chsdbacks Chapter 1 Between Two Evils
Chapter 1 Between Two Evils
The sprite orbiter in the corner has gone astray again.
The meshing of brass gears sounded like sawing bones in the dead of night. When the meteorite ball representing the "Wild Wolf Moon" was inserted into the "White Frost" groove, the stag-headed demon antlers hanging on the north wall suddenly exploded into a cloud of eerie blue icy mist, proving that time in this hidden room seemed to still be passing.
"Is everything ready?"
Under the bright lights, a figure stood silently in the light. In stark contrast to his burly physique, the newcomer's steps were as light as a cat walking on rubble, without causing the slightest disturbance to the air.
The flickering firelight illuminated his bald scalp and his amber vertical pupils, hidden beneath his rugged brows, gleaming with a cold light.
The man sitting in front of the alchemy table filled with bottles and jars turned his head. He had the same amber eyes, but his pupils were a deeper color, like dark red blood that had been soaked and settled in aged liquor for centuries.
His thick, black hair cascaded down his head and tied into a ponytail at the back of his head, softening his sharply defined features.
Hearing that familiar yet irritating voice, Kilyam's eye twitched almost imperceptibly.
Only the most elite Witcher of the Serpent School could penetrate the twelve deadly traps he had set around the laboratory without triggering any alarms.
Although it was not a complex magical barrier created by a high-level mage, it was a chain-trigger device that Kilyam used the only means available to witchers to combine the Yard sign with the Dragon's Dream.
These traps are hidden in the shadows, linked together by extremely fine, matte-coated magic-resistant tripwires. Even the slightest unusual vibration from a boot crushing a fallen leaf will trigger a magical resonance of the Yardang sign. Once a spark flashes, it can instantly incinerate any intruder in a pyrometallurgical explosion.
This not only demonstrates that the visitor's stealth skills have reached a state of perfection, with even the frequency of their breathing blending seamlessly with the surrounding environment; it also shows that the other party is fully aware of the mechanical logic behind the traps they set and the location of the alchemical detonation point.
Kiliam didn't get up; instead, he grabbed a conical glass bottle sealed with black lead from the table and tossed it behind him without even looking at it.
"The Tears of Bronillon, mixed with pterosaur venom and gin as a solvent, can knock even a horned demon unconscious with just a single drop."
Letso caught the container in mid-air with his left hand, which was clad in chainmail gloves, his bald head gleaming coldly in the candlelight.
The snake-faction witcher's leather armor was still stained with the red clay unique to the borders of Cordwin, yet he cleverly avoided any parts that might make a sound. With a deft force from his strong arm, the bottle simply spun in the air and landed peacefully and obediently in his broad hand.
"It has color?" Letor's brow furrowed, the candlelight flickering on his crisscrossing scars and shiny scalp. "I remember before the usurpers burned down Götterdberg Castle, your alchemy was already unparalleled in the entire school. Giliam, has your skill degenerated to the point where you can't even purify a bottle of colorless, odorless poison? How do you expect me to pour this viscous, sewer-sludge-like stuff into the king's goblet?"
Indeed, under the light, the deep, eerie green of the liquid in the bottle seemed to devour all light, and the viscous, oily liquid exhibited a nauseatingly slow flow as Letso shook it. Judging from its dense appearance and heavy feel alone, the dosage of toxins had already reached an extremely terrifying threshold.
"If you don't like it, get lost, you idiot bald man. If you think it's unworthy of the delicate throats of the northern kings, you can just dump it into the gutter outside right now and poison a few water ghosts." Giliam sneered, turning back to face his alchemy table, picking up a rag to wipe the residue from his hands. "Excessive decolorization and distillation steps will damage the fragile protein chains in pterosaur venom, causing the efficacy to decrease by at least 30%. Have you forgotten even this apprentice-level pharmacology in a Nilfgaardian brothel?"
Kilyam paused. "Besides," he continued, "there are countless ways to cover it up. You could mix it into those darker, more pungent Mahakam spirits. Who knows? Maybe the rulers of the North, in an attempt to appear populist during wartime, would enjoy sitting in smoky taverns, chugging muddy beer with sweaty commoners?"
Letso said nothing, simply slipping the deadly vial into the most concealed leather lining of his belt. He knew Kiliam too well; the man's words were sharper than his twin swords. He knew the man disliked his actions, and obtaining such potent poison was already a considerable gain.
"You know better than anyone how many avalanche-like political chain reactions this poison will trigger across the entire continent once it's uncorked." Letho's deep voice echoed in the empty laboratory, carrying an indescribable weariness. "To be honest, before stepping into this room, I was even prepared to leave empty-handed, or to be turned away by you with a heavy crossbow. I really didn't expect... that deep down, you ultimately chose to stand by me, Kyriam."
"Don't flatter yourself. I'm just furious that you interrupted my important experiment, which took three months, in such a rude manner, and I just want to get rid of you as soon as possible."
Kilyam braced his hands on the edge of the wooden table in the corner and said coldly, "And I worry that with your current swordsmanship, which has become too aggressive and clumsy to cater to the Imperial Legion, you might die under the rusty spear of some nameless guard before you even see the King, simply because you underestimate him. Letho, your physique is not suited to be an assassin. You should be a battering ram on the battlefield, not hiding in the shadows trying to change the world's landscape with a bottle of poison."
"Buzz—"
The sharp hum of the steel sword being drawn tore through the air. Almost at the same instant the sound rang out, Letho's mountain-like figure was already close like a ghost, the cold tip of his sword precisely pressed against Kiliam's chest, only an inch away from his heart, yet skillfully avoiding the silver Serpent School badge.
"Really? What do you think now?"
"Ha!" Giliam didn't even glance at the sword in his chest, his face showing extreme contempt. "If you think you can walk unimpeded to the throne of the King of Temuria or Aden with this childish threatening trick, and have them wash their necks clean for you to cut them off... then I admit, your performance skills are indeed quite good."
Despite feeling the chilling edge of the sword tip that could freeze one's breath, Giliam remained unfazed. He knew all too well that Letho would never actually make a move.
This pointless charade has been played out countless times since they were apprentices in Gesvid Castle, beating each other black and blue, surviving the near-death trial on the grass, accompanied by their companions' screams.
Letso stared at him silently, a complex emotion flashing in his beastly eyes, before finally slowly sheathing his sword.
Letso finally spoke, breaking the suffocating silence. His tone had lost its previous murderous intent, leaving only a heavy sense of oppression. "Once the kings of the North fall, and the North descends into chaos without a leader... after it's all over, he will designate an area in Toussaint for us to rebuild the school."
Letho watched as Gillian slowly turned around, continuing to offer what he considered the most tempting bargaining chips: "The Emperor even promised to build us an alchemy laboratory with facilities completely comparable to those of the Cowburg Academy. And... priority excavation and research rights to all ancient elven ruins within the Empire, even the underwater ruins around the Skellige Isles. Gillian, I know you've spent half your life obsessed with those ethereal elven myths, and that's exactly what you need, isn't it? As long as we..."
The laboratory suddenly fell into a deathly silence, with only the gears of the orbiter stubbornly turning, making a "click-clack" sound.
Kiriam's pupils contracted slightly, a subtle movement that made his already cold face appear even sharper, but also added an unsettling air of heroism to his handsome appearance.
Letho looked at him and couldn't help but sigh inwardly. If this stubborn fellow hadn't spent all his time buried in bottles, jars, and old papers, but instead, like that white wolf from Kaer Morhen, enjoyed roaming in the arms of sorceresses, he probably would have been just as popular.
He lowered his gaze slightly, noticing that Kiliam's right hand, hanging by his side, was unconsciously stroking a bronze pendant. It was a trophy they had obtained five years ago when they rescued the young apprentice from the clutches of the petrified chicken-snake. Now, the apprentice hadn't survived the severe rejection reaction during last year's Grass Trial, and the pendant's surface was covered with patterns used to repair the cracks.
"So you've decided to become the Empire's scavengers?" Giliam's voice was as cold as his face. "Like dealing with those shit-eating ghouls in the sewers of Kelak, cutting off the heads of the northern kings one by one, stuffing them into blood-dripping body bags, and sending them to the Golden Tower City to claim credit? Have you forgotten your place, or have you been hanging out with the Cat School too much lately?"
"We all need a future." Letho's answer was simple and heavy, each word seemingly squeezed out from between his teeth. "You should see the report on the current state of the Bear School that Serret brought back from Cordwin. Their last three candidates with the potential to undergo the Trial of the Grass were all killed last week in a bandit-hunting mission on the border, for a few pitiful crowns. Hmph... the once fearsome Bears are now nothing more than a bunch of mercenaries fighting their own battles, living hand to mouth. If we don't make changes, we won't be far from their end."
He paused, his tone growing even more desolate: "No one will remember a group of dead men, Giliam. No matter how many monsters they slayed or how many villages they saved in their lifetimes."
"..."
Suddenly, Kiriam grabbed the observation records from the lab table and threw them at the other person, the yellowed pages scattering in a fan shape in the air. Each page was densely covered with notes:
"Welen Anomaly #47: Farm Woman Claims Elven Rune Ice Crystals Appear on Clothesline (with Sample Analysis)"
#63: Wine in the inn's cellar inexplicably fermented into vinegar (consistent with "The Wild Hunt Signs Almanac" p.89)
#112: A seven-year-old boy draws an accurate depiction of an Ain Elr warship...
"This is the future!" He pointed to the star map on the wall, where dozens of civilian reports were nailed together with red rope. "The Wild Hunt carries lost Elven knowledge through time, while you're destined to be executioners for a few laboratories. The dead have no future. Stop your inexplicable spirit of sacrifice, and don't forget that our school's original goal was the Wild Hunt!"
Letso picked up the fallen pages and noticed that each report had detailed date records and information sources marked on the edge, showing that the other party valued this information very much.
Unfortunately, what good is all this? This knowledge can't solve their immediate problem...
When he looked up, he found that the other person had turned away to adjust the star tracker, and the black ponytail swept across the shoulder armor in an anxious arc.
Letho knew that Giliam had stubbornly followed the legacy of the school's founder, Iva the Evil Eye, attempting to find a way to improve the Witcher Mutation Inducer from ancient elven knowledge, especially from the Wild Hunt. A higher survival rate in the Trial of the Grasses, a stronger body, and even... a greater ability to manipulate Chaos Magic.
Letho, of course, understood the significance of all this. However, it was too slow, too uncertain. Before Giliam could develop that so-called "perfect potion," these surviving vipers would likely be frozen to death by the blizzards of this era.
Letor's mountain-like frame was crammed around the small lab table, his fingertips gripping a gold coin bearing the emblem of the Black Sun of Nilfgaard, which he unconsciously tossed back and forth. The coin's cold touch only strengthened his conviction in the path he had chosen. In this crumbling world, only power and money could buy him a place to survive.
"The kings of the North will not survive this winter," he said calmly, as if discussing the day's work schedule at a slaughterhouse. "Once Emhyr's Black Legion has trampled the Pontal River, we will be able to rebuild the Serpent School openly and legitimately in the sunlight. We will get the land and respect we deserve, and I am simply accelerating that process."
"And do you think we have a choice? At least the grey wolves of Kaer Morhen have their ruined castle and their remaining glory to be buried with them, while we..." He pointed to a rotting deer carcass in the swamp outside the window, swarms of leeches churning in its eye sockets, "...even our tombstones will be swallowed by the swamp."
Kiliam did not answer; he could not distort the truth in order to refute Letso.
The Serpent School is indeed different from the Wolf School. Since the Gesvid Castle was captured by a fanatical mob, they have become a group of homeless wanderers.
If you lose people but retain land, you will lose both people and land. This is a principle that Giliam learned from an ancient book from Oldfield.
If everyone dies, what good are a few dilapidated houses?
"Ochs is in Lomune now."
The bald witcher suddenly spoke, changing the subject and breaking the suffocating silence. He took out a heavy bronze cylinder covered in verdigris from his pocket and gently placed it on the lab bench full of flasks, making a dull thud.
"Ochs sent word that he discovered a vast ruin, possibly an ancient alchemical array, deep within the ruins of Lomunie. The markings on the walls suggest it was likely left behind before the Great Migration of the Ain-Hidi... Inside are some rubbings you've been looking for. These are the first fragments he brought out." Letor looked into Giliam's eyes and said calmly, "I'm leaving... to Vizima."
Giliam grasped the cylinder with superhuman speed, yet deliberately softened his grip upon touching it. As he used silver tweezers to remove the papyrus fragments inside, his profile was illuminated by the blue light of the star instrument: "These are elven astrological symbols from the Third Age! Where are you...?"
At this moment, he truly focused his gaze on Letho. He noticed a fresh tear in the left shoulder of Letho's leather armor—given Letho's skill, few could injure him. The alchemist silently tossed a crystal vial, the swirling emerald liquid inside catching it just before it struck the steel sword's hilt.
"Swallow Potion." He turned away, seemingly not wanting anyone to see his expression, still operating the star tracker with his back to Letso. "This time, I won't charge you."
As Letso put the potion into his bag, his fingertips brushed against the cold snake-shaped badge in the inner pocket, then he suddenly stopped as if he had thought of something.
"Five days from now, Foltest will leave Vizima." Letho's voice was deep and rippling like the grinding of rocks. "If the Wild Hunt is indeed, as prophesied, seeking the Ancient Blood..."
He suddenly stopped speaking, noticing a dangerous dark red glint in Kilyam's eyes as he turned around: "The blood of the Northern King is indeed an excellent material for casting blood magic. You want to use it to lure the Wild Hunt? When did Emhyr's sorcerers start researching the magic of the Wild Hunt? Or do you really think the Wild Hunt will appear in the chaos like in the stories? I thought you preferred the art of killing to the knowledge passed down by Iva."
Giliam slammed his fist on the table. "Stop, Letho! Don't sacrifice our last remaining brethren for Emhyr's empty promises. We are witchers, not pawns in the hands of politicians, nor sacrifices to appease otherworldly spirits!"
"Boom—!"
The torrential rain poured down without warning, and the cold wind from the rain poured in through the ventilation ducts. Amidst the thunder, Letso stared at his colleague's face and suddenly realized that this man, who always spent his time in the laboratory, had sensed the bloody scent of the conspiracy even earlier than he had.
On a weapon rack in the corner of the laboratory, next to a silver sword, lay an old medicine box. The lid was engraved with the initials of all the members of the Serpent School, three of whom had been marked with black borders in remembrance, while the new rune above the letter "R" was still faintly glowing.
“If you insist on going to your death, I can’t stop you.” Kiliam turned his head away, no longer looking at him, his voice softening slightly in the downpour. “But… tell those two fools, Oakes and Serret, that I’ve seen the same pattern on other rubbings of the pillars on the east side of the Lomune Ruins. It’s inscribed with the ancient words ‘Peril of the Abyss.’ If they want to bring more fragments back to me alive, they’d better not touch that black brick at the very bottom of the altar.”
"I've got it..."
Lightning illuminated the room once more, and also lit up Letso's somewhat hesitant face. To be honest, for a Witcher, it was quite rare to make such an expression.
"Are you sure you don't want to join us? This is a matter of life and death for the school of thought."
"snort."
Kiliam chuckled, causing Letho to frown deeply. In Letho's view, the few remaining Witchers of the Serpent School should cooperate, not be content to fade into a group of wandering mercenaries like those stubborn and selfish bears.
With deep amber eyes, he looked at Letso and could see the unease hidden beneath the other's eyes.
"Master Iva the Evil Eye's original intention in founding the Serpent School was not to help one country's king kill another's king. I've said that more than once. How is your behavior any different from that group of self-degrading Cat School members?"
The Serpent School originated from the Bear School, and their shared use of the Herbal Trial Potion has resulted in a severe deficiency in their emotional perception. During their apprenticeships, Bear School members are even required by their mentors to kill an animal companion with whom they have shared a long-standing bond, in order to cultivate a cold-blooded nature in them as witchers.
Naturally, this flaw means that the connections between the Bear School witchers are not very deep. Fighting alone, they often die in obscurity, and the important knowledge of the school disappears into the darkness.
However, Giliam and Letho, who also inherited the teachings from Iva the Evil Eye, the founder of the Serpent School, had no intention of letting the school disappear. It's just that their approaches to solving problems differed...
Letor shook his head. The Witcher's mutation potion made the subjects lose their emotions, but also made them calmer. However, he seemed to retain more emotions than others, such as his feelings for his fellow students of the same school.
Therefore, he was unwilling to force Gilyam to accept his ideas; rather, perhaps it was better this way. King-killing was a dangerous path, and if a learned person like Gilyam, who possessed more knowledge of the alchemy and weapon-making methods of various schools, were alive, the schools could survive better even without him...
"Tsk!"
Seemingly sensing the other's thoughts, Giliam stood up from the table. His physique was no less robust than Leto's, perhaps even slightly stronger. Layers of interlocking chainmail clung tightly to his explosively muscular body, making a series of crisp sounds with each movement. A fist as thick as a bear's paw, whipping up a sharp gust of wind, struck Leto's head, which gleamed slightly in the lamplight.
Letso's beastly eyes contracted instantly, and he swiftly raised his other hand, the one not holding the poison, to block in front of him. The immense force forced Letso back a few steps. He shook his hand, and a clear red mark appeared on his thick forearm, from which a sharp pain emanated, as if even the muscles had suffered considerable injury.
"Don't think that dying for your foolish ideas is a simple matter. The Nilfgaardian Empire is not an easy opponent. The Scoia'tael is nothing more than a terrorist organization. Don't you realize that becoming a king killer will make us a thorn in the side of the kings and an ideal target?"
Kilyam withdrew his fist and coldly stared at Letso, who remained expressionless despite the pain.
"...I know. But Emperor Emhyr promised the School's reconstruction in Nilfgaard, just as he promised the Elves to establish their own kingdom in the Valley of Flowers. The Empire is so vast, there must be a place for us to survive, even if not in Toussaint, it can be in the desert of Sericania."
"Of course, and then, like 'Iron Wolf' Isengrim, he was sold by Emhyr to the kings of the north for execution."
"..."
Letor fell silent, for he knew this could very well be his future, but the establishment of the Valley of a Hundred Flowers was a fact, and the fact that the elves had gained a territory of their own was also a fact, and he was willing to pay the price of his life for such a fact. Whether he himself survived after completing the task given to him by Emhyr, it was enough that those who survived could obtain a place sufficient for survival.
If the Bear School was a group of cold and self-centered people, then the Serpent School, which split off from the Bear School, was a group of fanatics starting with its founder, Iva Evil Eye. They inherited the self-centered characteristics from the Bear School and were enthusiastic about going all the way down the path they believed in, even if it was a path of no return and death.
Giliam was the same kind of person, but rather than securing a so-called place of survival for his school, he was more enthusiastic about inheriting the ideas of Iva the Evil Eye: to defeat the Wild Hunt, find a way for the Wild Hunt to roam freely across the world, and explore more knowledge and mysteries. This kind of thinking was often ridiculed by Letho and his companions, who said he was a Witcher but acted like a mage, since Witchers, after undergoing mutation, would completely lose any magical talents they originally possessed.
But Giliam believed that only human life mattered, and that land was not a necessity for witchers. Letho, however, clearly believed that without a settlement, the Serpent School would eventually become a disorganized mess like the Bear School.
"Will those two, Oakes and Serret, also continue to participate in this operation?"
"Hmm..." Letso made a muffled sound through his nose. "If you don't want to participate, don't ask any more questions. Killing a lord isn't something you can just casually talk about."
Seeing that Letso was unmoved, Kiliam tossed him a box of medicine with muscle-relaxing properties from the alchemy table. Kiliam tilted his head back, indicating that he should get out of his laboratory.
Letso silently caught the medicine thrown at him with his injured hand, while his other hand still tightly gripped the poison meant for killing the king.
He turned away without a word of thanks, as ruthless as the longsword he carried on his back. In that instant, a chilling killing intent, almost tangible, began to spread; he had already decided on the path he would embark on.
"Idiot bald guy..."
Kilyam sat back down on the alchemy table, where there was a map of Temeria in the Northern Kingdoms, with a large red circle encircling a place called Velen.
The farmers' testimonies he collected in his tavern echoed in the scorching air: "...like winter ghosts, the sound of their horses' hooves could freeze milk...my wife said she found frost-covered footprints in the vegetable garden, as big as dinner plates..."
Instead of summer, Velen was suddenly gripped by a chilling frost. A ghost knight in a deathly gray mask swept across the sky, bringing with him an evil gale.
"The Wild Hunt..."