The witcher had chosen this swampy campsite for a reason. It was clear now that he'd been waiting for something, for the very creature looming behind Aldric's back. His tone was calm and measured, as though lecturing in a classroom rather than in the dead of night.
"The earliest enemies of witchers were monsters and Hags like this one," Gonz said evenly. "But nowadays, with Chaos creatures and cultist running rampant, many witchers have forgotten their original duties. Tonight, I'm teaching you a lesson."
He continued his explanation with the patience of a seasoned instructor.
"Water Hags usually appear in the form of drowned women. They move without sound and sometimes can materialize directly behind their targets. They prefer to prey on young men above all others."
Behind Aldric, the "woman" was clearly growing impatient. Her prey had yet to turn around, and the delay was aggravating her. Aldric felt something cold and wet flick against his neck—a long, thin, forked tongue, serpentine in its motion. The icy, slimy touch sent a violent shiver down his spine.
Drawing upon sheer willpower, Aldric forced the rising tide of fear back into the depths of his mind. The terror that had gripped him moments ago nearly robbed him of rational thought.
"Master," he asked through clenched teeth, "when you say not to look back… you mean that literally, right?"
From across the camp, the witcher stepped out of his tent and calmly sat cross-legged on the damp earth, stopping about three paces from Aldric. His demeanor remained utterly composed, as though this were a casual nighttime lesson between master and apprentice.
"Water Hags are dangerous creatures," Gonz said in a low voice. "Their strength varies, but even powerful transcendents have fallen to them. Yet once you understand their nature, they become harmless. When a hag chooses its victim, it cannot cause harm unless the chosen one turns to meet its gaze."
Gonz watched his apprentice with quiet admiration. For the countless time, he marveled at the young man's composure. Aldric truly was like a flawless diamond—brilliant from every angle, resilient under pressure.
"They can use fear magic," the witcher continued, "and those that have existed long enough may even develop a fear aura that can cripple the will of entire warbands."
He spoke as if the creature's long, wet tongue wasn't hovering just millimeters from Aldric's ear.
"They are strange beings," Gonz went on, "neither alive nor truly of chaos. No one knows where they come from."
He drove his long sword into the ground beside the campfire. The flickering flames reflected sharply off the polished blade, casting streaks of light across Aldric's face. Behind him, the creature flinched slightly at the sight of the sword's gleam.
"But rather than just theory," the witcher said, smirking, "I believe some hands-on practice will be far more memorable."
He winked at Aldric, clearly finding some amusement in this deadly "lesson."
Aldric steadied his breathing, doing his best to suppress the overwhelming urge to turn around. The stench of rot filled his nostrils, a suffocating mix of mud, decay, and corpses soaked in formaldehyde.
"What happens," he asked slowly, "if I just… never turn around?"
The witcher chuckled. "Haha, good question. You're right—if you can hold out and never look back, it can't harm you. Not even if you try to run. But not everyone has your fortitude. Most ordinary people, even if they resist its fear magic, will gradually grow weaker in its presence. Eventually, they lose consciousness… and then the hag devours them, turning their bodies into nothing but putrid slime."
"Of course," Gonz added, his tone quiet but firm, "if you endure until dawn, the moment the sunlight breaks over the horizon, the water hag will dissolve into a puddle of clear water leaving nothing behind."
He stood and rested a hand on the hilt of his sword. "Only swamps that have absorbed enough blood and death can give birth to these things. If you encounter one in the future, do not let it escape—not a single one."
"Yes, teacher. I understand." Aldric's response was calm, as though they were still in the middle of an ordinary lecture—completely unfazed by the horror clinging to his back.
He slowly rose to his feet and stepped closer to the sword thrust into the earth [White Wolf's Claw]. Behind him, the Hag grew restless, twisting its half-corporeal body, releasing guttural shrieks that scraped against his ears like rusted blades. It was urging him, tempting him—turn around… just look at me.
Aldric recalled the weapon's description, which he'd read when he first wielded it:
Spectral Strike – When wielding this weapon, ghost- or spirit-type enemies immune to physical attacks can be damaged normally.
It was a weapon forged from Valyrian steel, a metal renowned for its unparalleled sharpness and arcane resonance. Before its discovery, only silver could harm such creatures but silver was soft, easily damaged in combat. In those days, witchers carried two blades—one for men, one for monsters.
But now, with [White Wolf's Claw] in his hand, Aldric represented the next era of the witcher's creed: judgment against all who preyed upon mankind—without mercy, without hesitation, without compassion.
"In the name of humanity!"
Aldric roared, seizing the hilt. The moment the sword's anti-specters enchantment flared to life, he spun on his heel—striking in one swift, decisive motion.
At last, he saw the creature that had haunted him all night. Its body was composed of rotting green sludge shaped vaguely like a woman's upper torso, floating above the ground. From its waist down, it simply ended—its entrails trailing and dripping into the mire, a single thick intestine stretching deep into the swamp.
"Die, monster!"
The memory of its tongue brushing against his ear ignited his fury. Aldric swung the blade in a wide, brutal arc—decapitating the Hag in a single blow.
Fueled by rage, he followed up with a second strike before the body even hit the ground, cleaving it cleanly in two. Viscera and ichor splattered across the mud, sizzling as they evaporated into mist.
The mangled remains dissolved into clear water almost instantly, leaving no trace of the nightmare that had stalked him. Aldric stood there, gripping his sword tightly, his chest heaving. Despite his outward composure, the tremor in his breath betrayed the adrenaline still coursing through him.
Gonz approached calmly, taking the sword from his apprentice's hand. He gave Aldric a firm pat on the shoulder.
"You'll get used to it, in time," the witcher said quietly. "This world isn't kind to humanity. Remember—never show mercy to monsters."
With that, he turned and walked back to his tent, resuming the meditation that had been interrupted earlier.
Aldric took two deep breaths by the campfire before closing his eyes and sinking into his own meditative trance.
The night slipped away quietly, and dawn arrived once more.
As the first light of morning spread across the swamp, Gonz emerged from his tent, his meditation complete. Aldric was already waiting respectfully at the entrance.
"From today onward," the witcher said solemnly, "I will teach you the unique sword style of our witcher order—ThePirouette Blade: The Dance of Slaughter."
(End of Chapter)
TN: It was originally called swamp wraith but I later changed due to resemblance to a water hag from witcher 3.