Before he could even make it back to the camp, not long after parting ways with Erland of Larvik, Allen couldn't resist opening his saddlebags and peering inside by firelight.
Monster Hunting Notes was not a single bound volume, but stack upon stack of parchment books—dozens of them—neatly piled inside the bag.
Allen took out the first one and opened to the title page.
There were only two sentences written there: [A few hundred years are enough for humanity to forget the hardships of the past, to forget where their nursery rhymes came from, and to forget why they once shut their doors tight at night.]
[We witchers exist for only one reason: to deal with the monsters humanity cannot face.]
The parchment was old, but the handwriting was new.
The grooves carved by the quill were deeply embedded in the page, carrying disappointment and resentment that seemed ready to overflow.
These words were most likely written by Erland after dealing with the true culprit behind the avalanche.
Allen let out a soft sigh and turned the page.
[Kaer Seren nearly fell. It almost got buried under an entire mountain of ice and snow.]
[When Jerome brought back the prophecy foretelling the destruction of the Griffin School, Keldar and several other brothers refused to believe it. But the moment I heard it, I realized—he was right.]
[The King of Poviss, who seized power through a coup, had previously refused to let the Griffin School enter the royal court because of our neutrality at a critical moment, even branding witchers as unwelcome. Yet not long ago, he suddenly established the post of Court Monster Consultant—separate from the royal mage advisor—and offered immense wealth to invite Griffin School witchers to serve.]
[Kaer Seren stands atop sheer cliffs, far from human settlements, a dead end for merchants. Yet the Truth of All Things Trading Guild of the Sorcerers' Brotherhood, renowned across the Northern Continent, set up a trade outpost on the cliffs along the Poviss coastline—without any invitation from the School.]
[And then there were the repeatedly 'friendly' visits from openly hostile sorcerer factions, the sudden flood of high-paying commissions and ball invitations from nobles—]
[All the confusing and unsettling signs of recent years were finally confirmed in that moment.]
[I suddenly understood that the noise within Kaer Seren denying Jerome Moreau was itself the dense fog blinding witchers' senses.]
[It lured us with false goodwill, fantasies of the future, and comfortable lives— so we could not see, behind the fog, greed baring its fangs, ready to carve up a piece of meat already placed on the table.]
[So I held back my brothers of the Griffin School and, under cover of night, went to the Truth of All Things Trading Guild.]
[We saw mountains of magical materials, openly stacked behind the counter where Griffin School witchers purchased supplies.]
[Wagon after wagon—mules' hooves wrapped in cloth, mouths tightly bound—were transporting these materials toward the Dragon Mountains opposite Kaer Seren Castle, a hostile land of perpetual snow.]
[We followed the convoy, walking hidden paths paved with gravel, deeper into the mountains.]
[I suddenly remembered that this very route—so dangerous that even Griffin School witchers rarely traveled it—had been opened two years ago, when the Guild claimed they needed wyvern hides and commissioned our brothers to clear the way.]
[We kept going.]
[Hearing mortals and mages speak filth about the School and witchers, our teeth clenched and fists tightened unconsciously.
By then, there was no need for proof—the malice of the Truth of All Things Trading Guild and those greedy sorcerers wasn't even hidden.]
[But we didn't kill them immediately to vent our anger.
At least, not yet.]
[Even though Keldar, Lucien, and Daniel already had their hands on their sword hilts.]
[Lucien looked at me, then at Jerome, shame flooding his face.
I felt that compared to killing these greedy, despicable humans, he wanted even more to draw his blade and cut off his own head.]
[Because he was the Griffin School witcher who had opened this road—and the same man who had recently scolded Jerome, speaking in defense of the merchants and sorcerers.]
[I stopped them, though the fury burned just as fiercely in my own heart.]
[We followed them to a magically carved cavern and watched them unload the cargo.]
[Then, instead of stopping, the Griffin School witchers exited the cave and followed the worn trail deeper still, into the snowbound heights of the mountains.]
[Soon, I saw familiar things. Countless priceless magical materials—many of them gifts the Griffin School had once given the Guild in good faith—rows of tents, and robed sorcerers moving in and out—]
[At last, beneath the eternally snow-covered Dragon Mountains, we saw a massive ritual array—nearly half the size of Kaer Seren Castle itself.]
[The array was almost complete, lacking only the final quarter.]
[At most, in another year, once it was finished and activated on some dark night, Kaer Seren would be utterly destroyed by a colossal avalanche—just as the prophecy foretold.]
[I don't know how many of our people would survive that disaster.
But I know exactly who must bear the blame.]
[I have always feared that sorcerers' jealousy toward us would lead to madness. In the end, it did. This time, I saw clearly that human greed has no bottom.]
[After the avalanche, mages and kings would soon arrive, like vultures, scouring the ruins for what they have long coveted—
'the secrets of the Griffin School.']
[But what are those secrets?]
[They are children of seven or eight torn from their parents.
Honor upheld through endless training.
Potions so bitter they churn the stomach.
Decoctions that dissolve blood and bone with pain so intense it drives one toward suicide.
Trials where nine out of ten die.
Mountains of corpses and graves behind Kaer Seren—]
[Kings want to use these 'secrets' to create death soldiers loyal only to them.
Sorcerers covet the Griffin School's accumulated research into the roots of magic—]
[Then I would rather bury these secrets forever!]
[Goodwill is rarely repaid—]
Here, the forceful handwriting paused. The next line was much lighter; perhaps Grandmaster Erland was calming himself—or dealing with other matters.
Though Erland did not write how he dealt with the humans and sorcerers after discovering the plot to purge the Griffin School, it wasn't hard to guess.
By the time these words were written, the half-finished avalanche ritual array in the Dragon Mountains had likely already been soaked in blood.
The Griffin School had always been the gentlest and most elegant of the witcher schools.
Often, where the Wolf School would demand payment, Griffin School witchers waived their fees and hunted monsters for free.
But mercy did not extend to this.
Witchers were warriors—warriors who fought for most of the year.
No one who lived that life would watch an enemy draw their blade and refuse to strike back.
Impossible.
Sol's earlier compromises had only been because "Glutton" Henselt and the male mage of Ban Ard were extremely well hidden.
Had they discovered such a ritual array behind Kaer Morhen, the Wolf School wouldn't have needed Allen's persuasion—they would have slaughtered every sorcerer and accomplice, then marched straight to Ard Carraigh to demand an explanation from "Glutton" Henselt.
"I wonder how Grandmaster Erland handled relations with the other powers before heading down the mountain for the expedition…"
Allen thought this as he continued reading.
[We won't dwell on these disheartening matters.]
[Though I should have thanked you already, I want to express my gratitude once more here.]
[If not for you, the Griffin School— the treasure that sustained my entire life—would no longer exist.]
[And one more thing—]
[Allen, you are a rare witcher gifted with prophecy.
The light fate bestowed upon you can pierce the river of years, pierce time and space itself.]
[I even believe that what you have seen—the prejudice and discrimination this world holds toward witchers and non-humans—is not much less than what I have witnessed.]
[But I still want to tell you this:greed may be humanity's norm, but it is not humanity's only norm.]
[I still remember Taliesin Bleddyn Yorath aep Lywelyn—
whom we usually called Gryphon— the wandering knight from whom the spirit of the Griffin School was born.]
[He taught me how to fight while forgetting pain.
More importantly, he reminded us of our mission: we are not chaotic byproducts, not failed experiments—we are the world's destined saviors.]
[I also remember my very first commission in southern Kaedwen—to deal with a pack of necrophages.]
[When we returned to the village, our bodies scarred by corrosive acid, we were met with suspicion and wariness—but also free food, shelter, and heartfelt cheers of gratitude.]
[And never forget—we were once human. We chose this path to face the monsters humanity could not.]
Erland was worried that I might grow extreme because of humanity's actions?
Allen smiled bitterly and shook his head.
Still… if he really were just an ordinary fourteen-year-old witcher, witnessing so much cruelty from humans and sorcerers in a single year, hatred would be hard to avoid.
That thought served as a reminder.
Allen himself, tempered by two lifetimes, wouldn't lose himself.
But the young witchers of the Witcher Corps weren't reincarnators.
After seeing—and suffering through—so many betrayals, especially Hughes, Bont, and Fred, their mindsets were bound to change.
That needed attention.
Rustle!
After thinking it through, Allen turned another page.
And this ordinary motion made his azure, feline pupils suddenly contract.
[Allen, from the stories Jerome told, I can hear your ambition.]
[You want to rebuild the Witcher Order.]
It was a statement, not a question.
Staring at that short sentence, Allen felt as though he were gazing through the dim yellowed parchment, locking eyes with those dark-golden, world-weary feline pupils. A sudden shiver ran through him.
[Hahaha, don't be afraid. There are very few witchers who haven't fantasized about returning to that moment of our birth—back to the age when all witchers, regardless of School, sat around the hearth together, drinking fragrant wine and sharing tales of the hunt.]
[I, too, often dream of that era. Though I was a deserter of that age…and also its gravedigger—]
[Take a good look at this Monster Hunting Notes, Dragon Slayer, child of Sol Henrietta and Vera Triennes, the Crimson Fox.]
[Look at the former glory of witchers. Look at the foresight, obsession, and selfishness of Alzur and Cosimo Malaspina.
Look at Arnaghad's cold cruelty, and—]
[—my own foolishness.]
[As for rebuilding the Witcher Order—when you're confident enough, why not?]
Whether this was meant as a preface or simply an emotional outpouring, it ended here.
"Was I really that obvious?"
Allen murmured to himself as he glanced back toward the Griffin School's stronghold, its dim candlelight flickering in the distance.
Thinking it over… it really hadn't been all that subtle.
Going to Tomas Moreau's laboratory to save Jerome Moreau could still be called an accident—or simply the kind of thing a Wolf School witcher would do.
Foreseeing the destruction of the Griffin School and deliberately asking Jerome Moreau to return and warn them could be explained as empathy and concern between orthodox witchers who shared the same ideals.
But sharing the technique of secondary mutation—and doing so for free—even if Jerome Moreau had played a part in it, really was a bit too generous.
Not to mention allowing Jerome Moreau to openly confess his identity as a Child of Miracles—
Putting it all together…
Yeah.
It was kind of obvious.
But if he hadn't been that obvious, how else was he supposed to show goodwill and "farm" affinity?
The real issue was that Erland of Larvik was simply too perceptive.
As expected of the Griffin School's Grandmaster—experts in Signs and social finesse alike.
If it had been one of the blunt Wolf School witchers, it would have been hard for them to guess his intentions so quickly.
"Luckily, the outcome was good."
With that thought, Allen's gaze shifted to the other side of the parchment book.
On the reverse was a text whose handwriting and parchment both carried the unmistakable weight of long years past.
Its title read:
Life Before Becoming a Witcher
He skimmed it briefly.
It seemed to recount Erland of Larvik's life before he became a witcher. Judging by the texture of the parchment, it had been written many years ago.
Still, it probably wasn't from the era of the Witcher Order.
At the earliest, it must have been written around the founding of the Griffin School.
Perhaps Erland wished to reflect on who he had been during the Order's era— or perhaps emotion had simply overtaken him, and he wanted to leave something behind—
"Ha…"
Allen let out a long breath and did not continue reading.
There were dozens of volumes of Monster Hunting Notes—at a glance, at least thirty—filling the four large, seemingly custom-made saddlebags on both sides. There was no need to rush.
What mattered right now was—
Ding—Detected a Main Quest: [Song of the White Griffin's Soul]——
Ding—Main Quest [Song of the White Griffin's Soul], First Stage completed. Rewards obtained——
.......