"As you can see, this is a book."
Seeing Allen craning his head to peer into the saddlebag, Erland of Larvik smiled gently.
He glanced toward the figure of Jerome Moreau, who was walking toward the Sorcerers' Brotherhood fortress at the forward outpost to collect supplies for the Griffin School, and said, "Last month, when I met Brother Jerome—who had been missing for many years—at Kaer Seren, I kept thinking about what I should give you as a token of thanks."
"Uh, there's really no need," Allen hurriedly shook his head and handed the heavy saddlebag back. "The Chief often tells us that the Wolf School and the Griffin School share the same origin, that we are brothers. I believe that if Griffin School witchers had encountered the same situation, they wouldn't have stood by and done nothing either."
Erland of Larvik raised an eyebrow. "Did Sol really say that?"
"Uh—" Caught off guard by Erland focusing on that point, Allen found himself at a loss for words.
Erland of Larvik gently shook his head and gave a bitter smile. "Sol Henrietta wouldn't say something like that. I'm afraid that aside from Arnaghad, I may be the person he hates most in this world."
"After all, Arnaghad and I are both destroyers and gravediggers of the Witcher Order—arsonists who set a great fire but lacked the ability to put it out."
"The collapse of the Witcher Order can't be blamed on you," Allen said sincerely. "It was an inevitability brought about by the decline of the magical tide and the crude systems established by the sorcerers."
From the perspective of later generations, Erland—who had been among the first witchers and held a status in the Order almost equivalent to that of a Chief after Alzur and Cosimo Malaspina departed—had indeed failed to fulfill the responsibilities a Chief should have borne. He should have been alert the moment ideological deviations appeared within the Order, guiding and educating in time.
After bloodshed occurred, he should not have acted like a hot-headed youth, conducting a merciless trial against Arnaghad purely out of anger and fervor after Arnaghad returned to the Order with a large group of supporters.
Either he should have steeled his heart and ambushed and killed Arnaghad halfway, eliminating a rule-breaker who attacked his comrades.
Or he should have temporarily compromised, confirming that the situation was beyond repair before seeking another way to deal with Arnaghad.
At the very least, he should not have allowed war to erupt without warning within the witchers' stronghold of Mograg Castle.
That place housed not only witchers, but also apprentices who had yet to fully grow—immature in thought, yet already possessing considerable martial power.
Thus, a bloody war with catastrophic casualties broke out.
But that was judgment from the present vantage point.
The Witcher Order was an armed organization founded by Cosimo Malaspina and Alzur to eradicate monsters. All witchers were merely weapons, not leaders.
They hired the finest swordmasters on the Northern Continent, brought in alchemists from the alchemical homeland of Vicovaro, and even personally refined spells into Signs more suitable for witchers—
Yet they would never teach them how to allocate resources, how to maintain the growth of a faction through political balance, or how to become—
A leader.
They would not.
Witchers were weapons, and weapons did not need too much thought.
So when Cosimo Malaspina and Alzur were still with the Witcher Order, everything was naturally stable. But once they left without looking back, division became inevitable.
Could one really expect someone who had trained relentlessly from early childhood, then spent adulthood killing and killing, to manage a massive Witcher Order?
Impossible.
Thus, Allen was not merely offering comfort—this was truly how he saw it.
"Who was right and who was wrong is already very hard to say," Erland of Larvik shook his head. "More than two hundred years have passed. Sometimes, when I think back on that turmoil sparked by disputes, Arnaghad doesn't seem quite so worthy of hatred anymore."
His gaze lifted slightly, passing over Allen's shoulder and the narrow castle of the expedition outpost, settling on the far-off horizon.
The evening glow was crimson like blood, spread across the skyline, just like the Mograg he would never forget from that day.
"Arnaghad came from the heartland of long-fallen Gemmera. He and I both passed the Trial of the Grasses, but he wasn't among the first batch of witchers to descend the mountain—he was in the third," Erland of Larvik suddenly said after gazing at the sunset for a few seconds.
"I remember clearly: that burly man from Gemmera, towering and powerfully built, shoulders nearly nine palms wide, always draped in a tattered bearskin cloak."
"Back then, in his laboratory at Rissberg, Alzur said that Arnaghad's constitution was extremely special—the dosage of decoctions wasn't enough."
"And later, it was indeed proven that Arnaghad was the most powerful witcher the Witcher Order ever produced."
"How powerful?" Allen couldn't help asking.
He was genuinely curious about those ancient witchers who were contemporaries of Sol.
Erland of Larvik smiled. "Extremely powerful. But at first, I didn't realize it, because Arnaghad didn't like to participate in the winter sparring matches witchers used to warm themselves. Every winter, after returning to the Order, he was like a hibernating brown bear—either sleeping or drinking alone."
"Until—that afternoon—"
Erland of Larvik took a deep breath. His smile faded, and his voice grew low and distant, like a whisper flowing out from the cracks of time itself.
"That afternoon, after the fighting broke out, I engaged in a life-and-death battle with another witcher for the first time. Blades flashed, magic and fire filled the entire hall."
"Combat instinct overrode my thoughts. My body automatically dodged every sword thrust and every whistling Sign."
"Soon, I brought down one of Arnaghad's followers. But before I could catch even a moment's breath, I saw Arnaghad charging straight at me."
"This kin-slayer, the source of all calamity, decided to face me personally."
"The very first blow nearly took my life. My shield was shattered, a sword struck my face, blood pouring freely. I could feel my veins roaring, my vision growing increasingly blurred. I still struggled to parry his attacks, hoping for a chance to unleash an Aard at him."
"Unfortunately—"
Erland of Larvik gently touched the ferocious scar on his face, which had gradually faded with the passage of time. He paused, then shook his head. "I never got that chance. Before long, my thoughts broke off in the prolonged battle."
"I lost."
Allen couldn't help drawing in a sharp breath. This was practically a one-sided defeat.
But it made sense. If Arnaghad hadn't been so overwhelmingly strong, how could a cold-blooded and selfish witcher have gathered so many supporters?
Witchers were warriors.
And warriors thought simply—strength commanded reverence.
"But I remember that in the end, it was still Arnaghad who fled Mograg with his people?" Allen asked.
Erland of Larvik took a deep breath and slowly closed his eyes, as if the blood-red sunset had stabbed his vision.
"That was because our compatriots drove Arnaghad and his supporters away with blood."
"Mograg Castle ran with rivers of blood. From witchers to apprentices, nearly half of those who survived were severely wounded. Everyone was covered in scars. Corpses piled up like mountains in the open ground before Mograg Castle—"
"And every night afterward, the ghosts of the fallen witchers wandered among the heaps of bodies, dyeing every night's dreams blood-red."
"I'm sorry," Allen said. Even without mind-reading, he could feel Erland of Larvik's pain—a wound that still ached faintly after centuries.
Erland of Larvik shook his head and steered the conversation back. "Your interest in that history is a good thing. That is precisely the purpose of history—to keep later generations from repeating the same mistakes."
"I can tell that Sol intends to pass the Wolf School on to you. That's why becoming thoroughly familiar with that chapter of the Witcher Order's history, absorbing our mistakes and negligence, and then refining your Witcher Corps is especially important."
"That's why you need it."
Erland of Larvik pointed at the heavy saddlebag in Allen's hands.
"So what's inside is the history of the Witcher Order?" Allen asked curiously.
"No," Erland shook his head. "Inside are my life's story, the history of the rise and fall of the witchers, and some monster-hunting knowledge."
"You can treat it as my notes and diary. Whenever there was something worth recording, I wrote it down. It should be of some help to you."
The casual writings of a Grandmaster witcher, spanning more than two hundred years?!
Allen froze, instantly feeling as if the saddlebag in his hands weighed a five hundred kilograms.
Then he suddenly remembered—
In the future of the original canon, after Erland of Larvik awakened from the great avalanche that destroyed the entire Griffin School, and before he left Kaer Seren in disappointment—
In order to pass on the wisdom of the witchers and let later generations understand the truth, Erland compiled his life, the rise and fall of the witchers, and monster-hunting knowledge into a single book for posterity, and then vanished without a trace.
That book seemed to be called—
Monster Hunting Notes!
Which meant this was not merely a book, but a legacy—the complete inheritance of an entire Griffin School.
"This—this—this is far too precious!"
Allen hurriedly tried to refuse, feeling as though the saddlebag in his hands was heavier than the Blue Mountains, hotter and more scorching than molten lava.
Though he wanted to win over the Griffin School and rebuild the Witcher Order, merely saving Jerome Moreau was nowhere near worthy of such an extravagant reward.
Seeing Allen like this, Erland of Larvik burst out laughing. "There's no need to be like that. Whether Sol acknowledges it or not, we are brothers—of different blood, but of the same will. You are Sol's child, which makes you my nephew."
"This meeting gift is just right."
"But—" Allen still felt uneasy.
"Take it," Erland of Larvik said sternly. "If you truly want to change the decay and sluggishness of the Witcher Order and the witcher schools, and perfect the Witcher Corps, then take it."
"This isn't just for you alone."
Allen could no longer refuse. He nodded.
"Then thank you, Grandmaster Erland."
Although out of courtesy he kept refusing, deep down Allen truly coveted this Monster Hunting Notes.
After all, if it was the Monster Hunting Notes from his memories—
Then it represented the complete inheritance of the Griffin School: from the decoctions used in the Choice and the Trial of the Grasses, to Griffin School sword techniques, unique Signs, combat methods, and even the crafting of hand crossbows and bolts.
Erland's life story within it was far more than a witcher's diary. It was a first-person historical account of the Witcher Order and the Griffin School as seen by someone who had personally lived through it.
Beyond that, it even recorded the rise and fall of extraordinary forces such as the Sorcerers' Brotherhood and the Druid Circles, as well as the changes among various secular kingdoms.
The Griffin School was not like the Wolf School—they placed great importance on dealings with nobility.
Thus, the value of this life record alone was immeasurable. If a historian from Oxenfurt or a scholar of noble genealogies were to see this book, they would certainly not trade it even for a noble title.
Because it would mean countless papers of enormous influence—enough to elevate a scholar's social standing far above that of ordinary nobles, even those with real political power.
This would be extremely useful for Allen to understand the current shifts in the world's situation and to quickly identify allies before the Wild Hunt invaded this world and the White Frost descended.
Of course, even more importantly—
Since it contained monster-hunting knowledge, it would certainly include information on monster distributions and the characteristics of habitats where powerful monsters dwelled.
Although the Wolf School was now planning to occupy Ban Ard City, which had been teleported deep into Dol Dhu Lokke, as the school's new stronghold,
That plan was still far from settled, and in the future it would be impossible for all witchers to be stationed in Dol Dhu Lokke.
Scarce monsters would not necessarily all be found in this Valley of Thousand Monsters.
Moreover, this monster-hunting knowledge would still be of great value even within Dol Dhu Lokke itself.
"That's more like it," Erland of Larvik said, the warmth returning to his smile.
Next, Erland asked about the details of the Witcher Corps and secondary mutations.
Allen also took this opportunity to ask Erland quite a few questions about Arnaghad, the Bear School Grandmaster.
On one hand, he was genuinely curious about that strongest witcher who had once utterly overpowered Erland. On the other hand, it was because in this expedition, the Bear School was a highly unstable factor.
Though they were also a witcher school, the Bear School was cold and ruthless, concerned only with profit and reward, and could draw swords against their own kind at any time.
It was entirely possible that they might be bought off by the Rogrides family, or by other extraordinary forces harboring deep hostility toward the Wolf School, and turn against them.
This intense and satisfying conversation lasted until dusk fully settled, torches in the camp were lit with roaring flames, and the school's witchers had all returned—only then did it have to end.
Allen felt a bit reluctant.
He realized that he had never spoken so freely and enjoyably with another witcher before—not even with Vesemir or Sol.
"This expedition will give us plenty of time together," Erland said, noticing Allen's lingering interest. He patted Allen on the shoulder and smiled. "If you have questions, come find me anytime—no matter what they are."
"I will," Allen nodded firmly. Then he picked up the saddlebag from the ground and prepared to leave.
As he lifted it, the parchment book inside the saddlebag swayed slightly.
A corner of the ancient cover embossed with the title Monster Hunting Notes happened to brush against the back of Allen's hand.
The next second—
"Ding!"
A cold system notification sound rang out.
........