The horn blast ripped through the night sky over Velen’s coast, sharp and ear-splitting.

In any violent corner of the world, alarms were designed to be exactly this piercing. The sound had to make whoever heard it feel a raw, primal command: “Move your ass, or die where you stand!” Even the most vile criminals were expected to recognize that much.

This camp’s horn did its job perfectly. The crescent-shaped encampment erupted into chaos. Shouts, curses, shoving, the rattle of movement. Within five minutes, the armed tents flickered to life with light. Lannor smirked at the inefficiency. Even a pre-military drill muster would have been faster. But given that this was an ancient, distrustful criminal group, the sluggish response was understandable.

For Lannor, though, it was more than enough to complicate things. He was still, fundamentally, a rookie assassin—no real stealth, no silent kills. Sneaking through a camp, dispatching guards, avoiding detection, rescuing hostages… each task alone was difficult. And now, everything had hit a sharp, chaotic pivot at once. Plans never survive contact with reality.

His original intention had been simple: quietly eliminate at least a third of the guards, then proceed with everything else smoothly. His brief conversation with Margarita had taken less than ninety seconds. And that alone had triggered this alarm?

Lannor immediately shoved his dagger back into his belt, one hand resting on the hilt of his steel sword, back pressed to a wooden cage, eyes scanning the camp with tense vigilance like a cornered beast.

From the center of the camp, the largest tent erupted into shouting, someone bellowing orders. Lannor inhaled deeply, forcing calm into his mind. With his composure intact, Mentos could keep thought processes sharp.

He swept his gaze around. No one was converging on his position. He was alone in the camp. If discovered, the solution was simple: a swarm of knives to his chest.

The horn… hadn’t signaled him? Confirming that, Lannor refocused on the yelling from the center. The sea wind was strong, the waves loud, but the witcher’s heightened senses, coupled with Mentos filtering the noise, allowed him to discern enough.

“Message… men! Profit opportunity… buyer’s ship… anchored offshore… push tonight! Move cargo!”

Through Cat potion-enhanced sight and Mentos’ adjustments, Lannor made out the figure shouting. A man with a typical Cossack-style topknot, the sides shaved, long hair oily and hanging to one side. Short and stocky, under 1.7 meters, but muscle dense and heavy—at least ninety kilograms, a rounded, powerful belly stretching his animal-hide jacket. Two black hounds crouched at his side. Head Devourer.

That had to be him.

The strange “power” earlier? Likely magical communication. The men were undisciplined, arriving sporadically. Head Devourer had to repeat the instructions several times before all could hear.

Lannor took the opportunity to dash along the perimeter, scanning the cages. Whether there was a sorcerer present or not, whether that sorcerer had defeated Margarita’s formidable power… it mattered little now.

Leather gloves tightened on his sword hilt, the strain audible with each adjustment, “squeak, squeak.” Lannor clenched his teeth. Even if he confronted a high-powered sorcerer, he was ready to “tweak” the magical shield with his steel. Today, he was taking White, no compromises.

He had promised Madam Donna. Anyone who got in the way would die.

The footsteps he made no longer mattered. The camp’s filth—thrilled by the word “profit”—were cheering, oblivious. The terrified prisoners, broken by abuse and suffering, mistook the man-eaters’ frenzy for a feast, expecting to be devoured.

They huddled, children seeking comfort from one another, too small to offer real solace. A few adults, broken and mangled, reached into the children’s cages, trying to offer what little comfort they could before their own deaths.

Head Devourer’s pep talk neared its end. Tasks would be assigned: transport, guard duties.

But then the short, stocky man’s expression shifted. His small eyes narrowed, sweeping across the camp. The gesture carried authority: those still cheering froze mid-shout.

The camp’s atmosphere went from raucous to suddenly cold. Lannor felt the change even while sprinting in the distance. A criminal leader wielding such presence… it was absurd.

Lannor’s pace quickened, cat eyes darting constantly. He knew his cover was fading.

“Where’s the northern half of the camp?” Head Devourer’s voice cut low, a sharp contrast to his earlier encouraging tone. Cold enough to chill hearts.

The two black hounds beside him shifted from semi-sitting to crouched, teeth bared.

“Why are the torches unmoved?”

“Why aren’t the tents lit?”

Each question more forceful than the last, each causing the camp’s people to retreat slightly under panic. The hounds tensed, ready to strike.

“Damn it!” Head Devourer growled, teeth clenched. “Someone’s sneaking into my home and doesn’t know it—find them!”

The camp sprang to life like a wound-up machine: torches distributed, lighting expanded, hounds leashed. The northern half of the camp was about to be turned upside down.

But Head Devourer also understood there could not be many intruders. The work of guarding profit could not pause.

A group of roughly twenty men was sent to the prison section to retrieve captives and load cargo. Two teams, each holding torches, snaked toward the two camp wings.

Even searching the entire camp this way would not take more than ten minutes.

It was then that Lannor spotted the child in the corner of a large wooden cage—slightly big-headed, just where he had hoped.

The startled child’s eyes were like a fawn’s, wide and trembling.

White stood in the middle of a group of children his own age, and panic this vast was more than any single child could resist, even one hardened by hardship. His once-clean, finely stitched clothes, washed by Mrs. Donna, were now grimy, tugged out of shape. His slightly oversized head spun nervously, instincts flaring as he tried in vain to gather whatever information he could from the environment. Humans crave light not just for sight, but because losing it triggers a primal fear: without information, survival feels uncertain.

Lannor did not hesitate. Seeing White unharmed eased the taut cords of tension coiling in his nerves. The boy was safe… for now. Relief was brief. Two lines of torch-bearing guards were moving, bringing an immediate wave of renewed urgency. The child was fine, but the situation remained perilous.

Lannor crouched before the massive wooden cage that held White. Thick beams, each the width of an adult’s forearm, lashed and lined up into an unyielding barrier. Unlike the flimsy cages of old stage dramas, these gaps were too narrow to slip a hand through. Solid and dense, the freshly felled wood was swollen with sap, flexible and resilient; even a heavy axe would struggle to sever a single post quickly.

The cage’s door, made the same way, was secured with a lock exactly as Mentos had predicted. Even Man-eaters knew better than to skimp on locking away something valuable. Lannor pressed his lips together, eyes fixed on the lock. He had no skill with keys, but the irony wasn’t lost on him: the person he came to save blocked only by iron.

His left hand hovered three or four centimeters from the lock.

“Igni.”

Orange flame coursed along his palm, as he had once done with his sword. The iron lock absorbed the heat instantly, glowing like molten metal in a forge.

Inside, the children fell silent for a heartbeat before shouting erupted. Fear, perhaps, or the sudden glimmer of hope. Either way, expecting a group of nearly traumatized children to remain quiet was absurd.

White glimpsed Lannor through the glow, recognizing him even with his terrifying, Elixir-altered appearance. Joy lit his face. To the boy, no matter how frightening Lannor looked, he was first and foremost a protector. Once, he had even thought if he helped Lannor gather herbs, they might become friends. Donna had taught him that friendship required balance, mutual aid—not blind giving or taking. White wanted to help, and now the moment came.

The twenty or so guards advancing toward the prison saw the glow of Lannor’s power and the children’s cries, instantly realizing the disruption’s origin. They began shouting, calling for reinforcements to converge.

White’s initial shout of “Lannor!” became terror as the torch lines surged closer. But the fear lasted only a fraction. The boy, barely ten, found resolve in an instant. He bolted from the safety of the cluster of children.

“Go! Lannor! Hurry!” he cried, pounding on the wooden bars. “They’re coming! Do you run fast, Lannor? I’ve seen you move like the wind! You can escape! Turn now, you can get away!”

Tears blurred his voice, fear mixing with desperation. He had no notion of his own fate, yet still tried to pull another to safety. Lannor’s urgency exceeded even the boy’s.

Power surged through his palm. The lock was thicker than a blade. Sweat dripped from his brow onto the iron, instantly steaming.

“Quiet… quiet! I’ll decide if you live! You little brat, scream if you must, that’s enough!”

Mentos intervened. “Master, calm yourself! You must maintain control! The power flow in your hand is on the brink of instability!”

Footsteps grew louder behind him. His heart hammered, nearly leaping from his chest. One step more and White would be free… one step! Anxiety, fear of failure, fear of the power that had bested Margarita, fear of the unexpected—negative emotion surged like a tide, yet he had to remain composed. Composed, and channel the power correctly. Lannor felt his mind teeter on the edge of explosion.

A drop of sweat fell from his nose onto the iron lock with a hiss of vapor. The temperature was sufficient.

With a sharp motion, he drew his steel sword. His body arched backward to its extreme, sword raised overhead. Muscles bulged; armor clasps strained, whining under tension.

“The iron lock… today, not even plate armor will hold me!”

His spine coiled, the School of the Bear steel sword whipped like a steel whip. The sudden gleam of the blade outshone the approaching torches. The sword bit into the heated iron, which glowed red-hot under the strike, sparks bursting like a smithy’s fire. Steelcutting.

The lock’s structure was nearly solid iron, several millimeters thick, far tougher than any armor plate. Yet Lannor’s furious strike split it as if it were wood.

Without pausing, the witcher yanked open the gate, grabbed White under his arm, and bolted south. The child was safe at last, yet Lannor had no time to savor it.

Two bolts whistled toward him, landing not in his body, but in the ground before him. Forward motion meant taking the arrows.

Lannor stopped, one hand holding White, the other on his sword. No Signs could be cast, no gauntlet block possible; a single arrow would ruin mobility.

Yet from those bolts, he discerned something grim.

“These aren’t Man-eaters.”

Not repetition of prior conclusions, but the realization: this group’s combat skill far exceeded that of the Man-eaters. Simply put… they understood how to fight when outnumbered.

“Mutant, hello!”

A man wielding a two-handed hammer charged, laughing. His movements coincided perfectly with the arrows that had driven Lannor back.

The witcher barely landed, unsteady, as the hammer swung. Another man with a longsword delivered a downward chop toward Lannor’s back. Odd angles—the sword would likely glance off armor, sparing flesh—but Lannor’s tension rivaled that of heating the iron lock.

The strike wasn’t aimed at him… it targeted Little White’s legs. With hammer ahead, sword behind, Lannor had no choice. He flung White to the side, School of the Bear steel sword intercepting with a resounding clang, deflecting the hammer. The swing, built from a full arc, had accumulated devastating momentum.

The longsword behind, deprived of White as a target, tore through his padded coat, splintering the armor’s inner cotton. As he crashed into the recently loosened wooden bars of the gate with a thud, many of the bindings gave way.

Lannor lay prone for several seconds, chest hammered by the blunt force. Without his school armor, that blow would have shattered ribs, pierced organs.

Even so, he lay there, mouth open, gasping for breath. Blunt impact had met armor; the fight was far from over.

They coordinated far better than the brainless Man-eaters ever had.

Lannor estimated the difficulty of his opponents in his mind. Just four of them had forced him to absorb a blow from a heavy hammer. Now, more than twenty were moving toward the prison to haul goods. That didn’t even count the northern half of the camp, where those who hadn’t yet spotted the intrusion were about to be called over by their comrades’ shouts. Without this disruption, they would have been strung up in their sleep, necks snapped silently.

Damn it.

For these criminals, hostages were tools to be used without hesitation. Yet, perhaps because the child was valuable, and their confidence in their own numbers and combat strength was high, the group moving to transport the goods hadn’t harmed Little White—they’d merely pushed him aside, waiting to kill Lannor first, then cart him off.

“Mutant saves people too? How curious!”

The hammer-wielding man laughed as he advanced, but the weight of his twin-handed weapon didn’t falter. The hammer’s arc smashed toward the back of Lannor’s prone form.

“Tell me, how much were you paid? Out with it!”

Thud!

The hammerhead alone weighed over two and a half kilos. With the lever of the long handle and momentum from the swing, even as Lannor rolled out of the impact, the head struck the sand with a resounding, muted crash.

Mid-roll, Lannor’s steel sword leapt like a striking serpent, targeting the broad belly of the hammer-man. Even with imperfect power from the roll, he was confident this bastard would get a glimpse of his innards.

Yet the hammer-man paid no heed to the open flank, for his comrades were numerous.

Clang! A longsword shot out from the hammer-man’s side, cutting directly into Lannor’s swing path.

“Get lost!”

A shield-bearer shouted, bracing to pin Lannor to the ground with the barrier. The coordination of the three was still amateurish compared to trained soldiers—but the numbers were oppressive, and Lannor’s rhythm was constrained.

Fortunately, unlike the Bordon ambush, these three blocked the crossfire zone of the archers… or perhaps they didn’t even have that concept. Lannor could freely use his left hand for Signs.

A ruddy magical aura flared across his palm.

“Igni!”

He redirected the power flow, transforming the sign from focused heating into a broad wave of fire. A fan-shaped surge of flames swept toward the three. Unfamiliar with witcher Signs, the trio’s eyes widened, pupils reflecting dread.

The shield-bearer instinctively ducked behind his shield—a prudent move, for human flesh is no match for fire. The hammer-man and the swordsman shrieked in agony as the flames licked their exposed skin. Ah! Ah!

The scorched patches appeared superficial at first, reddened like slapped flesh, yet in under five minutes, tissue fluid would swell into grotesque blisters. In this filthy environment, infection was inevitable—a declaration of death in waiting. If they’d worn more than open Animal Hide Jackets, Lannor’s Igni would have been far less effective. Fire arrives and leaves fast.

The shield-bearer’s brief retreat hid no visible effect; the hammer and sword, wracked with pain, dropped to the sand. Both were effectively out of the fight.

Just as Lannor moved to press the tips of his blade lightly to their throats, three more shield-bearers slammed the still-screaming allies aside, barreling toward him. He couldn’t stop them; they shoved him back to the ground. In midair, two bolts whistled his way.

Lannor’s cat eyes narrowed to slits. His empty left hand braced against the ground, armor links straining with the weight. With a single hand, he lifted a body exceeding 150 kilograms, executing a backward somersault in full plate. One bolt missed entirely; the other struck his side. The strike landed on a section reinforced with an outer plate over chainmail beneath the padded coat. What appeared vulnerable was anything but—the impact penetrated the padding, struck the plate with a dull ding, and snagged in the exposed cotton, hanging skewed across him.

Lannor landed, his rib cage curling slightly inward, lips twitching. Even blocked by armor, the force pierced deep.

The three sword-and-shield attackers froze, eyes wide. To stop a bolt meant heavy armor—and this was the same man who had executed a one-handed backflip in plate!

“That’s heavy armor! Get more bows and crossbows!”

They exchanged glances, nodding, shouting back. No skilled fighter among them wanted close combat with a flipping iron tank. Arrows and bolts could do the work from afar; why risk life in melee? Shields and swords would suffice to limit movement.

The first-line attackers heard commotion behind them. Archers were distant, and light was poor, so they couldn’t see the effect of their bolts. Yet everyone witnessed Lannor’s emergency backflip. The word heavy armor stunned them, then elicited excited grins.

For humans, a brown bear’s strength is terrifying. Yet against a coordinated hunting party, the bear’s thrashing is merely sport, the challenge in the hunt. A few even started debating who would get to shoot arrows at Lannor first, eager for a piece of the bear.

Huff-huff.

The witcher crouched, gasping. Sweat streaked from his forehead to his temples. The sheer number of opponents, their coordinated assault leaving no gaps, pressed him relentlessly. Even a witcher’s body was nearing exhaustion.

His cat eyes roamed, seeking a turning point. White had been pushed back into the cage, kicked inside by a man. The boy waved, crying—not for rescue, but urging Lannor to flee.

“Foolish child,” he muttered. The only person who could save him was Lannor, yet he wanted the witcher to run. Where in the world does that happen? Of course, fools are fools—and Lannor never obeys them.

Thud. His backward step struck a wooden cage. Lannor pressed against it, avoiding exposure.

“Sorceress,” he panted, addressing the figure in the rear cage. “Think you’ll try to struggle?”

Margarita Laux-Antille.

One of the most powerful women in the world, and also one of its most beautiful. Noble blood and unmatched magical intelligence had brought her to her station. Yet now, both her calves were stripped of most of their muscle, her body filthy and reeking, confined alongside the brittle bones of her students in a wooden cage. Her fever burned unchecked; the fact that she had survived this long, with wounds festering, spoke volumes of the extraordinary reserves of body and magic she possessed.

But it was useless. The pain from her burning fever and rotting wounds still prevented spellcasting. Kings who wield absolute power treat magic with equal caution for this reason. Ignorant fools imagine sorcerers’ power reaches the heavens, capable of leveling entire knightly orders on a battlefield. Those who know the truth understand: to incapacitate a sorcerer, one does not always need expensive dimeritium. Sometimes a bout of dysentery is enough. Diarrhea, vomiting, cramps… any mage attempting to force magic under such conditions risks instant collapse. More often, they simply cannot mobilize the chaos magic scattered through the world.

Spellcasting demands undivided concentration. If a spell is not internalized as instinct, one lapse can twist the chaotic forces into forms too grotesque to describe. Powerful, well-prepared sorcerers invest in anti-toxin potions, anti-plague draughts, analgesic salves, magical amulets… ordinary people cannot fathom the expense. But Margarita had nothing.

For now, the noble Margarita, the beautiful Margarita, the formidable Margarita… was reduced to a chicken awaiting slaughter, confined in a cage, almost accepting the notion that she would die as food. Until she saw the young witcher return.

The camp was in chaos, armed men surging forward like a living, snaking tide toward this lone witcher. From her vantage in the cage, Margarita could only see Lannor’s profile. The firelight glinted across his exotically handsome face, yet he showed no panic, no hint of regret. He simply watched the laughing enemies, calm, as though he truly believed he could carve a bloody path through them.

Ridiculous. He was just a witcher!

No… Margarita forced a bitter smile, recalling his first approach to her cage—head and face smeared with blood, his lack of basic magical knowledge painfully obvious. His reflexes were astonishing, but his understanding… abysmal. A mere apprentice, not yet even graduated. Expecting an apprentice to fight through a camp full of armed men? Madness.

Yet, inexplicably… when the fledgling whispered, “Want to try struggling a little?” a strange surge of trust welled up within her. He would not die here. Power? A hidden trump? A curse? She did not know.

Her head lowered, ravaged by fever and pain, unable to wield magic or probe its principles. Yet… if he was extraordinary, then she would attempt what she could.

“What do you want me to do? I must warn you, in my current state I cannot—”

“Cannot cast, or casting is restricted? Make it clear!”

Before she could respond, Lannor growled, deflecting an incoming arrow with the vambrace of his armor, then slicing another midair with his blade. His actions drew the attention of the enemy, feeding their fascination with the “bear.”

Lannor did not believe the world’s top sorceress could be reduced to near-total incapacity. Even if there truly were an equally powerful sorcerer in the camp, the gap between them could not be this vast.

Margarita blinked, astonished at the young man’s keen perception. A person ignorant of sorcery had already recognized the distinction between her states.

“I can only cast Cantrips! Cantrips—you understand? Like your Signs, weak, barely lasting twenty seconds!”

That limitation had trapped her here. Twenty seconds could take a few lives, but only enough to make her own death more excruciating.

Yet against the cage, Lannor grinned with relief.

“Twenty seconds… even ten will suffice.”

“What?” Margarita thought she misheard. Ten seconds? What could that accomplish?

He ignored her confusion.

“Come, sorceress—set a shield.”

‘Set a shield’? A magical barrier? She found the phrase oddly apt—plain yet lighthearted. But now… was this truly a moment for lightheartedness?

Frowning, she forced her body to ignore pain, concentrating briefly to summon what remained of her chaotic magic. A shimmering, air-distorting spherical shield enveloped Lannor and the wooden cage. A bolt struck it, the shaft snapping with a sharp crack. Lannor sank into a kneeling meditation stance, the posture best for absorbing elixirs.

“If I rescue you, will Aretuza reward me?” Lannor asked, producing two small vials from his alchemy sack and glancing back at her with a grin.

Margarita’s face twisted, maintaining the shield. Ten seconds remained. Outside the barrier, enemies continued to fire bolts and charge with swords and hammers. Yet the witcher did not once glance at them.

She pressed her lips together; glamour cream could mask allure, but not the vitality beneath. She had seen most of the nobility on this continent—the southern empires, northern kingdoms. Yet risking herself for others without pomp or false honor, she had never seen such ease, such freedom.

Was this the “knightly spirit” of his homeland, or the witcher’s own code? She did not know. One thing she understood—he did not act for glory. He acted because it was his choice.

“You will become friends of Aretuza,” she said seriously, meeting his cat eyes. “In the name of Margarita Laux-Antille.”

The young witcher laughed, raising the vials like glasses.

“Hahaha, an honor indeed. Then, in your name, I’ll drink as well, madam!”

Like a toast, the two vials emptied. Dark, viscous toxins crept up his veins to his cheeks. When he opened his eyes, the amber vertical pupils were gone—replaced by deep, unbroken black.

They moved with uncanny coordination, far better than a horde of brain-maddened Man-eaters. Lannor’s mind raced, calculating the difficulty of his foes. Just four of them had already forced him to absorb a full hammer strike, and here came over twenty more, advancing from the section of the camp tasked with transporting captives. That didn’t even include those from the northern half of the camp who, unaware of the intruder, were about to be rallied by their comrades’ shouts. If not for the chaos, these men would have been dead in their sleep by now. Damn it.

These were criminals who would not hesitate to use hostages as leverage, yet somehow, perhaps because the children were valuable and they trusted their numbers, the group approaching to transport goods had left Little White unharmed. They merely herded him aside, waiting to finish Lannor and sell him off.

“A mutant saves people? Curious!” The hammer-wielding brute laughed as he approached, his two-handed weapon sweeping toward the back of the crouched witcher.

“Tell me, how much did they pay you? Speak!”

The hammerhead alone weighed well over two and a half kilos, and combined with the leverage and momentum of the swing, even Lannor rolling aside could hear the dull thud of impact against the sand. Mid-roll, his steel sword rose like a viper, targeting the hammer-wielder’s open torso. Force from the roll wasn’t perfect, yet Lannor trusted it would show the bastard his intestines.

The hammerer had ignored the exposed opening because he had plenty of allies around him. A sword slashed across from his side, intercepting Lannor’s strike. A shield-bearer rushed, shouting, aiming to pin the witcher down. The coordination wasn’t perfect, but they outnumbered him. Lannor’s rhythm was suppressed, yet unlike the ambush near Bordon, the trio effectively blocked crossfire from the archers behind them—they didn’t even seem to comprehend such tactics.

This allowed Lannor to freely employ his left hand for Signs. An orange-red magical aura shimmered from his palm.

“Igni!”

He redirected the flow of his power, transforming the spell from concentrated heat into a sweeping wave of fire. The three men, unaccustomed to witcher Signs, froze, pupils dilating in fear at the fiery assault. The shield-bearer wisely ducked behind his barrier. Flesh is not like monster hide; human skin offers no resistance to flames. The hammer and sword men screamed as the wave washed over them.

The exposed skin reddened instantly, a mere prelude to blistering and infection that would manifest within minutes. Had they been bundled in proper clothing instead of loose hide vests, Lannor’s Igni would have done far less. But magical fire strikes fast and leaves fast.

With their pain and panic, the hammer and sword fell to the sand, incapacitated. Lannor moved to finish them with precise, shallow cuts across their throats, but three shield-bearers barreled forward, colliding with him. The combined force knocked him backward, and two bolts whistled toward him midair. His cat eyes narrowed to thin slits; he braced with his left hand, armor buckles creaking under pressure.

Alone, over a hundred and fifty kilos of body and armor were controlled by a single hand. He executed a backflip in the sand, dodging one bolt while the other grazed his side. The placement was intentional: beneath his gambeson, a plate reinforced the vulnerable ribs. The bolt struck the armor with a dull clang, tangled in the padding, and the witcher landed with only a minor impact. The force still pressed inward, but he remained upright, scanning the approaching foes.

The humans stopped in astonishment. A heavily armored man had just performed a one-handed backflip—how could this be? Shouts rose. “Heavy armor! More bows and crossbows!”

Even so, the hunters’ thrill surged. To humans, a brown bear is formidable, but in packs, its struggle is merely sport. They argued over who would fire at this “bear.”

Lannor crouched, breath ragged, sweat running from brow to temple. The relentless numbers, the constant pressure, even a witcher’s endurance neared its limit. His cat eyes darted for a chance. Little White had been shoved back into the cage by a man, waving and crying. Not asking to be saved, but urging Lannor to flee.

“Fool,” he muttered. I’m the only one who can save him, yet he tells me to run? There are always fools like this; I ignore them.

A foot struck a cage as Lannor backed against it, keeping himself hidden.

“Sorceress,” he panted, calling to the cage behind him. “Think you can try struggling?”

The remnants of Bordon’s elixirs lay at hand: high-grade Thunderbolt and Blizzard. The first augmented his muscle strength, boosting attack power; the second flooded his nervous system with adrenaline, dragging the world into terrible slow motion. Taking both at once taxed even a witcher’s limits. Pain and toxicity coursed through him, relentless.

As he lowered his head, a trickle of blood from his nose hissed against the sand. Margarita’s shield flickered with instability. Six bolts streaked toward him the moment the magical barrier faltered. Three missed or struck the dissipating edges; the remaining three pierced the shield’s weak points. Archers smiled, expecting easy hits, already grinning at one another. They aimed for maximum coverage, kneeling and keeping their eyes closed to steady themselves. No one could dodge this.

Then their smiles froze in disbelief. A dark shape flashed before Lannor, and the three bolts were snatched midair. A flick of his wrist returned them with force. The charging men, intent on breaking his barrier, were impaled.

The bolts’ force was less than an arbalest’s, but the attackers wore no armor. Three screams, then the bodies hit the ground. Not the end, though.

“Where did he go? Who saw him?” the archers shouted, panic breaking through their ranks. The kneeling figure vanished; only two footprints marked the sand.

Lannor’s body, dense and solid, moved with a speed that made him seem weightless, almost paper-like. Thunderbolt strengthened muscles, Blizzard stretched perception into slow motion. What had seemed coordinated attacks now appeared full of flaws. Arbalesters scrambled, missing entirely, hitting only footprints.

The close-combat attackers were seasoned but suddenly aware. Without shields, the hammer and sword men looked to shield-bearers, some even attempting to seize them. Safety in melee depends on shields, reliable companions, and armor. These men, in mere Animal Hide Jackets, went mad seeking protection.

Lannor’s speed and size unnerved them all. No one wanted to face this monster—but Lannor wanted them to.

“Shhh!” A shield-bearer’s throat erupted in blood, futilely clamped in his hands, spurting through fingers and mouth. The shield… useless.

No one dared approach; all scrambled backward, desperate for distance. “This isn’t right… he’s not human! He’s a monster!” they shouted. Their confidence shattered in a breath. A seasoned shield-bearer, unharmed shield in hand, had his throat cut… how to explain that?

A shield defends the plane of the body; a blade strikes along a line. Face the enemy directly, and the shield covers you from any angle. One-on-one, it’s nearly foolproof. Except… in Lannor’s world, masters trained disciples in slow-motion drills, only to strike at normal, forceful speed. With that disparity, ordinary men can imagine dozens of counters.

The horror of a witcher cutting a shield-bearer’s throat lay in the perception that he lived in a world operating 1.5 times faster—faster than their eyes could follow. Who had the courage to stand before him?

Since entering the camp, Lannor had assassinated ten and now fought six or seven openly. Around thirty percent casualties. Alone, his presence initially gave the criminals a psychological edge, but a thirty percent loss… no criminal gang could handle that. Their orders fell into chaos. Over fifty armed men, now broken by a single witcher.

From afar, Head Devourer squinted, brow furrowed at the camp’s unraveling. He had assumed Lannor would be dead within three minutes, a mere trespassing mouse. Yet after Lannor unleashed Igni, inflicting widespread burns and demonstrating superhuman ability, the man hefted his twin axes and approached the cages. His fighting prowess rivaled renowned knights. He understood the caliber of his underlings. Losses didn’t concern him, except that surviving men might demand a larger cut. Unacceptable. He preferred to intervene personally to finish the fight.

Within twenty seconds, Head Devourer entered his tent, black hide hounds at his side. He kicked the boiled heads from the table; the dogs tore into them with relish. He always thought displaying his cruelty through cannibalism was foolish, but profit demanded compromise. Heads for the table, meat for the dogs.

“Ledgers, bills, receipts, letters, gemstones… yes, all here!”

The squat, muscular man inserted his axes behind his back, the epitome of a Skellige Isles warrior. Yet his muttering and meticulous inspection rivaled the most diligent Novigrad accountant. Within moments, the spoils were bundled, and Head Devourer carried them away.

Head Devourer, Ubank, strode from his tent, two loyal hounds padding at his heels, a small bundle secured to his back. Lightly equipped, he moved with the ease of someone who had long anticipated the day. Outside, moments ago, he had promised a king’s ransom to a crowd of bloodthirsty, vicious men, prompting their cheers. Now, the high platform that marked his status went unnoticed. The camp had fallen into chaos. Men shouted, ran, and twisted in panic, their fear so raw that they almost turned on one another. Lannor recognized the scene instantly: a rout. In his homeland, it would have been called “panic spreading through the camp.”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” Ubank clicked his tongue, watching the disorder with a hint of regret. Yet he made no move to reassert command. The witcher was still killing indiscriminately—like a shadow, like a ghost. To step forward now would be to invite a sword to the throat. In a rout, expecting internal calm is as reliable as praying for miracles. Unless an outside force intervenes, a panicked camp only settles once everyone is dead or gone. Strangely, Ubank, leader of this doomed band, showed nothing more than a faint sense of “what a pity.” Not grief, not anger—merely regret, as if some convenient business matter were about to unravel, rather than his hard-won domain.

“Hey! Old Hanson! Stop, wait!” Ubank tucked his precious bundle beneath his tunic, glanced about, and called out to a white-haired, bearded man flailing like a headless fly. The old man froze, his panicked gaze clearing as he saw Ubank. “Boss!” hope flared in his eyes. Even a ragtag group, floundering in chaos, yearned for a leader—any leader.

Before he could speak further, Ubank cut him off. “Good, you’ve calmed down. Come, we’ll round up a few more capable men. We need to get the cargo to the rendezvous point at sea.” His hounds padded behind him, and he barked orders in steady, rapid bursts, leaving the flustered old Hanson reeling.

“What? Boss, the camp… we just leave it?”

“Camp?” Ubank paused, then looked back at the old man as if regarding a child who had lost his wits. “Are you daft, old Hanson? We gathered to make a living—who knows anyone? The camp’s gone, no one’s left. Focus on yourself.”

“Gone, but… what about later? People need food, food costs money. Listen: we’ll grab a few clear-headed men, while that witcher is busy, snatch a batch from the cages, and sell it.”

“We can’t take it all, but fewer hands means bigger shares. It’s still a profitable run. Send it with the buyer; with money in hand, we can live anywhere.”

Ubank’s words were precise and practical, a stark contrast to his rough, brute exterior. Even illiterate old Hanson regained composure.

“Right… right… my two sons should still be alive. I’ll take them; give me an extra share.”

Ubank glanced at the old man with unexpected respect. Clever, indeed. Only when his own life is secure does he worry about profit and family. Hard-hearted, but effective.

“Fine. We gather people, load the cargo on the boats—whoever hauls it keeps the coin. Fair enough. But one thing—listen to me.”

“I’m listening!” the old man said eagerly, eyes fixed on Ubank. Trust in his leader restored completely.

“See those two cages?” Ubank clapped a hand on old Hanson’s shoulder, pointing. “One holds Margarita, the other Little White. Leave them be. That witcher you saw? Damn, he kills like it’s chickens, terrifying. I’ve seen him—he’s here for those two cages alone. Don’t touch them. Keep it about money; why risk a life?”

“Right! Right! I’ll steer clear!” old Hanson agreed, diving back into the chaos to find his sons. Ubank, meanwhile, rounded up his needed men.

At the docks, he was already loading children from the large cages onto small boats. Passing Margarita’s smaller cage, he bent slightly in a courteous nod to the Sorceress, her head still spinning from forced spellcasting. Nearly twenty children were gathered on the boats. Old Hanson urged them to bring more.

Then Ubank noticed an unusual glow along the camp’s edge. Firelight, unnatural. Head Devourer’s first reaction—this wasn’t random. The witcher had used magic at the edge of the cages, not the whole camp. But now, though Lannor was inside, sword strikes proved far more efficient than fire. The fire’s shape suggested order, not chaos—a formation. The witcher had a companion.

Ubank stiffened, gripping old Hanson by the collar and hustling him aboard. “No time for cargo! Reinforcements on the other side! You can take money alive—or risk your life to grab more. Your choice!”

The armed men on the boats exchanged looks, hesitated, then grabbed oars. At the camp’s edge, a booming voice shouted:

“Damn traffickers! Damned Man-eaters! In Vserad’s name, crush them!”

Hooves thundered through the night. The terrified men, paralyzed before, now rowed with desperate strength, oars churning the water as if they had four arms. Greedy old Hanson muttered under his breath, “My money… my money…”

Cavalry charged the camp, hooves splintering tents. The disorganized thugs scattered like chaff before the charge. The small boats cut through the black sea, those aboard watching the shore in terror. Two minutes longer, and they would have been cut down by the ghostly witcher—or trampled into pulp by cavalry. Hearts pounded with lingering fear.

Then, beside old Hanson, a brown-haired child drew a small dagger from his waistband, plunging it into the old man’s arm before leaping toward the water. Years of experience kicked in—Hanson, bleeding, snatched the boy mid-leap.

“What the—where did you—ah!”

The child thrashed in panic, eyes rolling white. One of Ubank’s hounds, previously curled at his feet, lunged for Hanson, jaws clamping down. In pain, Hanson let go; the boy plunged into the sea.

“My cargo! Your dog! Ah—my money!” old Hanson shrieked, uncertain if he was mourning coin or limb.

Ubank finally snapped out of it, crouching in disbelief, glancing at the rogue hound. Its eyes were clear, its jaws smeared with blood, yet it seemed utterly unaware of what had just happened.

“Damn… saw ghosts twice today?”

Ubank trusted his hounds absolutely.

His family had been dog handlers of Clan Udvík on the Skellige Isles. He had left the islands for the Continent because he had no wish to spend his life training dogs, but the craft itself was beyond question. Hounds trained by his house could even be offered as prizes in Skellige competitions.

The two at his feet were the result of two years’ work. Given the order, they would throw themselves at a griffin.

Yet today they had eaten properly, their bodies were sound, their tempers steady, and still they had lost control for no reason.

Ubank narrowed his eyes at the child thrashing through the seawater.

“Leave him. We can’t afford the delay. Keep rowing.”

A mile out, a merchant ship sat on the black sea with lanterns burning.

Head Devourer’s boat drew alongside it. Under the threat of blades and a storm of curses, more than twenty weeping children were forced aboard as cargo. Only after them did Ubank’s men climb up the rope ladder with practiced speed.

The deck was already crowded.

Armed men stood waiting, swords at their hips, armor well made, but stripped of any mark that might prove allegiance.

A bald man in light, close-fitting leather armor stepped out from behind them. A cloth covered the lower half of his face.

“Well, well.” His voice carried a clear edge of mockery as he walked toward Ubank, who was hauling his two hounds aboard. “If it isn’t our famous Head Devourer.”

“You said you could bring in a large shipment this time. At least eighty children. The lord was delighted. And now I see twenty.” His tone made it hard to tell whether he was sneering or warning. “Have you thought about how you’ll explain that?”

Ubank barely reacted, but the men he had brought with him began to shift.

Head Devourer knew this buyer’s lord. From the sound of it, he answered to him. If a job failed, he would have to explain himself. That meant superior and subordinate.

That was not shocking in itself. Nor was it unforgivable. What made these seasoned scum turn wary was that Ubank had never told any of them.

Not one.

For this job, Head Devourer had always said it was simple. Money in one hand, goods in the other.

But now the buyers were speaking openly, without the slightest intent to hide it.

Here, at this moment, that made the men’s skin crawl.

“Lord Saffra, I had poor luck. Nothing to be done.” Ubank finally pulled the hounds onto the deck and spread his hands. “If the lord insists on an explanation, I can only say I’ll work twice as hard next time. Pity is, the Man-eater cover won’t be usable after this. But that’s tomorrow’s trouble. Let’s clean up tonight’s loose ends first.”

The bald, masked man nodded. “Quite right. Loose ends first.”

As they spoke, Ubank’s men had already drawn into a tight circle. Some had knives in hand, murder in their eyes, edging toward Ubank as though to seize him for a hostage.

Old Hanson no longer cared about money. He swept the deck with a taut, frightened gaze. “Gentlemen. My lords. We’re small men. We heard nothing. We’ll even forgo our shares. Let us off the ship, and we’ll be gone.”

Ubank said nothing. He only smiled through narrowed eyes.

Waves slapped the hull. The air slowly drew tight with killing intent.

“Waste of time.” Saffra gave a soft sneer and lifted a hand toward the circle of thugs.

Magic flared in the reflections of their eyes.

“Sorcerer! He’s a sorcerer! Scatter…”

Too late.

A half-transparent magical shockwave swept through the men. Physical force mingled with arcane violence, and the unarmored thugs hit the deck as one.

That was what a healthy, prepared sorcerer could do to ordinary men.

Given the right positioning, he could wipe out a group in a single stroke.

“Settle the children. Throw the bodies overboard. Ubank, think carefully about your explanation.”

Saffra turned and went back into the cabin without another glance.

Head Devourer nodded as if it had nothing to do with him, then walked to the stern.

From there, he could still see the burning camp on the shore, and the lone figure standing at the harbor.

Ubank smiled and waved at him.

The ship sailed into the dark.

The camp’s chaos was gradually dying down.

Not because the routed armed thugs had suddenly remembered manners or discipline.

Because nearly everyone in the camp still inclined to make trouble was already on the ground.

Some in pieces. Some in pools.

Lannor stood on the harbor behind Phillip’s cavalrymen, who were cutting off heads as proof of merit.

His blackened eyes watched the merchant ship fade into the distance.

Head Devourer had waved to him from the ship. A mile away.

So that was the buyer’s vessel.

“Whip and Spur. Emblem is two stallions pulling a chariot.” The witcher murmured under his breath. “I’ll remember that, you bastard.”

At a mile’s distance, no ordinary man could make out any detail of a ship on the sea. Remembering the number of masts and sails would already have been impressive.

But the Cat potion had not yet left Lannor’s blood. In his hyper-sensitive night vision, the ship’s mark had been clear.

“Lannor!” a familiar voice called from behind.

Phillip came over with a torch in hand and clapped the witcher on the shoulder as if they were old comrades.

“I didn’t expect it. Truly didn’t. I knew you witchers had skill, but how in the plague does one man cut through an entire…”

He broke off when Lannor turned silently.

Under the torchlight, the witcher’s potion-tainted face looked even stranger, even more monstrous.

The sergeant flinched hard.

But only for a moment.

Phillip respected capable men. And Lannor’s capability, in his eyes, was no longer merely impressive.

It was absurdly impressive.

Even if he had never arrived, this nest of organized armed criminals would likely have been reduced to scattered fugitives.

The witcher had broken them.

He had shattered the whole gang’s spine.

“Sorry, truly. We followed you for a while. Saw the bodies of those three barracks rats.” Phillip scratched at his beard, his expression turning awkward. “Truth is, we thought you’d lost your mind. Didn’t dare come close.”

“It was only after following farther and checking those outer camps that we judged you’d found the Man-eater hideout. Then we hurried after you.”

His face brightened as he spoke.

“Ha! Who would’ve thought? Man-eaters and child traffickers, the same lot! The lads have earned no small merit tonight, and that’s thanks to you. Wait until the lord’s reward comes down. You’ll get a proper share, no doubt.”

“Right. We guessed you came cutting through like a madman because someone had been taken. Camp’s a bloody mess now, but tell the lads what they look like. We’ll all help search.”

In truth, Phillip’s cavalry didn’t need to lend a hand—White ran himself.

Everyone knew this was the slaver camp. Here, adults might pose a threat, but children were merely cargo. So when White scurried through the chaos, searching frantically for Lannor, the soldiers carving heads from bodies paid him no mind. Seasoned veterans, sly, brutal, and grimy though they were, had official standing. Slavery and child murder were beyond their remit. Even as he stepped carefully over corpses, his legs trembling, nearly sick with fear, he reached the harbor safely.

Phillip’s torch marked their position, and the boy dashed across.

“Hey! Lannor!” he cried, excitement spilling from him. Before, he had only urged the witcher to escape, unable to imagine one man cutting through an entire camp. Now he had seen it all with his own eyes. The fear born of confinement and corpses had vanished, replaced by pure exhilaration.

Lannor was quietly grateful it was a boy—he wouldn’t launch into a clinging embrace. The boy simply hopped excitedly beside him.

A droplet of blood trickled from Lannor’s nose, hitting the sand with a faint hiss of corrosion. Even a single drop now was toxic to a normal man.

White bounded to Lannor’s side, bouncing with astonishment. “You did it, Lannor! You really beat the whole camp of bad men! I bet there were a hundred in there! No, two hundred!”

Lannor smiled faintly, though his legs were starting to weaken. After the furious battle, the temporary strength granted by the Thunderbolt Elixir was already failing against the toxin’s assault on his body. In full armor, he slumped to the sand, startling both Phillip and White.

The boy’s astonished chatter ceased as both he and Phillip moved to help, only to be halted by Lannor’s raised hand. He could not risk contact. Wiping his nose, his studded leather gauntlet left a dark streak across itself. Every bone screamed, every muscle threatened to tear, the toxin’s damage relentless.

Yet when Lannor looked at White’s wide, expectant face, he laughed aloud. He had saved him. He had fulfilled Madam Donna’s instructions and reconciled his own guilt beautifully. He had rescued a family: a mother still brave and optimistic despite everything, a child willing to risk his own life to help others escape. He had truly—done well.

“Don’t come closer. I’m… just letting out a breath,” he said.

Phillip and White exchanged uneasy glances at Lannor’s slumped grin. The witcher spoke quietly to his Intelligence Core.

“I know it now, Mentos.”

“What?”

“I have the ability to live in this world by my own will.”

His voice carried a rare, fierce confidence, almost like sunlight breaking through the blood-red night.

“This world… it cannot stop me!”

Mentos paused, matching Lannor’s tone. The witcher’s emotional curve, long tense, was finally leveling into calm.

“You’re pleased, sir. That is good. But I must speak plainly…” The synthetic voice had no emotion. “If you don’t swallow that bottle of White Honey from the Alchemy Sack now, this world won’t even need to stop a corpse.”

“….”

Lannor dug through the sack, finally finding a milky potion. White Honey, an auto-antidote prepared to counter Elixir toxicity. Hastily, he gulped it down. The blackness staining his face and eyes began to recede. Even so, until the White Honey fully took effect, the shadow persisted. Against the enhanced power of Thunderbolt and Blizzard, the basic potion was barely sufficient.

White watched anxiously, relief washing over him as Lannor drank. Phillip mirrored the reaction, his large frame visibly trembling as he exhaled.

“Mate, your face looks like a corpse… are you sure you’re alright?”

Lannor sat in the sand, palm patting his forehead with a shrug.

“Looks like a bit of trouble. If I rely on my body to metabolize the toxins alone, it’ll take half a month, and at least a full month to recover… healing properly would take nearly two months.”

“Seems the witcher’s life isn’t much of a feast,” Phillip muttered, scratching his head in exasperation.

But Lannor’s gaze swept the beach, lingering on the scattered cages, and a plan took shape.

“Sergeant, how will you handle these victims?”

“Just call me Phillip,” he said casually. “We’ll take them back to Crow’s Perch. The lord will probably make a speech, post notices—you know he won’t let this opportunity for prestige pass. Then we’ll send them home.”

“Sounds reasonable enough.” Lannor turned to White and smiled. “You’ll follow that plan, White. Mrs. Donna’s waiting at home, and I’ve got some trouble to sort.” He gestured to the black streaks still on his face.

White hesitated, but at the mention of Mrs. Donna, the boy obeyed immediately.

“Phillip, once this child is safely home, send me a letter. Drop it at the blacksmith’s in Gors Velen; I know two friends there.”

“No problem, mate. Simple enough.”

“And, you might not know, there’s a big person in that wooden cage. Before reporting the achievement to Lord Vserad, you need to get her out first. Her injuries aren’t looking good.”

“Big person? How big?” Phillip didn’t intend to refuse. Even if it were a civilian, if Lannor asked, he’d act—but still, he hedged his words.

Lannor looked at him, half-smiling, half-serious.

“Headmistress of Aretuza.”

“Cough—cough!” Phillip clutched his chest with the unlit hand, taking several moments to recover.

“York! Where’ve you gone! Ready the horses! Quick! Any wounded? Make stretchers—strong and soft, understand?”

After checking in with nearby halberdiers, Phillip hurried to help Lannor to his feet.

“All right, mate. I understand now. You led the charge, broke the camp—that earns you a big favor. Your little troubles, at Aretuza, the sorceress would sort out with a breath.”

“Thanks for that,” Lannor said weakly, standing. The favor would be useful for more than just neutralizing the toxin.

As they moved along the detention area toward Margarita’s cage, White, slightly behind, let out a delighted shout.

“Arya! You weren’t taken!”

Under the dim moonlight, a small child, exhausted, clambered from the sea onto the shore, lying back on the sand, unwilling to move. Lannor assumed this was a companion White had met while imprisoned.

When they saw the sorceress again, she was sprawled across blood-stained sand, swaying slightly as she fought to stay conscious.

Without her ruined legs, Margarita looked less like the famed headmistress of Aretuza and more like some drunk tavern woman collapsed in an alley after too much wine. Whatever strength she had forced out moments ago had clearly scourged her nerves raw.

“This… this is the headmistress of Aretuza?” Phillip asked as he helped support Lannor, disbelief plain on his face. “Aren’t sorceresses supposed to be… you know. Stunning?” He squinted at her. “She looks ordinary enough.”

“Glamour cream,” Lannor explained with a weak wave of his hand. “I asked her before. The way she talked about her looks… that confidence wasn’t fake.”

“Then we’d best be careful not to wipe the stuff off,” Phillip muttered. “I know my men. Bunch of bastards can’t keep their hands out of their breeches. You tell them she’s important, sure, but if she’s really as beautiful as the stories say, one or two idiots would still try something.”

“So they can’t control themselves, but you can’t control them either?”

“Heh.” Phillip shot him a sidelong grin. “You’ve never led men before, have you, mate? Authority’s something you spend. Waste it on every little piss-stain problem, and when real trouble comes, nobody listens anymore.”

Lannor gave him a weak thumbs-up. “Fair enough. Never been in charge of anyone. Learned something today.”

Phillip dared not waste time over the sorceress’s injuries. The horses he ordered were quickly prepared. Margarita still looked deathly pale, but her mind had mostly cleared by then.

“No stretcher,” she said firmly. “Witcher, I’ll ride with you.”

By then Lannor had already retrieved his silver sword and Pope from the edge of the forest. The poison still gnawed at the marrow of his bones, an ache like fever that would not break. But he could still ride. Barely.

“You sure you can handle it, lady?” Lannor asked, eyeing her legs suspiciously. The wounds looked half-rotten already.

Margarita rubbed at her temple. “The wounds and infection are secondary. Get me back to Aretuza quickly enough and magical healing can make my legs even lovelier than before.”

Even now, her first concern was beauty instead of walking again. Lannor genuinely could not understand how sorceresses thought.

Phillip assigned one cavalryman, York, to escort Lannor and Margarita to Gors Velen. Neither the witcher nor the sorceress looked capable of fighting much longer. The rest of the riders would bring the rescued children and the evidence gathered from the camp back to Crow’s Perch, where Lord Vserad would no doubt turn the whole affair into fresh prestige.

Lannor swung himself into the saddle, adjusting the reins alongside York, ready to depart into the night.

Margarita’s complexion had been dreadful a moment earlier. A patient rotting from infection could hardly look healthy. Yet the instant she settled onto Pope behind Lannor, she seemed to lose all the bones in her upper body, melting against him. Her expression relaxed almost immediately.

Even through layers of armor, Lannor could feel the astonishing softness and curves pressed to his back. Glamour cream altered faces, not figures.

Ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.

Was this what magic did now?

“… What are you doing?” Lannor asked, frowning.

He was young, hot-blooded, and witcher mutations did nothing to suppress hormones. But at the moment, poison was chewing through his body, and Margarita’s altered face was hardly enticing, no matter how absurdly perfect the rest of her looked.

“Nothing,” Margarita replied evenly, shaking off the strange tingling sensation crawling through her body, like a faint electric current.

Yennefer had been telling the truth.

The headmistress of Aretuza nearly shouted it in her own mind. One of her closest sorceress friends had long maintained a turbulent affair with a witcher. Their endless breakups and reconciliations were practically salon entertainment among sorceresses. During one gathering, Yennefer had casually claimed that the power coursing through a witcher’s body interfered slightly with a sorceress’s senses. Not enough to disrupt spellcasting, but enough to make certain… more intimate activities rather enjoyable.

Sorceresses, when vulgar, could make hardened men blush.

At the moment Margarita had no such intentions. She merely wanted the sensation as a crude painkiller, something to dull the agony of the rotting flesh on her legs.

Still…

She cast a discreet glance at Lannor’s back. The power inside him felt far stronger than Yennefer had ever described. Were witcher mutations different from one another? Stronger in some?

York lowered his halberd and nodded from horseback. Time to move.

Just then White came running across the beach with a soaked brown-haired child in tow. Or rather, White had been leading at first. The instant the other child spotted Lannor, she lit up and sprinted straight past White toward the witcher.

“Arya, slow down!” White shouted behind her.

York and Lannor both raised brows simultaneously. The child was a girl?

It was an understandable mistake. Arya’s brown hair and grey eyes carried a sharpness that stripped away softness. Add the small sword hanging from her belt and the wild, energetic way she moved, and she looked more like a boy than most boys. Her temper seemed tougher too. Before White could even catch up, Arya was already standing before Lannor, staring up at him with open admiration.

“My lord, you’re the greatest knight I’ve ever seen! Will you let me become your squire?”

The young witcher blinked at the sudden declaration.

“I’m not a lord, or a knight, and you don’t need formalities… no, wait. Who even is this kid?”

He turned toward York, but the halberdier looked equally confused. A man of York’s education likely barely understood formal speech himself.

The girl introduced herself before either could answer.

“Arya. Arya Stark, my lord.”

Lannor’s cat eyes swept over the child carefully. Her excitement was completely different from the other rescued children. The rest were relieved to survive. This one looked thrilled.

… Had she mistaken kidnapping and slavery for some sort of adventure?

“I’m guessing you haven’t been here very long,” Lannor muttered. Only a child newly captured could still look this optimistic.

White finally caught up and added quickly, “She was only taken yesterday. Arya shared food with us in the cage too… what was it called again?”

“Pan-fried pork pies,” Arya answered proudly. “And I wasn’t captured. I just got separated from everyone for a moment. The pies were my travel snacks.”

“Separated?” York scratched his head. “Lost your family? If they’re nearby maybe we can help you find them.”

Arya nodded. “Not just my family. The king’s procession too. We were travelling with the king to King’s Landing.”

“The king? King’s Landing?” York frowned. “What kind of nonsense are you talking? King Foltest hasn’t set foot in this mud pit for years.” To the people of Velen, “mud pit” was practically a term of endearment for their homeland.

He waved a dismissive hand. “Forget it. Girl’s probably heard too many stories and got frightened half-mad. What do you think, Lannor?”

Arya paid York little mind. The children in the cages had not even recognized the name Stark. By now she had begun suspecting what was happening to her resembled the old stories she loved as a child, the beginning of some unknown adventure.

And she adored adventures. Especially the kind involving swords.

So she kept staring at the “great knight” who had stormed an entire enemy camp alone.

Lannor, meanwhile, felt a headache coming on. Margarita simply pinched the bridge of her nose and waved impatiently.

“Bring her with us. I only care that we leave quickly. Even if we can’t find her parents, one word from me in Gors Velen and she’ll have work enough to feed herself.”

Neither the witcher nor the sorceress could tolerate their current condition any longer.

So York hauled the girl up onto his horse, and the four of them rode off into the night on two mounts.

The journey from the hills near Condal to Gors Velen was short and, mercifully, safe.

Truth be told, if Velen still harbored some dreadful threat besides a single armed criminal gang that had swelled past a hundred men, then Vserad ought to consider stepping down as lord.

Along the way, the speed of two good horses alone was enough to leave ninety-nine percent of trouble choking in the dust.

At last, shortly before Margarita’s condition could worsen any further, even with her entire upper body draped against Lannor and no sign of recovery on her face, they reached Gors Velen at midday on the second day.

This time, Lannor walked straight to the end of Kardo Street, stopping before Aretuza Academy’s magical barrier.

Little Arya seemed to be seeing magic for the first time. The barrier left her standing slack-jawed in wonder.

Yet there was no fear in her eyes. Curiosity burned too brightly for that. Excitement danced across her face as she stared at the shimmering wall.

“By the Old Gods… this is real magic!”

“Unauthorized visitors, halt.”

A woman’s voice emerged from the barrier.

Apparently the impressive-looking magical defense still required someone to stand watch. No automatic identification here.

To Lannor, that felt like the sort of lopsided development that came from following an entirely different technological path.

He dismounted. The fever-like pain burning through his body had not weakened in the slightest during the past day.

The toxicity of witcher elixirs was no joke.

The young witcher helped Margarita down. She could no longer stand on her own, so he lifted her into his arms.

“Open the gate, Saffra.”

Margarita’s voice was weak enough to seem barely audible. Still, Lannor trusted that she only spoke so softly because she knew the woman on the other side could hear.

“You know my name? Doesn’t matter. No unauthorized entry. Those are Mistress Tissaia’s orders.”

The reply came with casual indifference, like someone killing time between coats of nail polish.

Against his chest, Lannor felt Margarita draw a deep breath.

The sensation was impossible to miss.

“Saffra, I’ll cancel every holiday you have for the entire academic year.”

The sorceress hissed the threat through gritted teeth.

Then she wiped both hands across her face.

Immediately, Lannor felt something change.

It was as though a thin veil drifted away from her body.

Something hidden emerged.

Only then did he realize something unsettling.

Before this moment, he had never truly been able to focus on Margarita’s face.

That was the effect of glamour cream. Against a true sorceress, a witcher’s magical resistance could be fooled by nothing more than a smear of enchanted cosmetics.

Golden hair.

A face that remained breathtaking despite nearly ten days of suffering.

The rumors had not exaggerated. Even a woodland nymph might have struggled to rival Margarita’s beauty.

The instant the glamour cream vanished, a flurry of noise erupted beyond the barrier.

Then came a thunderous boom.

Before their eyes, the air seemed to connect to some distant void.

A doorway appeared in midair, its edges glowing yellow while its interior remained pitch black.

A portal.

“Wow…”

Even burning with fever, Lannor could not help admiring the spell.

Now that was what a great sorcerer looked like.

A second sorceress stepped through the portal.

She was beautiful as well, though in a different way.

Everything about her felt traditional, almost old-fashioned.

Judging by her appearance, Lannor would have guessed she was barely thirty.

Her hands remained folded neatly before her abdomen, a posture so dignified that it felt almost ceremonial.

And she never changed it.

Without asking a single question, the traditionally dressed sorceress took one glance at Margarita and seemed to understand exactly how badly she was injured.

“Foolish.”

She never even moved a finger.

Yet suddenly the weight vanished from Lannor’s arms.

Margarita floated upward, suspended beside her.

Arya’s eyes followed the levitating sorceress like a cat watching a dangling toy.

The woman did not ignore the others.

“You’re poisoned.”

She spoke with absolute certainty.

“No need to force yourself. Simply bringing Margarita back guarantees Aretuza’s gratitude.”

“My telekinesis is strong enough to toss the four of you, along with your horses, around like coins.”

“So if you wish, you may collapse now.”

The burden lifted from his body.

At once, exhaustion surged over Lannor like a tidal wave.

“Then… thank you.”

The sorceress inclined her head.

Immediately, Lannor felt himself rising into the air as well.

For some reason, he had the distinct impression his floating position was adjusted several times, until he was perfectly symmetrical with Margarita.

… Was this great sorceress obsessively particular about symmetry?

The thought faded.

His body, finally allowed to relax, demanded rest.

Slowly, the witcher closed his eyes.

When those amber cat eyes opened again, sunlight was pouring through the room.

He lay in an entire bed of velvet furnishings.

Not only had he never slept in such luxury since arriving in this world, he had never touched bedding this extravagant even back in his original one.

It felt like sleeping on a cloud.

Without even looking around, he knew the room must be filled with expensive furnishings and elegant decorations.

“Mentos, report toxin residue.”

“Understood, sir. Scanning in progress. Toxin residue has been reduced to zero.”

Lannor shifted slightly beneath the blankets, settling into a more comfortable position.

To sorcerers, it seemed, those toxins truly were the sort of nuisance that could be solved with a wave of the hand.

Why couldn't I have been born a sorcerer?!

In the comfort of recovery, a trace of the university student he once was resurfaced.

Then came a knock at the door.

The moment it sounded, the young man vanished, leaving only the witcher who could carve through an entire camp alone.

Margarita appeared in the doorway, seated in a wheelchair.

Both legs were wrapped heavily, almost like casts.

Yet intricate patterns covered the outer surface, and soft light pulsed beneath them.

Perhaps she had been telling the truth. Perhaps magic really could restore legs that had nearly been stripped to the bone, leaving them even more beautiful than before.

Even by the standards of his original world, the capabilities of sorcerers bordered on the absurd.

Now that she had returned to her academy, Margarita could freely draw upon resources unavailable elsewhere.

She had returned to her usual appearance.

A vibrant gown.

Gold jewelry.

The meticulous cosmetics sorceresses prized so highly.

She looked even more stunning than the moment she had wiped away the glamour cream.

A single glance from her eyes was enough to hook a soul.

The elaborate makeup did not cheapen her beauty. Instead, it elevated it, lending her features an almost regal splendor.

Her figure was lush and mature, soft and inviting as ripe fruit. Her skin seemed smooth as cream.

The gauzy dark-green dress she wore revealed much of her neckline and back.

A color that would overwhelm most women looked perfectly natural on her.

Magic could create beauty that transcended the age.

“Wait. Looking at a beautiful woman is one thing...”

“Why the hell are her eyes glowing?”

Lannor's body stiffened.

Incidentally, he was sleeping bare-chested beneath the blankets.

Margarita rolled her wheelchair closer.

“Well now. Looks like you're recovering nicely?”

As she spoke, that pale, jade-smooth hand drifted toward him, trembling slightly.

Lannor stared at her expressionlessly.

Then, without a word, he pulled the blanket a little higher.

This woman...

She did not look trustworthy.

“Are you afraid?”

Lannor’s evasiveness only seemed to amuse her more.

The sorceress doubled over laughing, and for a moment all Lannor could see was an overwhelming expanse of white.

Boing. Boing.

“Mentos, this is not the time for sound effects.”

“Sir, that sound originated from your subconscious. I merely played it back.”

“Then stop.”

“Understood, sir.”

The beautiful sorceress laughed for a while longer before raising an eyebrow at him.

“Don’t tell me you’re actually as young as you look, little witcher? I was under the impression your kind lived quite a long time.”

Lannor pressed a hand against the Pendant of the Roaring Bear rattling noisily against his chest and remained silent.

“… You’re really only in your teens?!”

Now it was Margarita’s turn to stare.

East Asian features already tended to look youthful. Lannor had not yet accumulated the scars most witchers wore on their faces. In her eyes, he looked sixteen at most.

Yet after her surprise faded, the smile on her face became even more dangerous.

A witcher barely out of childhood, perhaps not even fully trained judging by the breadth of his knowledge, yet capable of smashing through a camp of fifty men head-on.

None of those brigands had worn armor, true.

Even so, who could question that kind of combat ability?

Potential, strength, temperament, age. Every answer only deepened Margarita’s interest.

“Lady, it seems your injuries have already…”

“Call me Rita.”

The sorceress cut him off before he could finish.

Leaning against one armrest of her wheelchair, chin resting on her hand, she smiled up at him.

“You saved me. That makes us friends, Lannor. Close friends call me Rita.”

“Then… Rita.”

Lannor was not accustomed to such openly predatory attention.

Still, there probably wasn’t a man alive who would object to becoming closer to a breathtaking beauty, the sort who in his previous life would have required thousands spent on editing software just to imitate.

So he finally voiced the question that had been bothering him for days.

“How exactly did those people capture you?”

He genuinely could not understand.

He had expected some terrifying arch-sorcerer to be waiting inside the camp.

Driven by the determination to drag her out even if it killed him, he had slaughtered his way through the entire encampment.

Not a single fireball.

Not a single mage.

Nothing.

He simply could not imagine how Margarita had ended up in such a state.

For her part, the sorceress seemed entirely unconcerned by the memory.

“I told you already, Lannor. You lack common sense when it comes to dealing with sorcerers.”

Faced with the young man’s eager curiosity, she looked almost like a teacher instructing a student.

“Casting magic requires concentration. Not ordinary concentration, either. Extremely strict concentration.”

She raised a finger.

“For example, twisting your ankle or even hiccupping during a spell can cause it to fail, or produce unpredictable side effects.”

“And before a spell is cast, a sorcerer suffering from something as mundane as diarrhea is already significantly less dangerous. If they’re dealing with acute intestinal cramps, they may not be able to cast at all.”

She spread her hands.

The already generous neckline of her dress shifted lower, revealing even more pale skin. Lannor found himself nodding before he realized it.

“So, Lannor. Imagine a powerful sorceress walking down a road. A few thugs, acting entirely on impulse, knock her unconscious with slings before she notices anything suspicious. She wakes up later to discover several kilograms of flesh have been carved off her body.”

The sorceress tilted her head.

“Do you think she’d still be casting spells?”

“I get it.”

Lannor nodded.

Seen from that angle, sorcerers were surprisingly fragile.

Their resistance to poison and physical hardship was little different from that of ordinary people.

Feed them a laxative and they’d spend the day suffering.

Compared to witchers, who swallowed poison for buffs, it was hardly the same league.

For the first time in a long while, the young man felt a small measure of comfort regarding the strengths of his own profession.

“What are your plans now, Lannor?”

Margarita asked.

“You seemed very eager to purge the toxins and recover your strength. Do you have unfinished business?”

The easygoing atmosphere vanished from Lannor instantly.

His cat eyes cooled.

The hand resting upon the velvet blanket slowly clenched into a fist.

“Heh…”

“The account with those traffickers hasn’t been settled yet.”

The words were calm.

Too calm.

After he spoke, Margarita felt the room grow colder.

“It isn’t settled? By now the news about the kidnappings and cannibalism is probably still traveling toward Crow’s Perch. I barely knew what was happening back then. Did someone escape?”

“Not someone.”

Lannor shook his head.

“The biggest fish never got caught.”

“The Head Devourer boarded a cargo ship with more than twenty children.”

His gaze hardened.

“Bringing you here wasn’t just about detoxifying myself or helping you recover.”

“I saved your life, Rita. Aretuza owes me a favor.”

“And I’m going to collect.”

“I’ll use that debt to obtain what I need. Then I’ll find the Head Devourer, hunt down his buyers, and kill every last one of them.”

The sorceress studied him with obvious interest.

That night in the camp, she had already understood the strength of the witcher’s will.

There was something in him she admired.

A variation of knightly virtue.

“You don’t need to spend Aretuza’s favor for that, little witcher.”

Her voice softened.

“My injuries. The death of my student. Those are debts the academy intends to collect as well.”

“If it’s you, then I’d be happy to appoint you as the academy’s debt collector.”

She waved a hand dismissively.

“You have an allowance of one thousand orens. Anything the academy possesses, if you need it and the total remains under that amount, it’s yours.”

Just like that, she handed him access to a staggering sum.

One of the most famous monster contracts in Temeria, the lifting of a princess’s curse, had reportedly paid only three thousand orens.

The witcher who completed it had been called the White Wolf.

Or the Butcher of Something-or-Other.

At least, that’s how Lannor remembered it.

The wheelchair turned.

Margarita began rolling toward the door.

“Your equipment is stored in the chest beside the bed. If you need anything, contact me directly.”

At the doorway, the blonde beauty glanced back over her shoulder.

A smile curved her lips.

“Recover quickly, little witcher.”

“Then let the hunt begin.”

The door closed.

The wheelchair continued down the corridor.

Waiting outside was the traditionally dressed sorceress.

Compared to Margarita, her clothing was remarkably conservative.

Yet by ordinary standards, even noble standards, the neckline remained rather daring.

“You’re interested in that witcher.”

The older sorceress walked alongside the chair.

“That’s not a bad choice. Better than a normal man, certainly. Assuming nothing unfortunate happens, he could remain beside you for centuries.”

Margarita sighed.

“Revenge is necessary. Mandatory, even. But that’s not what you’re really worried about, is it, Tissaia?”

“You know exactly what concerns me.”

“Yes, Tissaia. Yes.”

The blonde sorceress rubbed her forehead.

For all her magical talent, she had little interest in the political games beloved by so many of her peers.

Among sorcerers, she was something of an anomaly.

“The situation in both the North and South grows more unstable every year. That’s why you want me to become rector.”

“Two arch-sorceresses serving as rectors would strengthen Aretuza’s position.”

The woman who preferred pleasure over power sounded thoroughly miserable.

A trace of complaint slipped into her voice.

Tissaia ignored it.

“I trained you. I know your capabilities.”

“Your magical talent surpasses Philippa, Triss, Keira, and all those others obsessed with politics.”

“I dislike politics myself. But you must understand, Rita.”

She looked directly into her student’s eyes.

Her elegant face was calm as a still lake.

“We must protect Aretuza.”

“We must protect the legacy of magic.”

Her tone sharpened.

“That means you need to address the incident that left you crippled outside academy grounds.”

“The damage to Aretuza’s prestige is immense.”

“An arch-sorceress stripped nearly to the bone…”

Tissaia clicked her tongue.

“That doesn’t merely harm your reputation. It damages the standing of all sorcerers.”

“You were meant to strengthen the academy’s authority when you became rector.”

Margarita looked faintly embarrassed.

Tissaia paid it no mind.

“You think highly of that witcher. I agree he’s exceptional. Among warriors, he stands near the top.”

“In that case, increase the allowance.”

“Raise it from one thousand orens to fifteen hundred.”

The older sorceress reached out and adjusted Margarita’s collar until both sides were perfectly symmetrical.

“Cover him with the academy’s marks.”

“Your marks.”

A faint smile touched her lips.

“Perhaps… we can gain an academy hunter.”

Lannor had no notion of what the academy expected of him, only the icy chill crawling along his spine.

“So much for professional warmth. These coins are cold enough to bite,” the witcher muttered under his breath. “Too cold. These coins are too cold!”

The massive, unwieldy bag of money swung in his hands, heavy enough to be cumbersome. Each coin was a cold testament to the merciless laws of profit, to the world’s dirty power and authority… yet there were so many that even muttering to himself, Lannor’s lips twitched into a rare, satisfied grin. The sheer weight of the bag was enough to coax a smile from even a cold-hearted witcher.

Fifteen hundred Orens, half again more than expected for some reason, and yet that was a blessing. Margarita had handed him cash outright, letting him deal directly with the academy’s departments in charge of sale and distribution. Had he taken from the reserves, they would have had to assign someone to monitor and appraise his haul. As it was, handing over coin simplified the bureaucracy.

With ten Orens a day, he bought temporary access to one of Aretuza’s alchemy classrooms. Only a magic academy could command such a price and make it seem reasonable.

“But it’s worth it, sir,” Mentos reminded him, a note of caution in his tone. “Alchemy follows fixed protocols. We can master them quickly, provided we have the correct equipment and environment. Just this convenience alone exceeds the value of ten Orens.”

“I know, I know… but I’m the one paying. Isn’t it fair I get a say?” Lannor muttered, walking toward the classroom with the Intelligence Core in conversation.

His lodging was on the ground floor of the vast castle-island, in a section called Loxia Palace, adorned with lavish artistry. The upper levels were for lectures and major assemblies, reserved for kings or their retinue. Lannor, however, was headed for the teaching areas above.

At the door to the alchemy room, a small brown-haired, grey-eyed girl waited, clutching a massive bundle.

“Good morning, my lord.”

“Arya, again, I’m not a ‘my lord’… where did you learn all this formal nonsense?” Lannor said, exasperated, reaching for the bundle as she ducked aside. Inside were the materials for today’s alchemy exercises—mostly leafy plants, surprisingly light despite appearances.

York had already returned to Crow’s Perch that day, but Arya refused to be separated from Lannor, peppering questions about her home, family, and phrases like “Winterfell” and “Direwolf Sigil,” words unfamiliar even to Margarita. Seeing the girl so determined to be the protagonist of her own knightly story, Margarita had not bothered to place her in menial town work, letting her serve as Lannor’s assistant.

“I’ve collected ten ounces of honeysuckle, three bottles of high-purity dwarven spirits, twenty ounces of dried black hellebore petals…” the girl rattled off from a slip of paper, swallowing nervously with each item. Lannor noted her anxiety and excitement—like a new apprentice fearful of messing up on the first day.

“Don’t be so tense. Today’s practice. I don’t even know what I’ll make,” he said.

“Oh… yes, sir!” she replied eagerly.

Lannor shook his head, pushing open the classroom door, thinking the child must have come from some remote kingdom via a teleportation accident. Her poise and confidence had a natural air.

The alchemy room felt oddly familiar, reminiscent of high school chemistry labs from his home world, scaled up and refined for the academy. Distillation flasks, beakers, graduated cylinders, mortars, and test tube racks gleamed in careful arrangement. Sorcerers might not need glassware, but they always had the finest.

“Yes! Even before touching anything, my proficiency is rising, Mentos. I was a master of precise titrations back in high school chemistry,” he whispered, delighted by the familiarity.

Mentos, ever practical, shot him down. “Illusion, sir. All materials are raw, unrefined, unlike the precise compounds you used at school. Even just managing concentrations will be a challenge.”

Lannor paid no mind, placing the bundle on the table. A flicker of orange Igni light from his palm set the candles in the room ablaze with a soft ‘pop’.

Training Protocol

Status: Initiated

Directive: Practice Commenced

Project Initialization — Elixir: Swallow

Status: Established

At Lannor’s command, Mentos engaged in full support mode.

Alchemy Module

Command: Accepted

Assistance: Initiated

Elixir Recipe — Swallow

Data Entry: Completed

Process: …

Mentos’ perfect recall made the alchemy session smooth—or at least, outwardly so. Lannor’s mind was free of the usual confusion in a new lab. To Arya, surrounded by strange glassware, it was dizzying; to Lannor, he memorized placement at a glance, reaching instinctively for the vessel he needed.

Raw materials passed over a small, precise balance for herbs before being transferred to mortars and distillation flasks. His potion recipes, designed for hunting, were far simpler than the academy’s theoretical concoctions. After the session, a pile of utensils awaited cleaning. Lannor delegated the task to Arya, instructing at least three rinses with clean water before air-drying.

“Thirty minutes for a single Swallow… efficiency too low,” he muttered, holding the glowing red potion. Mentos retreated from assistant mode.

Skill Analysis — Alchemy

Status: In Progress

Proficiency: 23%

Advisory: With respect, confirmation recommended prior to efficiency optimization. Target Verification: Elixir — Swallow

Lannor shrugged, sipping the red potion. The taste drew a grimace.

“… You’re right, Mentos.” His face tightened. “This is, at best, strong spirits with a medicinal bite.”

The first alchemy exercise—a failure.

For a witcher, this was little more than strong spirits with a medicinal bite.

For an ordinary human, though, the potion would still leave them dizzy and sick to the stomach, even if it did not kill them outright. The real problem was concentration.

Lannor pinched a dried honeysuckle petal between his fingers and frowned at it. The medicinal compounds in crude materials were not distributed evenly. According to Bordon’s notes, the useful essence of this particular honeysuckle gathered near the outer edge of the petal, furthest from the stem. The lower fifth contained barely anything of value.

And that was only within a single petal. Flowers from different regions varied even more wildly.

Alchemists compensated through instinct and experience, adjusting quantities by eye and feel until the final potion reached a workable concentration.

Back in China, traditional medicine adapted into modern pharmaceutical methods relied on molecular extraction, isolating active compounds into nearly pure substances pressed into tablets. But in the world Lannor now inhabited, talking about molecular engineering bordered on fantasy.

After a brief silence, he made his decision.

“Mentos, if we abandon our existing chemistry-based methodology and instead follow the local alchemical framework directly, how quickly can we learn?”

“Estimated completion time for complete mastery of Swallow production: approximately ten hours of practice.”

Most of those ten hours would not be spent brewing, but cataloguing medicinal content and building an experiential database.

A conventional alchemist devoted the better part of a lifetime to identifying herbs. They had only ordinary human senses to rely on, memorizing scent, texture, color, moisture, bitterness. Miss practice for a day and the hands dulled; miss three and even the mind lost its sharpness.

But Lannor and Mentos could treat every petal of every flower as an independent sample. One sack of dried blossoms gave them more raw data than a human alchemist might accumulate across decades.

After all, ordinary alchemists only discovered whether their instincts were correct after the potion was complete.

Wasn’t experience the goal? Then this was experience taken to its logical extreme.

And Mentos’ perfect memory meant Lannor would never suffer skill degradation.

The method resembled training an artificial intelligence to play chess or go. Forget theory, forget elegant understanding. Feed it samples. Endless samples.

“We’ll proceed this way, Mentos. If we eventually develop a more precise method, we can return to rigorous chemistry. Right now we need workable potions, fast.”

Command Update

Directive: Received

Support Mode: Transitioning…

Status: Completed

Instruction:

Initiate Ingredient Identification

Objective: Expand Data Capacity

From Arya’s perspective, Lannor suddenly abandoned all the impressive glassware. Instead, he dumped the entire sack of raw ingredients across the table, petals, leaves, roots, stems, then leaned over them one by one. He watched them closely, sniffed them lightly, even touched some with the tip of his tongue.

A witcher’s heightened senses proved terrifyingly useful in laboratory work.

As more herbal data entered the database, his Alchemy proficiency climbed at a visible pace.

Swallow alone required roughly ten hours of practice. Beyond that, he still needed to learn Raffard the White, capable of rapidly restoring Life Force, and most importantly enhanced White Honey, the antidote that could neutralize overwhelming toxicity.