For Shani, today was a rare kind of day—one filled with relaxation, laughter, and simple happiness.
A boy without prejudice, a straightforward and funny girl, plus delicious beef braised in red wine, buttered brioche, and onion soup—onion soup seasoned with bay leaf and thyme. She honestly felt like she couldn't ask for more.
But fate clearly had more surprises for her than that.
"Oh my—The Rudiments of Pathomorphology and Forensic Medicine… how do you have these two books!?"
Victor gave a simple explanation: it was just a small personal interest in anatomy, and he'd bought them from a banker.
…To indulge her, the host brought an easy, comfortable armchair into the alchemy workshop for the doctor to read in, along with a pot of rose tea. Then he picked up his own notebook and quietly studied on his own.
…
Night — Vizima, Temple Quarter —
Before coming to visit, Shani never once expected she'd end up staying at Victor's place until it was nearly curfew—let alone that the boy would have to walk her home.
A thin crescent moon hung overhead. Their pace was unhurried. Shani brushed aside the red hair that had fallen in front of her eyes. "Was I too much of an interruption today? Normally afternoons are when you two go out to work, right?"
The night breeze was soft. Victor tightened the clasp on the side of his leather armor without breaking stride. "It's fine. The tools I commissioned from the blacksmith still aren't ready. Even if we went outside the city, it would just be heading to the lake so the kid can practice swimming."
"Hah. Your relationship is really funny," Shani said, smiling. "She's older than you, but the way you two actually feel together is completely flipped. You're practically like her older brother.
"I can't fully make sense of it, but don't be too hard on her. She's still a child—ah… though you're 'still sort of' one too." By the last part, the doctor started snickering with open mischief.
"Oh, come on, Shani," Victor shot back. "You're only two years older than Angoulême and seven older than me. Calling us 'kids' this, 'kids' that—doesn't that feel awkward?"
The moment the words left his mouth, Victor started grinning too—because a thought clicked into place.
If you wanted to be pedantic, Shani was only three years older than Ciri. And the White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia… had to be pretty damn shameless to go after a girl close to his "daughter's" age. What was that, if not the classic story of a century-old man and a young woman in her prime?
Of course Shani had no idea what kind of wildly inappropriate thought had just crossed the boy's mind. She continued, "On paper, the age difference isn't that big, but it might be how she grew up. It always feels like Angoulême is childish in some ways, but too mature in others.
"And I have to say—working in a hospital ages you quickly. I mean the mind… and the skin." She grinned and pointed at her cheek, where faint little rashes dotted the skin—irritation from wearing that raven mask for too long.
Victor smiled gently. "You're being too modest, Doctor. Trust me—you're at your best right now. I came from east of Zerrikania, and in the last two years I've crossed Kaedwen, Aedirn, and Temeria—five cities total. I haven't met a woman more charming than you."
He looked completely sincere when he said it.
"And don't worry about those rashes. I know a cooling salve that works really well for them. Tomorrow morning I'll compound it and send it to the hospital for you."
Shani laughed, genuinely pleased. "Isn't that too much trouble for you? I feel like I've already taken a lot."
Victor shrugged like it was nothing. "It's fine. Those disinfecting spirits aren't a big deal. If I can help the hospital, I'm happy. You're the people most deserving of respect."
That morning, when Angoulême went downstairs to open the door, she'd naturally brought out Victor's alcohol for Shani to clean her hands. People in this world might not be able to consistently produce precise concentrations, but that didn't mean they were clueless about what level of alcohol disinfected best.
And when Shani praised it nonstop, Angoulême—generous with someone else's work—immediately offered three huge barrels on the spot.
When Victor got home and heard about it, he didn't object. He might not have much initiative when it came to giving, but he was more than willing to respect and support the healers who kept people alive.
After escorting Shani safely back to her rented room—and getting scanned up and down by her elderly landlady with a distinctly unsettling look—Victor hurried home before curfew.
…
Walk with me through the streets of Vizima,
And don't stop until every lamp has gone dark.
—Vizima, anonymous
…
The next afternoon — the swamp forest —
The elven commander studied the new tool the Phantom Troupe had brought today—installed over a burrow—with open curiosity. "Vic, did you design this strange-looking trap yourself?"
It was a layered mechanism of interlocking tubes, with jagged, icy-looking teeth—like a bear trap built into a stacked, three-dimensional assembly.
"Yes," Victor replied. "I call it a tree-trap. It's the natural nemesis of archespores like these."
From that point on, Victor's movements were calm and controlled. He lured the archespore from the same chosen angle. He blocked the acid spray with the iron umbrella again. But this time, the instant the archespore burst from the ground, a ring after ring of mechanisms snapped shut and locked it in place.
Every tooth on the trap was silver-plated, and smeared with witcher-made Cursed Oil. Yaevinn observed that the moment it was bitten, the plant's frantic twisting was far worse than when it burned alive—meaning the sensation had to be truly unbearable.
Holding the acid-proof iron umbrella over himself, Victor advanced, then drove his silver sword deep into the archespore's core, ending the eerie plant's struggle. After that, all that remained was the practical work: collecting sap, cutting tendrils, breaking it down into alchemical materials.
It wasn't hard for the commander to judge: the iron umbrella's cover could be replaced by other objects. And as long as someone had this trap, even a farmer could kill a bloodthirsty plant in moments. The day it became widespread would indeed be the day the "cursed buds" went extinct.
Unfortunately, it would never become widespread.
The trap was expensive to make, and effectively single-use. Several parts of the frame and the silver-plated serrated teeth had already been bent and damaged by the archespore's dying thrashes.
After examining the witcher apprentice's newest weapon again, Victor could feel it—after seeing this device, Yaevinn's gaze held more warmth, and a faint hint of respect for a specialist.
Once Victor demonstrated how it worked and left the girl to keep harvesting archespore tendrils and archespore sap, the young captain walked off to the side with the elven commander for a less-than-innocent conversation.
He pulled the banker's reply from his herb satchel and handed it to Yaevinn. The elf didn't avoid Victor—he opened Golan Vivaldi's letter right in front of him, read it quickly, and then folded it away.
"Will you be back in the city soon today?" Yaevinn asked.
"After I finish collecting these materials, I'll use Dancing Star powder to deal with the remaining archespores closer to the logging camp. About three hours from now, I'll head back before dark and collect the bounty at the city guard outpost."
"Good. Then I'll trouble you with another delivery later. Before you leave the forest, I'll have someone bring the letter over."
Yaevinn paused, narrow eyes fixed on the blue in the boy's pupils. "And one more question. Not that important—but I really want to hear your answer.
Tell me… the bounty is four hundred orens. This trap alone costs about a hundred. You risk your life entering the forest for this. Add in the fire-powder used up, the iron umbrella, and living expenses… is any of it really worth it?"
Victor rubbed his nose. "…The trap doesn't count. That's a personal expense—something extra I made for my own materials.
And sure, orens aren't a fortune. But I earn a lot of other things. Monster materials. Witcher experience. And a good reputation."
On that plain face—marked by four scars—he looked quietly, genuinely satisfied as he said it.
//Check out my P@tre0n for 20 extra chapters //[email protected]/Razeil0810