Chapter 6: A Witcher's Blade
Arthur spent the entire afternoon with his backside sticking up in the air, gathering the necessary herbs. It was frankly more exhausting than being attacked by the villagers.
Fortunately, the effort wasn't wasted. After a batch of Hybrid Oil was finished, there were still plenty of materials left, and Kolgrim decided to let Arthur try his hand at it.
Though he was told to take the lead, the Witcher still controlled the timing of the ingredients. Arthur simply had to follow instructions and toss the herbs into the pot.
Strictly speaking, this was just an alchemy experience; he wasn't learning much of the real trade.
However, when Arthur finally completed the concoction under the Witcher's guidance, the familiar script once again rippled across the surface of the liquid:
[Alchemy Proficiency has been upgraded. Current Level: Apprentice]
[The side effects of your crafted potions will be minimized]
Arthur couldn't tell if it was an illusion, but he thought he saw a puff of black smoke rise from the liquid's surface before being scattered by the wind.
"Not bad. You're almost as good as an acolyte at a temple," Kolgrim praised flatly, dipping a finger into the Hybrid Oil and bringing it to his mouth.
Suddenly, he paused, rummaging deep inside his saddlebag to pull out a pristine bottle for decanting.
"Are we going to prepare the bait now?"
Arthur assumed Kolgrim was heading to the village to buy a lamb, but he received an unexpected answer:
"Your swordsmanship talent is promising. We need to start cultivating it immediately."
Arthur's breath instantly hitched and deepened, and his pace quickened. This was exactly what he desperately needed! Once his two-handed weapon skill reached Apprentice level, swinging air didn't do much good anymore. To advance further, he needed sparring!
Only one problem remained:
"Do we have enough coin for a sword?"
Earlier, Arthur remembered asking Kolgrim why the Hoffer villagers, knowing their conflict with the Baron, hadn't bought weapons to defend themselves.
Weapons, especially reliable ones, required far higher quality materials and forging expertise than farm implements. Consequently, their price was significantly steeper. Even the most common sword was beyond the means of the Hoffer villagers, and a nomadic Witcher should face the same headache.
But Kolgrim just smiled, feigning mystery: "You'll see soon enough."
They followed the village path until mud coated their trousers. The tightly packed thatched-roof houses suddenly gave way, revealing an open space enclosed by a low fence. Inside the yard, the air shimmered above a furnace, while an anvil and a wine barrel piled with junk sat nearby they had arrived at the blacksmith's shop.
But where was the blacksmith?
Arthur looked around for a long time before suddenly hearing a rough, booming voice: "Well, look at that! The old Baron is finally willing to hire a Witcher. Come to repair a weapon, or replace a horseshoe?"
"Neither. I'm looking for a training sword for my apprentice."
Arthur finally realized that the grimy barrel next to the anvil was the blacksmith. He had mistaken the head, bristling with wild hair and beard, for a pile of scrap.
Of course. In a world of sword and magic, the blacksmith should be a Dwarf. Arthur's expectations for this shopping trip immediately soared.
On the other side, the Dwarf blacksmith excitedly hammered the anvil once and roared at the passing villagers:
"Ha! You fools! Open your eyes and look! Even a Witcher has to come to my Willis's forge to buy a sword!"
Willis, with an agility that belied his short, stout frame, scampered over and dragged Kolgrim by the arm toward the workshop: "The good stuff is all inside! What d'ya want to buy? A longsword? A sabre? I guarantee a fair price!"
Kolgrim poured cold water on his enthusiasm: "I didn't say I was buying, Willis. Look at the patches on my clothes. Do you think I can afford even a dagger?"
Willis gripped his thick beard, scrutinizing the two of them:
"[Dwarven curse], you look like you're fleeing a pogrom! I run a small business here; I don't offer credit."
He clearly lost interest and turned to walk toward the door. But the Witcher began to inquire about the Dwarf's health:
"How's your shoulder doing?"
The question was like poking a hornet's nest. The Dwarf waved his two short, thick arms, his jungle-like beard bristling, and a torrent of unprintable curses spewed from his mouth:
"Terrible, of course! Duvvelsheyss! That old fool has been going mad lately, forcing me to forge arrowheads night and day! My shoulder is swollen as high as a loaf of bread! I can't sleep soundly, even after an entire bottle of vodka!"
"Then you might need this." Kolgrim pulled out the Hybrid Oil Arthur had brewed and showed it to the Dwarf: "Witcher-grade pain liniment. Rub it on before bed, and I guarantee you'll wake up feeling brand new."
Willis snorted through his nose: "Are you mad, or am I? Every idiot knows Witcher potions are full of deadly poison!"
Kolgrim pulled out his medallion and held it up to Willis: "What benefit would I gain from poisoning you? Look at this. I'm from the School of the Viper! I'm a master of toxins! This potion's toxicity has been weakened by more than half. With your constitution, you can ignore it."
This appealed greatly to Willis. He grinned: "That makes sense. We Dwarves can adapt to any vile environment. How do I use it?"
Kolgrim quickly stopped Willis, as the Dwarf blacksmith seemed inclined to chug the Hybrid Oil: "Apply it to the swollen area and gently massage for five minutes. Do not engage in strenuous activity for four hours… Er, I say, could you perhaps wash first?"
The Dwarf only listened halfway before eagerly pouring the potion onto his shoulder. The charcoal dust on his skin was momentarily diluted, only to turn instantly into mud as he rubbed it in.
"Good stuff! My shoulder is all warm and cozy! It doesn't hurt anymore!" Willis exclaimed excitedly: "How much? I'll buy it!"
"How did you know the blacksmith would need liniment?"
A few minutes later, the two men left the forge, satisfied, with a brand-new longsword strapped to Arthur's back.
Kolgrim shrugged: "In the North, a blacksmith has to hand over half his income to the Baron. Non-human races pay an even higher proportion. You should focus on familiarizing yourself with this sword instead. If something goes wrong, it's the only thing standing between you and the griffin."
Speaking of the sword, Arthur finally asked the question that had been on his mind for a while: "Why do we always carry our swords on our backs? Wouldn't it be faster to draw them from the hip?"
Both Arthur's sword and the Witcher's swords were of the hand-and-a-half sword design. The hand-and-a-half sword, also known as a bastard sword, is a weapon that can be wielded with either one or two hands. It has a longer blade than a typical single-handed sword but is easier to carry than a greatsword, and its combat techniques are highly varied. The wielder can equip a dagger, shield, or Signs in the off-hand for tactical flexibility, or they can use a two-handed grip to unleash ultimate skill and brutality.
It had only one drawback it was practically impossible to draw quickly from the back!
Kolgrim sighed: "Tell me, what am I?"
"A Witcher."
"And after these past few days, do you think people like me are welcome?"
"Uh, well, at first, people are usually a little…"
Kolgrim cut Arthur off before he could complete the thought: "If you were a villager here and saw a man with a terrible reputation walking toward you, would you prefer his sword to be at his hip or on his back?"
"Definitely on his back. At least, if you truly were as terrifying as the rumors say, I could run away before you could draw it." Arthur nodded, but immediately pressed the matter:
"But if it's just to put people at ease, why not just put the sword in the saddlebag? We only use our swords when hunting monsters, anyway."
Kolgrim looked at the apprentice who had so impressed him, beginning to wonder if the lad had dedicated all his brainpower to learning:
"What makes you think humans are safer than monsters?"
Arthur felt as if someone had punched him hard in the chest. He stood frozen in place, unable to speak for a long time.
...
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