Jake stood at the head of a rough-hewn stone table, his hands covered in a mixture of graphite and fine oil. Before him stood a group of Aen Seidhe archers, their eyes wide with the realization that they were no longer just hunters—they were becoming Technicians.
"Remember," Jake said, his voice firm as he pointed to the cams of a half-finished Compound Bow. "Precision is your new god. If the cable tension is off by a hair, the mechanical advantage dies. You don't pray for the arrow to fly true anymore; you calculate it."
He watched as the elves worked. The System was clear: the Magical Aptitude of the mages was sharpening as they practiced his Necromantic teachings, but the others—the scouts and smiths—were rapidly gaining Technological Aptitude. The two groups were becoming physically distinct; a "dead zone" of logic followed the archers, while the mages shimmered with raw Chaos.
"If you have the Source," Jake warned a young elven girl reaching for an Auto Skeleton Key, "stay back. Your aura will warp the tumblers. Technology and Magick are like oil and water—they don't mix, and they'll burn you if you try."
Outside, Geralt of Rivia finally cleared the tree line. His Witcher Senses were buzzing with a dull, persistent ache. Every step toward the hut felt like walking into a wall of static. He had bypassed Spring Traps that would have claimed the legs of a lesser hunter, and his mind was reeling from the sheer intentionality of the forest's defenses.
Geralt stepped into the clearing, his golden eyes scanning the strange, soot-stained hut. He saw the elves—non-humans he usually pitied or avoided—handling gear that looked like it belonged in a Gnomish laboratory, yet far more advanced.
The door creaked open. Jake stepped out, wiping grease from his palms onto his frayed denim jeans. He looked at the white-haired mutant, the two swords on his back, and the Witcher Medallion that was currently vibrating so weakly it looked broken.
"The herbalists weren't lying," Geralt said, his voice a low, dry rasp. "You're a long way from home, boy. And you've turned this forest into a machine."
Jake leaned against the doorframe, his hand resting near the Fine Revolver at his hip. "I'm not the one trespassing, Witcher. You're lucky. Most people don't see the tripwires until their bones are being reset by my Necromantic White students."
Geralt's eyes shifted to the open suitcase sitting on a bench just inside the door—the Gold Bars gleaming with a dull, heavy light.
"That's a lot of gold for a 'teacher' in the woods," Geralt remarked, his hand hovering near his Steel Sword. "Especially one wearing clothes stitched with threads I can't identify."
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]
Encounter: Geralt of Rivia (Level: ??)
Aptitude Field: 55% Technological (Witcher Signs are 50% less effective).
Jake gestured for the Witcher to enter the stone-walled workshop. Inside, the air was dense with the smell of Gun Oil and hot iron.
"The gold? Call it an inheritance from a world that doesn't exist anymore," Jake said, his voice echoing off the stone. "And I'm a Technologist. I don't pray to the gods or tap into Chaos. I use the laws of the universe."
Geralt's eyes scanned the room, landing on a metallic tube with a wooden grip. "The herbalists... they spoke of thunder. Sounds that drive the forest mad."
"This is the 'thunder,'" Jake said, picking up a Fine Revolver. He saw Geralt reach out, his curiosity piqued by the clockwork mechanism. "Don't. If you touch it, the Aptitude feedback will give you a migraine that'll make your mutations feel like a gentle massage. If you try to fire it, your magical aura will warp the barrel timing. It'll explode in your hand."
Geralt pulled his hand back, his golden eyes narrowing. "A weapon that hates its wielder?"
"A weapon that demands Order," Jake corrected. "You're a Witcher, Geralt. You're steeped in Signs and mutagens. Your very existence is a bend in the laws of physics. To my gear, you're a walking 'glitch' in the system."
To drive the point home, Jake drew his Balanced Sword. The blade didn't shimmer with the blue light of elven enchantments or the silver glow of a Witcher's Silver Sword. It was a matte grey, forged with a geometry so perfect it looked almost sharp enough to cut the air itself.
Geralt leaned in, his professional gaze studying the hilt. "I've seen the work of Esterad Thyssen's master smiths and the Gnomes of Tir Tochair. This... this is different. It's too light for its size, yet the balance is perfect."
He reached out to touch the flat of the blade, but Jake pulled it away. "I told you, no. To you, this isn't just steel; it's a technological anchor. You're tuned to magic. If you hold this, the conflict between your energy and the sword's aptitude will drain the durability of the blade and leave you sick."
"A sword I can't use is just a decorative toy," Geralt rasped, though his interest was clearly piqued.
"Is it?" Jake smirked. "Come. I'll show you why a 'toy' from my world is more efficient than a silver blade."
They stepped out into a nearby ravine where the elves had trapped a Rotfiend for "disposal." The creature was a bloated, necrophage horror, its skin pulsing with volatile gases.
Geralt stepped back, his hand on his silver hilt, expecting a long dance of dodges and Signs. Instead, Jake stepped forward. He didn't use a Sign. He didn't use an oil.
With a blur of motion, Jake swung the Balanced Sword. Because of its Technological Aptitude, the blade didn't just cut the Rotfiend's flesh; it bypassed the magical "anchor" that held the necrophage's corrupt form together. The sword sliced through the monster's toughened hide like it was hot wax, severing the head with a clean, surgical strike that prevented the creature's usual post-mortem explosion.
Geralt stood silent for a long moment, watching the monster dissolve into black sludge. "No signs. No potions. Just... a piece of iron?"
"Just logic," Jake replied, wiping the blade. "And I'm just getting started."
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]
Technological Demonstration Successful.
Geralt's Attitude: Shifted from Suspicious to Profoundly Wary/Intrigued.
XP Gained: +1200 (Field Testing).