's words, he could tell that the knight was proud of his older brother, yet had also spent his entire life trapped in the man's shadow. Seltkirk's heroic death must have placed immense pressure on Silgrat, driving him to behave so irrationally.
Then Dovahkiin smiled.
"Believe me, Victor of Kaer Trolde does not normally beat up children. But when one insists upon it, I'm willing to oblige."
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