Flocks of birds took to the sky in alarm, startled from the forested mountains below.
The sunset, red as blood, slowly sank into the green wheat fields, while the golden-green river encircled them, its waters shimmering brilliantly.
Seeing the Ismena River meant that Ellander and the Melitele Temple were close. However, from high above, only blurry silhouettes could be faintly distinguished.
Allen gripped the dark blue-tinged feathers of the royal griffin, glanced at the soon-to-set clear sky, and, as if reminded of something, gently patted Good Girl's neck.
"Skreeee—"
Receiving his signal, Good Girl let out a long cry, startling the swallows gliding behind her on the air currents.
She retracted her broad wings slightly, skimming over the winding mountain ridges before diving toward the earth.
"What's wrong?" Vesemir, who had been gazing at the sunset in thought, turned his head.
He knew this route well—they were far from their usual landing point.
"We're leaving tomorrow, and I suddenly realized... I've never really looked at this place properly," Allen said softly.
His sapphire feline eyes mirrored the deep brown mountains, the green wheat fields, and the golden, glistening Ismena River…
Vesemir was silent for a while, staring at Allen until the younger witchers' loud exclamations below broke his trance.
"Come to think of it, we've flown this route so many times, but we've always been in a hurry," he nodded, ignoring Ice and Clay's frantic cries as they reacted to the sudden descent.
He turned his gaze toward the rippling Ismena River, which was drawing closer.
Villages clustered along its banks, with a few fishing boats drifting across the water.
Fishermen cast their nets, while a few wild ducks swam leisurely with their ducklings following closely behind.
A little further ahead, a faint silver glint in the water revealed a barrier net stretching across the river. The mesh, large enough for a human head to fit through, was nailed to a stone bridge, cutting off the entire Ismena River.
The sorcerers weren't entirely consumed by their power struggles—they occasionally did something useful.
This silver-infused river barrier was one such accomplishment.
As long as villages near the river installed and maintained these barriers at the upstream and downstream bridges, they no longer had to fear drowners appearing out of nowhere. Of course, only wealthier villages near cities could afford such protection.
For most, hiring a witcher to clear out the drowners remained the more economical choice.
"Don't worry too much," Vesemir suddenly interrupted Allen's wandering thoughts. "Chief Sol is a just man, but he's not rigid."
"Everything we've done has been for the School. As long as nothing major happens, at worst, he'll scold us and make us polish our steel swords for a few days."
He patted Allen's shoulder and grinned, revealing ten teeth.
"Since becoming a master witcher, it's been a long time since I've been punished like that. Let's call it a nostalgic experience…"
"It's fine, Vesemir," Allen shook his head. "I'm not worried about that. I really just wanted to take one last look before we leave…"
To see the land he had once protected, once fought for.
To savor the pride and satisfaction swelling in his chest.
And then, in his mind, he envisioned a century from now—how the people of this land would change over generations, shifting from fervent admiration and friendliness to indifference, disdain, and even hostility…
He needed this moment to ponder Sol's thoughts and those of every other master witcher. Of course, he also didn't believe there would be any severe consequences until truly dire news arrived.
The School of the Wolf had always been a loosely structured organization.
Even under pressure from the Northern Kingdoms and Ban Ard, at worst, they might expel him. But considering that Sol had known of his "miracle child" status since his arrival, and had even conspired with Lady Vera to alter his records and conceal his identity, outright expulsion was nearly impossible.
Besides, the importance of witchers in this world was only growing.
Would the kings and nobles of other nations really intervene, given the enmity between the witchers and Kaedwen?
In the end, taming a dangerous royal griffin was hardly some grand revolution. So no, he wasn't worried about his own fate.
He was worried about the Witcher Corps.
The Corps was established under Sol's endorsement, but many other master witchers—indeed, most of the School—were against it.
If this incident led Sol to disband the Witcher Corps, that would be catastrophic.
At the fourth rank and in a period of rapid growth, the Corps's progress would be completely derailed.
Even if they continued hunting monsters in secret, without the School of the Wolf's support, recruitment would become a serious problem. Yet, the quickly rising Witcher Corps was his greatest asset in preparing for the Wild Hunt and the White Frost.
Do you want to be Chief?
A deep, raspy voice suddenly echoed in his mind.
If he were Chief now, would he even have these worries?
Allen watched in a daze as the varied landscapes passed like a slideshow beneath him.
"Skreee—"
With a light cry, Good Girl swept past the Ismena River.
As the grand Mahakam Mountains turned in their path, the bustling city of Ellander came into view.
The gray stone walls were busy with people carrying and stacking freshly cut stone blocks, reinforcing the fortifications. This wasn't a lingering effect of the Wild Hunt's devastation two months ago.
Rather, upon hearing about Ban Ard's fate, the old duke had commissioned new defenses.
Tissaia de Vries had remained in Ellander not only because it was closer to Aedirn than Aretuza, but also to oversee a lucrative business deal.
Supposedly…
Once the walls were fully reinforced, Augusta could use a "small" amount of rare magical materials to raise a magical barrier as strong as Ban Ard's, protecting the entire city.
Additionally, the walls contained ritual amplifiers and hidden altars for imprisonment enchantments—designed to nullify elemental energy within range and prevent the opening or closing of portals.
Allen had heard about these rituals before, during the Viscount Hudson's flying mine incident.
Back then, they had nearly been trapped inside, helpless.
A few days ago, Nenneke had relayed Tissaia's claim that the ritual might even force the Wild Hunt to land.
Ianna, a fellow master of ritual magic, was skeptical.
As someone familiar with alchemy and the Wild Hunt's armor, Allen also wasn't optimistic about "Imprisonment Rituals."
It was like trying to shoot down an aircraft with a bow and arrow.
The Aen Elle's alchemical mastery was on an entirely different level compared to the sorcerers of this world. Still, Duke Mason fully believed in it.
He was convinced that if they could force the Wild Hunt to land, his kingdom's brave soldiers would teach those skeletal knights the power of lances and swords.
Regardless, fortifying defenses was always a good thing.
With Tissaia de Vries' meticulous nature, the rituals would undoubtedly be executed flawlessly.
Besides…
The Wild Hunt was currently fixated on Ban Ard.
And with the Necrophages seemingly vanishing from Ellander, what were the odds that this city would be the next to suffer catastrophe?
"Allen!"
"God-Slayer!"
"May Festival King!"
As Good Girl soared over Ellander, the familiar cheers rang out again.
But unlike a few days ago, the enthusiasm had noticeably waned. Fewer people chased after the griffin, and most cries came from playing children—who were either scolded by their parents or quickly resumed their games.
Passion fades when left unanswered.
"Hey, why is there such a huge crowd at the temple gate?"
Vesemir's exclamation cut through Allen's thoughts.
Allen turned to look—sure enough, the Melitele Temple's entrance was packed with people near the sacred statue.
"Did some big shot arrive?" he asked curiously. "Even Duke Mason didn't get this kind of reception."
"I don't think so…" Vesemir frowned.
Through the gaps in the crowd, he caught a glimpse of a stretcher.
Good Girl flew closer.
And at last, they heard the voices rising from below.
"…Pontar River… The king escorted us…"
"…A witcher… House of La Valette…"
"…The wounded… Step aside… Make way…"
----------------------
The noisy voices brought fragmented words, making it impossible to make out any clear information.
"Is there another disaster somewhere..."
Allen frowned, but before he could finish speaking, his piercing blue cat-like pupils suddenly contracted.
At that moment, Nenneke arrived, shouting loudly to disperse the crowd.
The gathered people quickly scattered, and Allen's gaze immediately landed on a young priest, tilting his head and speaking to Nenneke in an agitated manner.
Then...
On a stretcher carried by two city guards in uniform lay a person wrapped in bandages around their head, clad in leather armor.
Something about the person on the stretcher felt oddly familiar. Allen's heart suddenly pounded faster, weighed down by an inexplicable sense of unease.
"Should we go down and take a look?" Vesemir also frowned, glancing twice before turning to Allen.
"No," Allen suppressed the sudden anxiety in his chest, forcing a dry chuckle. "I just saw Nina. If we go down now, Klar might actually kill us."
"Let's wait until we land first..."
Before he could finish speaking—
The royal griffin soaring over the temple had finally drawn the attention of the crowd below.
"A griffin!"
"Priest Nenneke! Sir Allen and Master Vesemir have returned—"
"Allen..."
Seeing the unusually excited expressions on the people below, Allen and Vesemir were momentarily stunned. Then, the young priest on the ground, hearing the commotion, abruptly looked up and met Allen's gaze.
Her face lit up with joy at first, but then, as if realizing something, she raised her hand in a hurried gesture, opening her mouth to shout something.
But in the next second—
A lush, towering tree suddenly appeared, blocking their view of each other.
What was Lysa trying to say?
Why were the temple priests so agitated upon seeing them?
Allen and Vesemir exchanged a glance, their expressions shifting.
The injured person on the stretcher—there was a high chance they had something to do with it!
Both witchers immediately realized this.
Even so, Allen didn't order the griffin to turn back.
Of course—
It wasn't just because Klar, still dangling from Good Girl's claws, had to maintain his image in his girlfriend Nina's eyes.
It was because the temple priests were the best at treating injuries. No matter how anxious they were, it wouldn't make a difference. Besides, if they turned back now, the griffin's lingering magic at close range might even have a negative effect on the wounded.
So—
Allen and Vesemir remained silent, patiently waiting for Good Girl to reach the landing point.
"Skreee—"
As soon as Good Girl came to a halt—
Before Erni and Klar could even undo their harnesses and jump down—
Two swift figures had already landed ahead of them.
"Head back first!"
Allen and Vesemir spoke in unison, leaving only those words behind before vanishing like the wind, sprinting toward the temple entrance.
"What's going on?" Ice asked as he landed and stood up, staring in confusion at the two disappearing figures.
Klar frowned. "Something must've happened at the entrance…"
"Enough guessing. Let's just go and see for ourselves." Clay wasted no time, landing and immediately jogging after Allen.
Erni, acting like a responsible leader, tried to reason with him. "But the captain and Master Vesemir told us to head back first—"
"Then don't follow." Clay rolled his eyes as he watched Erni already running ahead of him.
—
Thump-thump—thump-thump—
With the uneasy pounding of their hearts, Allen and Vesemir ran in silence, reaching the temple entrance in less than ten minutes.
The entrance was already deserted.
The three sacred statues of Melitele stood quietly, gazing upon the two witchers with benevolence as they came to a halt. But the moment they stopped, their noses twitched, and their eyes immediately locked onto the fresh dark-red bloodstains on the ground.
"This scent…" Vesemir's expression darkened.
"Sir Allen, Master Vesemir," a plump priest, rubbing his eyes from the dust kicked up by their arrival, quickly stepped forward upon seeing them. "Priest Nenneke asked me to tell you—they're in the operating room Sir Allen used before."
"Thank you," Allen forced a smile and nodded in gratitude, but he didn't leave immediately. Instead, he pressed, "Who was the injured person on the stretcher? Did Priest Nenneke mention it?"
"That was someone Lysa brought back," the kind-hearted priestess revealed a sympathetic expression. "She said his name is Hughes..."
"The Witcher of the Wolf School—Hughes."
....
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