"Mr. Guilliman, are you not injured?"
After witnessing the Witcher single-handedly take down over fifty merrows in just ten minutes, the dryad girl's concerns about having strong children were completely dispelled.
With such a powerful man, perhaps their children could truly become heroes to save the dryad race.
They definitely needed to practice more.
Guilliman nodded faintly, indicating he was unharmed, then turned his gaze towards the approaching small island, his eyes filled with killing intent and greed.
It was a small island adorned with large rocks and lush green trees, not particularly large. The most striking features were the clear, mirror-like lake in the center of the island and a huge stone tablet beside the small lake.
From a distance, it had a harmonious, natural beauty.
In his line of sight, numerous merrows were surrounding the target island, but most of them dared not set foot on it, only lingering around its perimeter.
It seemed there would be some obstacles if they wanted to meet the Lady of the Lake on this trip.
However, these obstacles were not difficult for the Witcher, who desperately needed Soul Power; in fact, he was more than willing to face them.
He had over two hundred alchemical bombs in his bag. Even if each bomb only killed two or three merrows, it wouldn't be a losing trade.
Even if he ran out of money later, he believed Margareta, the wealthy woman, would still be willing to lend him thousands of orens in exchange for his services.
Once ashore, it would be even easier to eliminate these small fry, who were only half the height of an average human.
Guilliman's gaze was solemn as he stood up and walked to the bow of the boat, not forgetting to cast another Quen shield on himself.
His tall body blocked the dryad girl's front as he stared at the merrows gradually gathering due to the movement on the water, saying to Bouille without turning his head:
"Don't mind those monsters, full speed ahead!"
"Leave the rest to me!"
Upon hearing this, the dryad girl unhesitatingly chose to trust the Witcher, then her delicate arms bulged with veins as she began to paddle the oars with all her might.
Soon, the small boat sped forward, getting closer and closer to the island.
Just as they approached the merrows surrounding the island, less than ten meters away...
Suddenly, numerous huge, fat fish heads emerged from the water. Their eyes were fierce as they stared at the small boat cutting through the waves, and they all hurled their spears and harpoons.
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh!
A dozen bone weapons flew towards them.
Although their speed wasn't fast, their aim was quite good. If not blocked, the Witcher would likely be riddled with holes in a few seconds.
Guilliman snorted disdainfully at the sight, holding his sword with one hand and using the Wolf School's arrow-parrying stance. Clang, clang, clang, clang! He easily batted away the flimsy bone weapons.
Even if one or two occasionally slipped through and hit his Quen shield, they only caused a slight ripple, completely unable to break his magical shield.
At the same time, the Witcher quickly produced lit beehive bombs, which, under the force of his powerful throw, were accurately hurled into the areas on the water with the most merrow torsos.
At this moment, Guilliman was not stingy with his bombs, throwing them out rapidly, almost one per second.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Accompanied by deafening roars and massive water columns erupting, the scene was very much like fishing with explosives in a pond when he was a child.
However, the power of beehive bombs was infinitely greater than the firecrackers he played with as a child.
As the bombs roared and the lake water churned, merrows shrieked "Gilli-gala" before being torn apart, then turned into floating corpses on the lake's surface.
Absorbing a faint soul, Soul Power + 2.
Absorbing a faint soul, Soul Power + 2.
Absorbing a faint soul, Soul Power + 2... Hahaha!
Listening to the continuous reward sounds in his ears and looking at the gruesome merrow corpses around him...
Such an amusing scene made the Witcher laugh heartily, much like the joy of playing games as a child.
And indeed, alchemical bombs were the perfect weapon for fishing.
The killing speed was dozens of times faster than if he jumped into the water and cut them down one by one.
If he didn't consider the cost of several hundred orens thrown out in just a few minutes, he would even be willing to come here to fish with bombs every day.
A few minutes later, before the merrows surrounding the island could react, Guilliman and the dryad girl had already killed over a hundred merrows, carving a bloody path through their encirclement and completing their landing mission on the Goddess's Island.
This was a riverbank filled with blood and the smell of fish. An old man, holding a gleaming longsword and wearing a blood-stained green robe, stood expressionlessly in the center of the riverbank.
Around the old man, over a hundred merrow corpses and their weapons were scattered haphazardly.
Some merrows had their heads lopped off, some were directly split in two, and some unusually tall and strong mutated merrows, comparable in size to human strongmen, also lay miserably around the other corpses.
Seeing this rather shocking scene, Guilliman couldn't help but click his tongue.
It seems the Lady of the Lake is not without powerful protectors. Is this scrawny old man the Hermit from the game?
Or a legendary Holy Grail Knight?
One of the Five Virtuous Knights under the Goddess?
Judging by his ability to dispatch over a hundred merrows without taking a scratch, even without armor, his strength is not to be underestimated.
However, this old man had a rather aloof demeanor. Even though they had landed on the island with such a grand display, helping him eliminate hundreds of merrows, he still stood there woodenly, not even glancing at them.
Guilliman turned to look at Bouille.
The dryad girl seemed to understand his meaning and walked up to the old man, bowing slightly as she said:
"Esteemed Hermit, I am here on the command of Queen Eithné of the Dryads, with a letter for the Lady of the Lake. This is Mr. Guilliman, a Witcher who accompanied me. He also wishes to seek an audience with the Lady of the Lake. May we enter the island?"
Hearing Bouille's words, Guilliman raised an eyebrow, not expecting the other party to actually be the so-called Hermit.
Recalling the Hermit who resided in Toussaint years later, he wondered if they were the same person.
He also wondered if this old man was just putting on airs. After listening to Bouille's words, he simply opened his eyes calmly, his gaze sweeping over the dryad girl and Guilliman, though lingering more on the Witcher.
After a few seconds, the old man, as if having received some command, said nothing but silently picked up his sword and moved aside, clearing the path to the center of the island, seemingly allowing them to enter.
Seeing this, the dryad girl's face lit up with joy.
The previous times she had come to seek an audience, the Hermit had never allowed her to enter the island's interior, and each time she had returned empty-handed.
She hadn't expected that by coming with the Witcher this time, she would actually receive permission.
Guilliman, on the other hand, felt a bit annoyed.
What was wrong with this old man? Couldn't he just speak directly? He had to put on such an act.
He grumbled inwardly, then looked at the corpses on the riverbank and tentatively used the Axii Sign.
To his surprise, it actually worked.
A hundred glowing soul orbs were quickly drawn from the bodies and then entered the Witcher's body.
After a series of reward sounds, he had gained over three hundred points of Soul Power, which improved Guilliman's mood somewhat.
Those large mutated merrows, each seemed to yield six points of Soul Power. They were truly good 'leeks'; he couldn't let them go next time he encountered them.
However, his direct act of drawing out the souls of other living beings did not seem to be appreciated by righteous individuals.
The Hermit, who had been expressionless, immediately frowned at him, his gaze somewhat cold.
Nevertheless, the old man said nothing more, still standing there woodenly, fully adhering to the principle that silence is golden, silently guarding the path to the island.