Sunlight warmed the grass. On a lush meadow, a gaunt, dry-faced old man strode up to the black den and raged.

“Beast! Filthy whoreson! Son of a bitch!” he roared, hurling a turnip into the dark mouth of the cave. “Why take my son? Come and kill me, you cur!”

“Damn!” Roy’s face went white. He abandoned all pretence of concealment, yanked the old man by the arm with one hand and grabbed his waist with the other, dragging him back into the brush. “Are you mad? Do you want to die? That does nothing but hand meat to the beast!”

“You’re right, I’m already mad!” Old Hark panted, eyes blazing as he strained to wrench himself free of Roy’s vice-like grip. “If it has harmed my child, I’ll take that beast with me!”

No sooner had he spoken,

a black shape burst from the cave.

They barely had time to flinch before the thing exposed a pair of ruby-bright eyes and fixed them on the two of them.

Its four hairy legs tensed, pressed to its belly, then released. Like a black cannon it flew over the grass and leapt more than forty feet.

Roy’s breath stole away. He dragged the pale, gaping Old Hark into the shrubs behind him.

A sick wet smack sounded nearby; a clump of white, steaming, gelatinous matter splattered onto the trunk of a paulownia.

“Damn it,” they both scrambled deeper into the brush, but how to outrun a four-legged creature?

The Metamorph Spider’s hairy legs blurred as it cleaved the ground, a reek of iron and rot sweeping over them as it bore down.

Old Hark, behind them, was knocked flat by the calf-sized Metamorph Spider and screamed in a single, terrible cry. The spider’s chelicerae crossed over his chest and tore a cross-shaped rent. In the spray of blood, its two fist-sized eyes shone with hungry light.

It was almost on him.

Roy’s nostrils filled with the stink of earth and rot. He could have touched the bloodied fangs under that fly-like head; at that moment the creature’s attention was entirely on Old Hark, blind to the boy before it.

A perfect opening.

Roy drew Gwyhyr from nowhere and in a flash drove the blade into the creature’s grotesque skull. The Metamorph Spider screamed in a sound like tree-splintering thunder; its black, furry body convulsed and staggered back off the old man.

Its two crimson eyes flared venomous; its mouth opened and spat a web-mass.

Roy guessed its move.

As it recoiled he rolled low with a cat’s grace, dodging the web. When he straightened, he feigned an empty grip with his right hand and Gwyhyr became a crossbow. He loosed a quarrel at the spider’s swollen body.

Carnage plus Crossbow Mastery and the special bolt pierced the spider and drew a gush of rank blood. But the bolt was tiny against that bulk; the wound was limited.

The spider’s legs hugged the ground and it sprang, like a small mountain, over the grass, lunging at the youth. On flat ground Roy would have been trapped.

He had chosen this patch as his battleground deliberately; bushes, trees and tufts of grass limited the spider’s terrifying speed.

He rolled aside again, brushing past its slicing chelicerae, and flung himself toward an alder trunk thick enough for several men to hug. As the spider turned its ugly face, veins stood out on Roy’s hand; he drove Gwyhyr into its mouth with a single thrust while Gabriel’s bolt shattered a bloodshot eye, spraying gore.

The spider convulsed as if struck by lightning.

Roy did not press the assault.

The great spider still had a third of its life left, and a dying beast is the most dangerous.

He used the creature’s ragged cry to slip behind the opposite alder, circling trees to delay, buying time for the Paralyzing Venom to take effect, or for the Dancing Star in his hand to flash—

He had a chance. Without resorting to bombs he might fell this weakened one-year-old spider.

The Metamorph Spider skidded over the turf, its movements growing sharper and faster. For five seconds the two chased one another around the alder, then the spider leapt, defying gravity to climb the rough bark and scrawl claw marks as it climbed.

It hung above the fleeing shadow, eyes flaring, and then dropped.

Intimidate!

A gust crashed down. For a heartbeat Roy’s black eyes flashed red. The spider hesitated, perhaps the Paralyzing Venom had taken a scrap of effect; its chelicerae scratched Roy’s thin cuirass but failed to cut skin.

It had missed its final strike.

Roy stayed face-up on the ground, hands clasped over Gwyhyr, and in an awkward, brutal motion shoved the gleaming blade into the spider’s mouth, through chest and belly, until the hilt stopped.

“Pft—”

Rank, filthy gore sprayed his face.

He bit down and rolled, escaping between two hairy legs.

The spider recovered from its daze. With the sword driven through its body it clawed the turf with frantic zeal, its sharp feet shredding the grass.

Seconds later smoke boiled from the cavernous wound where Gwyhyr had pierced it. The beast sagged like wet clay, then went slack as tongues of flame licked from its rents.

“Metamorph Spider slain, XP +70, Witcher LV4 (900/2000)… "

“You have slain Grave Hag, Drowner, Child-Hunter, Leshen, elf warlock, Nekker, Kikimore, the Cursed, Metamorph Spider — ten types of magical creatures.”

Roy stared at the carcass, blood painting his face. The creature’s shell was igniting from within.

Had Gwyhyr’s Ignite trait triggered?

Imagine a blade plunged into flesh that then kindled from the inside: a living roast. The thought made him shiver.

“Serves my enemies right,” he muttered.

The fight had been under thirty seconds. Unlike a drawn-out game encounter, a slip and you were entangled and done.

Roy tore a sod of dewy grass and wiped his face, then ran to Old Hark and found him unconscious.

If the spider had had companions, the noise would have drawn them out; in that case Old Hark’s mad charge would have killed them both. Seeing him thus Roy had no stomach for anger.

He drew a Celandine Potion, cleaned the wound on Hark’s chest and bandaged it.

He patted the old, ploughed face.

“Ugh… ah!” Old Hark opened his eyes in terror, hauled himself up then cried out in pain as his chest burned. “Spider! Spider!”

Roy soothed him with gentle pats on the shoulder and back. “Don’t be afraid. The spider’s dead. You’re safe now.”

“Dead?!” Old Hark’s features hardened; he drew a deep breath and forced himself upright despite the pain. “Then my boy? Barshel? Is he out? Did you save him?!”

“Not yet.” Roy pressed his lips together in thought, then clenched his jaw. “We’ll get him out now.”

If the Metamorph Spider had kin, the commotion would have lured them. The lack of more spiders gave hope.

“But look at your wounds; it’ll be hard for you to go down. I’ll see this through,” Roy said.

A quarter hour later,

Roy slid down the slope into the den, a torch in one hand and a hemp rope in the other. The rope was anchored outside by Gwyhyr driven into the ground.

Old Hark, wounded, kept watch above.

Damp, cold, dim.

That was Roy’s first impression of the Metamorph Spider’s lair. One comfort: its tunnel ran straight; there were no branching mine shafts to confuse him. That suggested a solitary young spider, not a whole brood.

A minute later he landed in a chamber a little wider than the tunnel, roughly the size of a single inn bed. The walls and floor were padded with clay, twigs and dead leaves plastered thick for insulation.

At the far end he saw three white cocoons wrapped in silk. From left to right: the smallest was the rooster used as bait, the middle held a beaver or marmot, and the rightmost was his target — a human-sized cocoon.

He stood stock-still as if before a corpse.

Yet Roy’s keen ears caught a faint breath. He felt a rush of hope and cut the sticky webbing at the cocoon’s head with an arrow, revealing a horrifying sight.

Beneath the muck was the face of a young man: thick brows, wide eyes, full lips, a broad jaw — a simple, honest face. But it swelled with grotesque blisters.

Fingernail-sized pustules dotted his cheeks, forehead and chin.

Beneath his bluish skin the lumps writhed, clearly alive.

Even in his coma he was trapped in nightmare and pain; his features were contorted.

Barshel

Gender: Male

Age: 18

Status: Commoner, bakery apprentice

HP: 10/50 (Dying)

Roy turned his face and breathed deep. He had seen many vile things, but parasitic spider eggs were among the worst.

Being used as an egg-pouch is one of the most excruciating deaths.

“Barshel, can you hear me? Answer me…”

Roy tried calling the boy. No answer. He looped the hemp rope around the cocoon and began dragging it toward the mouth of the den.

The human cocoon was hauled out of the burrow without incident. The moment Old Hark saw that horrific face, his vision swam. He staggered back a step, his limbs turning weak, and collapsed onto the ground.

“H-he… he’s Barshel?” The old man turned to Roy. His lips, the corners of his eyes, even his nose were trembling. Tears seeped soundlessly from his eyes and slid swiftly down his cheeks.

The boy could not bear it. His brows knit tight as he nodded.

“My child, what’s happened to you?!” Old Hark all but crawled forward, staring at the human cocoon lying on the ground. His shaking hand reached out, about to touch that face swollen with bulges…

“I think you’d better not touch those spots…” Roy pressed his lips together and warned him. “If you stimulate the eggs, he’ll be in terrible pain. You can try calling his name. If he wakes up, maybe he can leave a few last words…”

“What last words?! Don’t talk nonsense. Barshel will go home alive! I’ll take him back and find the best physicians in Ellander to cure him!” Old Hark clawed at the webbing like a madman, pulling as he screamed himself hoarse. “Barshel, can you hear me? Open your eyes. It’s Old Hark, your father’s here to save you!”

The webbing of a Metamorph Spider was impossibly tough. No matter how the old man tugged, it did nothing. Roy drew his steel sword, ready to help.

But perhaps the call of kin had reached him. Barshel suddenly let out a series of muffled “mm… mm” sounds. His swollen eyelids twitched twice, then opened with great effort.

He saw his father’s silver-white hair, that gaunt old face carved with deep lines.

In an instant, tears the size of beans welled from his bloated eyes and ran down his misshapen cheeks.

“Hark… Hark…” Barshel moved his lips with agitation, forcing out the faintest call. Pain made the muscles of his face spasm.

“I’m here, my child. Hark’s here!” The old man’s face lit with wild joy. He pressed his ear close to Barshel’s mouth, straining to hear him clearly. “How do you feel? Where does it hurt? Don’t worry, good boy. Father will find someone to cure you.”

“Hurts… I…”

Tears and snot streamed down the old man’s face. Hark suddenly turned to the boy and begged, “Master Roy, help me. Let’s carry him back to the city together!”

“I’ll carry him. It’ll be faster.” Roy glanced at Barshel, crouched down, and shook his head gloomily. “Help me get him onto my back.”

The boy did not believe anyone could heal injuries like these. Not even a sorcerer.

Perhaps only a wish granted by a powerful djinn could save his life.

“I…” Barshel suddenly whispered. “I…”

“What is it, son?”

“Emi… ly…”

“Emi…?” Who’s Emily? You want to see her? We’ll go back to the city and I’ll bring her to you. I promise!”

“White… Rose…”

“White Rose!”

The witcher, who had not yet grasped what was happening, felt a stir of surprise. At a moment like this, why would he bring up the White Rose?

The Order of the White Rose of Ellander? Could it have something to do with what happened to him?

“Child, don’t rush. Take a few breaths first. You can tell us everything once we’re back and you’ve recovered.”

“Kill… me…”

Old Hark shuddered from head to toe. He froze, helpless, forcing an ugly smile onto his face.

“Hold on a little longer. We’ll be home soon.”

“Hurts… kill… me!”

“Hurts, kill me!”

Old Hark suddenly drew in a deep breath, squeezed his eyes shut, and covered his face. His shoulders trembled as he sobbed in silence.

“He’s been parasitized by a Metamorph Spider. There are many spiderlings inside him… and he’s extremely weak.” Roy sighed and spoke a cruel truth. “Every extra second he lives is torture. Maybe we should give him release.”

“No! Master Roy, you’re a witcher. You must have a way to save him, right?”

Old Hark rushed forward and clutched the boy’s legs. “Please. I’ll pay five times, no, ten times the reward. I’ll give you all my money. Just save Barshel.”

“I just want him to live!”

“I’m sorry. I can’t…” Roy forced the words out. But looking at this father and son on the brink of final separation, a sudden impulse rose in his chest.

Help them.

What would Letho do?

The boy frowned, thinking. Doing something was better than standing by.

“I have a… bad idea,” he said, cutting through the webbing around Barshel with the edge of his steel sword. “It might kill the spiderlings inside him. But there’s a very high chance it’ll hasten his death. If the worst happens, can you accept that?”

He pulled aside the severed webbing and glanced at Barshel’s uneven chest and abdomen, shaking his head with a sigh.

On his chest, under his ribs, and across his abdomen, the skin bore several horrifying bulges. It was clear that eggs had already hatched inside his thoracic and abdominal cavities.

Those dreadful little things were gnawing at his internal organs.

Aside from the bulges, there was also a neat, finger-length incision on the right side of his abdomen. It looked nothing like a wound from a Metamorph Spider’s claws. From what he had learned from witchers, it was likely inflicted by a blade.

Ironically, the sticky secretion of the spider’s web had sealed the wound and stopped the bleeding.

So before the Metamorph Spider, someone else had hurt Barshel?

Roy recalled the young man’s cryptic words. “White Rose? Emily?” What was the connection between them?

While the boy was thinking, Old Hark was trapped by the question he had been asked earlier. Should he take his son back to the city to seek skilled physicians, or try the witcher’s method that was almost certainly fatal?

He could not decide.

“Kill… me!” The tormented young man begged hoarsely. Extreme pain made beads of sweat seep from his swollen cheeks.

“Kill… me!”

“Please… you… ah—”

“Do it. Don’t let him suffer anymore!” Old Hark shouted in collapse. “No matter the outcome, I… I’ll accept it!”

The boy nodded. He reached into the air and produced a slender, long-necked bottle of vivid green glass. It was the elixir Swallow, taken from his Bag of Holding.

“A small trick. Don’t mind it. As for this potion, it’s a witcher’s elixir used to heal wounds. Only a mutated body can endure it. The toxicity is far too violent for ordinary people. Drinking it would cause irreversible aftereffects, but it’s just as lethal to monsters.” Roy raised the elixir before his eyes, examining its pure base color in the sunlight. The green liquid within swayed, brimming with both hope and death.

“Once Barshel drinks it, the poison in the elixir will be enough to kill all the spiderlings feeding on his flesh from inside his body.”

“And Barshel?”

“The elixir is both poisonous and restorative, but his injuries are too severe. He could stop breathing at any moment. The chance of surviving it is extremely slim…” The boy’s voice cut off.

There was a soft pop as he pulled the cork. He brought it to his nose and sniffed. “Also, after taking the elixir, the spiderlings will struggle even more fiercely for a short time. Barshel’s pain will worsen.”

“Do you still want to proceed?” Roy’s face was grave as his gaze passed over the father and son.

The young man tangled in the web stared at him with clouded eyes, filled with pleading and longing. His mouth opened soundlessly, revealing a rotting mouth and tongue.

“Give… it… to me.”

Old Hark’s face fell into despair. He nodded heavily.

“Gulp, gulp…”

His throat worked as Barshel greedily drank the entire bottle of Swallow. For a time, the abandoned field fell almost completely silent. Only heavy breathing could be heard.

Two pairs of eyes locked onto that pitiful man.

Old Hark sat on the ground, holding his son’s right hand against his chest. He gazed lovingly at that unrecognizable face and murmured softly, “Son, once you recover this time, we’ll go fish somewhere else. There’s a good spot outside the Temple of Melitele. The girls from the temple often go there to wash clothes. They’re all pretty.”

“When the time comes, you take a look. If you fancy one, your old man will go speak for you.”

“You’re grown now and you’ve never even held a girl’s hand. Last time you saw the old tailor’s daughter, you blushed. That shyness won’t do. You have to have children someday, give Old Hark a grandson or granddaughter…”

Barshel’s face turned blue. His features twisted as his body arched and slackened in turns. His limbs jerked with spasms, trembling from joints to fingertips.

Under his skin, the spiderlings writhed like ants in a burning pan, burrowing madly from one place to another.

A long time passed. Half an hour, or perhaps an hour.

Barshel’s chest, once arched high from the ground, slowly sank. All the pain drained from his face. Even the bulges caused by the spiderlings flattened. Apart from the bluish tint of his skin, he looked once more like a simple young man.

Barshel let out a long breath. A weak smile appeared as he looked at his haggard father.

“H… Hark…”

“Hark…”

“I’m here. I’m listening, my child.” Old Hark gripped his son’s hand tightly, the veins on the back of his hand standing out.

“I…”

“What are you saying, child?”

The young man’s eyes suddenly shone with startling brightness. The baker’s thin figure was reflected in his pupils, becoming impossibly tall.

“I love you—”

“Wuu… I love you too!” Old Hark wept openly, clutching the body whose eyes would never open again, crying at the top of his lungs.

Nearby, Roy watched in silence. His lips moved, then pressed together. In the end, he let the old man sob alone.

Until the sun was close to setting.

Hark stood up, his body swaying. The evening glow painted his face gray and withered, as though he had aged more than ten years in an instant.

He wiped the tears from his face with a mud-stained sleeve.

“Roy… thank you for your trouble, for finding Barshel… and killing that beast.” His throat sounded clogged, his voice terribly hoarse, his speech broken. “Tomorrow morning… at the bakery… I’ll give you your payment.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t save him. Instead, I…”

“No. It’s not your fault. You warned me. This is fate. It’s the will of the goddess Melitele!”

Roy rubbed his slightly sore cheeks and forced out a word of comfort. “Then… please accept my condolences. As you said, his soul has already entered the goddess Melitele’s realm.”

“Yes.”

“Should I help you get back into the city?” The boy glanced at the body on the ground. “You’re badly injured too…”

“I’ll carry him home myself. I’ll walk with him to the very end.”

Old Hark bent his knees and crouched down, lifting the body onto his back. His whole frame hunched deeply, as if he might be crushed at any moment. Fresh, glaring red seeped from the bandages on his chest.

But he gritted his teeth, lowered his head, and set off toward Ellander without a word.

The boy watched his back, hesitating. Should he tell him about the discovery he had made earlier, the man-made wound on Barshel’s abdomen?

“Forget it. Old Hark has just lost his son and is drowning in grief. We’ll speak of it after he’s had time to gather himself.”

Roy followed behind him, escorting them to the vicinity of the city gates, until a group of guards rushed forward.

To avoid trouble with Tailles, he turned and plunged back into the wilderness.

Like a wild horse breaking its reins, he sprinted toward a lonely place. Across barren grassland and scrub, he ran madly, his face cold enough to chill the air.

The scene of parting replayed endlessly before his eyes.

An emotion was fermenting in his chest. He needed to vent it.

…

He ran until he was drenched in sweat. Only then did the strange heaviness in his heart disperse. Roy reached the edge of a dense forest.

He sat quietly on the grass for a while, lost in thought.

The battle with the Metamorph Spider surfaced again in his mind.

The Scry skill had activated once more.

By sensing the Metamorph Spider’s attributes and skills in advance, he had been able to make targeted preparations and avoid its various abilities.

He also felt more keenly than ever the power of enhanced weapons.

With an ordinary hand crossbow, he would have managed at most a single shot before being chased endlessly by the Metamorph Spider, with no chance to reload or fire again.

But with the simplified enchantment, he did not need to draw and load it himself. The hand crossbow completed that deadly process automatically at astonishing speed.

He gained a second and even a third chance to shoot, and at times, that was the line between life and death.

The greatest contributor in that battle had been Gwyhyr. Its peerlessly sharp blade pierced the Metamorph Spider’s body again and again, grievously wounding it, and finally igniting its blood from within to deliver the killing blow.

That Metamorph Spider had been far weaker than those he had studied. Only then had he been able to prevail by relying on his weapon’s advantage.

Of course, if Roy had possessed even modest swordsmanship, the entire fight would have been cleaner and less desperate.

Incidentally, he had already slain ten kinds of magical creatures. All that remained was to endure the Trial of the Grasses, and his class would advance from Apprentice to Novice Witcher. Everything was ready.

At present, the only combat skill he could train was crossbow technique.

Under cover of night, the boy returned to the forest’s edge, chose several tall paulownia trees as targets, and began drilling methodically. Standing shots, kneeling shots, and the breathing principles for firing.

The enhanced hand crossbow was utterly different from an ordinary one. The firing interval had been shortened by ninety percent.

Breathing in, then out, and firing at the moment the breath grew heavy no longer worked. He had to refine his breathing through extensive practice, building on what he already knew.

Under the moonlight, a figure moved at high speed around the forest, leaping and darting. Black hair whipped by the night wind lashed against his face as bright beads of sweat spilled freely from his chin.

Amid the whistling crack of arrows cutting through the air, wherever the figure passed, shafts like driving rain skimmed across rough bark and buried themselves deep in the trunks.

Time slipped away in training. Before he realized it, it was past Ellander’s nine o’clock curfew. Roy went down to the river and washed himself clean.

He climbed onto the branch of a towering tree and sat upright in meditation through the night.

The morning sun rose, and the breeze sweeping through the main street still carried a trace of chill.

Roy pushed through the surging crowd and arrived at the eastern side of Ellander, outside the bakery with its red bricks and green tiles. The doors stood wide open. Old Hark sat stiffly on a long bench in the courtyard, staring at the sky in a daze.

Only one night had passed, yet large patches of gray had crept into the old man’s once dry, sparse hair. His back was bent, his posture hunched with age, his expression utterly vacant.

It was only when the boy stepped in front of him and stopped that those cloudy eyes regained focus.

“You’re here, Master Roy…” His voice was so faint it sounded like that of a man in the final stages of a wasting illness. “Please wait a moment. I’ll fetch your payment right away.”

“No rush…” Roy followed Old Hark into the kitchen, only then noticing a sign for temporary closure set by the door, not yet hung up. The oven that once burned from dawn to dusk to bake bread was cold, and the various tools were neatly arranged along the walls, giving the place a desolate air, as though it were about to shut its doors for good.

“Has everything been taken care of, regarding Barshel? Do you need any help?”

“Thank you for your concern, but I’ve already cleaned his body, and I’ve registered everything with the constable, explained the cause and course of the whole accident. We’re just waiting for the burial.” Old Hark spoke weakly, slowly taking down a bulging coin pouch from a nearby shelf. “This is the agreed payment. Please count it.”

The boy took the pouch and weighed it in his hand. It seemed to hold a little more than the agreed one hundred and fifty Crowns.

He did not count it carefully. He slipped it into his coat and studied Old Hark’s face. The old man’s eyes were bloodshot, the deeply lined skin of his face slack and greasy, clear signs of a sleepless night.

“When is the burial?”

“Tomorrow… I bribed the people at the morgue. I wanted to keep the boy at home one more night… to look at him a little longer.”

The boy nodded.

“What are your plans from here? Will you keep the bakery open?”

“I…” Old Hark suddenly choked, losing control of his emotions as he covered his face.

Roy shook his head. He recalled the words he had not finished yesterday. It was time to tell him, to give him a reason to go on living.

“There’s something I didn’t have the chance to tell you. When I examined the body yesterday, I found a wound on Barshel’s right abdomen caused by a sharp weapon. From my experience, it was a thrust from a steel sword… though it did not pierce any vital organs.”

Otherwise, even with the spider web sealing the wound, Barshel would have died long ago from internal bleeding.

Old Hark’s shoulders trembled. Shock filled his face. If his son had been tortured to death by a Metamorph Spider, why would there be a sword wound on him?

Watching his reaction, the boy asked, “When your son was on the brink of death, in extreme pain, he mentioned two strange words. Do you remember them?”

“Emily, White Rose… Emily, I don’t know who that is, but White Rose—” Old Hark murmured it once under his breath, then suddenly looked up, his lips trembling. “You mean… someone from the Order of the White Rose of Ellander stabbed my child? But we have nothing to do with them.”

“The exact reason is unclear,” Roy said after a pause. “It needs further investigation.”

“No matter what, your son died because of the Metamorph Spider.” The boy worried the old man might rush off to clash head-on with the Order. Given the temper he had shown yesterday, it was not impossible. “Do not act rashly. I think… even in the other world, Barshel would want you to live well.”

“Thank you for your concern. Old Hark has lived in Ellander for over twenty years. I know how deeply rooted the Order of the White Rose of Ellander is. I won’t be foolish enough to throw myself at them.” Old Hark took a deep breath and clenched his fists. “The child is gone. This old man won’t act like yesterday, blindly driven by anger. But as his father, I have a duty to find out where that wound came from and seek justice for him, in my own way.”

Fury burned in his eyes, and at last, a hint of vitality returned to his aged face.

“I’ll help you.”

Old Hark shook his head and firmly refused the witcher’s offer. “Yesterday, because of my recklessness and stupidity, I almost got you killed. This time, let these old bones bear it themselves.”

“What are you planning to do?” Roy felt disappointed, yet also relieved. He did not press further.

This involved the Order of the White Rose of Ellander. It was a serious matter, unlikely to be resolved quickly. His own priority now was to pass the Trial of the Grasses.

Only by becoming a true witcher would he be qualified to measure strength against knights.

“Now that Barshel is gone, what use is the money I saved from decades of running the bakery?” Old Hark said slowly. “And in a city like Ellander, there are very few who are not tempted by money…”

“Even the Knights of the White Rose, who preach honor and virtue as life itself, will turn into ordinary men when faced with Crowns and Orens.”

Money clearing the way? Roy understood at once.

“Safety comes first, Old Hark. You must know your limits. In a couple of days, I’ll be staying at the Temple of Melitele for a while. If your investigation runs into trouble or makes any progress, remember to contact me.”

“I will. If I need your help, Master, I’ll reach out immediately.”

…

The boy left the bakery at an unhurried pace.

Thinking about the Order, he wandered the streets for a while and, without realizing it, arrived at the central square of Ellander, by the fountain crowned with a statue of a woman.

The place was packed.

Hundreds of men, women, and children formed a ring, the noise of the crowd mingled with loud drumbeats.

Relying on his agility, Roy squeezed through the mass and reached the innermost circle.

Then his eyes lit up. Surrounded by the crowd were several familiar faces he had not seen for a week, performing with gusto.

Corin, wearing a sleeveless leather vest that bared his chest and the solid muscles of his arms, strode around the spectators with a burning torch in his right hand. He suddenly drew in a deep breath, his chest and cheeks swelling, and blew toward the flame. A dazzling torrent of fire swept through the air, like a straight, blazing longsword, lingering in space for a full ten seconds.

Then Corin reversed his breath, drawing it in. It was as though an invisible hand had seized the hilt of that fiery longsword and rammed it straight into his mouth. In a single breath, the flame vanished without a trace.

Still not satisfied, he greedily licked his lips and raised his arms with a shout.

When he opened his mouth again, a mushroom cloud of orange-yellow fire burst forth.

The crowd erupted in cheers.

The jester Frozz followed, his face smeared with absurd, grotesque colors. He pulled faces and rolled his eyes, holding a yellow copper plate in his left hand while his right hand flicked several marbles through the air with astonishing dexterity. His movements were too fast to follow. Fingers and colored marbles blurred together, forming a perfect circle in midair.

He suddenly stepped in front of a little girl with braided pigtails and rosy cheeks. His right hand froze. He poked his finger at his nose, squinted one eye shut, straightened one eyebrow while the other curled like a caterpillar, and made a pig-nosed face at her, sticking out his tongue.

The girl cried out in surprise, and from the jester’s tongue rolled a thumb-sized wooden pig’s head, comically carved, landing in her unconsciously outstretched palm.

She burst into giggles. A burly man beside her lifted the girl up, laughing heartily as he tossed a few copper coins into the jester’s plate.

“Clink, clink…” More and more people gave generously.

At the center of the open ground, a figure suddenly leapt onto the thin rope stretched between two wooden posts.