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89.09% The Witcher: Wolf School's Hunting Notes / Chapter 376: 377. Ban Ard Is No Longer a Threat.

Bab 376: 377. Ban Ard Is No Longer a Threat.

"Wrong tool?"

Nenneke took the surgical knife, held it carefully in his hand, and examined it closely. "No mistake. This is scalpel number four."

"I'm not saying the model is wrong," Ianna gestured toward Allen, who was lying face down on the operating table. A white mark the length of a finger stretched across the Witcher's back, like a scratch accidentally made with a nail. "I mean, has this blade been used by some priest or healer and not maintained or sharpened?"

"The coagulated blood must be completely drained before we proceed with the next step of treatment. But this blade is so dull it can't even cut through the surface layer of skin."

"Maybe it is," Nenneke shrugged and retrieved another slender scalpel from a cold iron box nearby. He held it over the flickering lamp flame to sterilize it again. "I'll ask Bena about it tomorrow. Someone's likely been careless…"

"Make sure to check properly," Ianna said, her tone frosty as she took the sterilized scalpel from him. "This isn't a minor issue."

"Today, it's unsharpened tools. Tomorrow, what will it be? Unboiled gauze? Miscalculated salve proportions? Missing the timing for childbirth?"

Her reprimand trailed off abruptly when she saw yet another white mark appear on Allen's back.

This time, the mark was even fainter than the first.

Ianna frowned and ran the blade along the muscle alignment again, this time with more precision.

Screech.

The sound of a dull blade scraping leather was piercing and unpleasant.

Even with greater force, the expected wound didn't appear. Instead, another white mark was left on Allen's purplish, bruised back.

"How careless!" Nenneke barked in frustration. "Tomorrow, I'll make sure those priests and apprentices are properly disciplined…"

He retrieved yet another blade, sterilized it, and handed it to Ianna.

Ianna didn't take it immediately. Instead, she placed the scalpel she was holding flat in front of her eyes, inspecting it carefully before accepting the new one.

Creak.

Still, no break in the skin. Allen grunted softly as the pressure from the bruising worsened.

Even Vesemir, the seasoned Witcher master, noticed something was off.

"Archpriestess, there are only three number-four scalpels in the iron box…"

"It's not the scalpels," Ianna interrupted, waving him off. She turned her attention back to Allen.

Apart from the bruises that covered nearly his entire back and a few scars from training and trials, Allen's body was one of the most balanced and healthy she'd ever seen. Yet, externally, it still seemed entirely human.

No dragon scales, no troll-like rock plates—just skin as smooth as a newborn's.

Why?

After a few moments of thought, Ianna motioned for Vesemir to approach.

"Archpriestess Ianna?" Vesemir asked, concerned. "Is Allen alright?"

Ianna shook her head. "Not sure yet. Let me see your hand."

"My hand?"

Instinctively, Vesemir raised his right hand.

"Don't flinch…"

A flash of cold light.

The blade slid across Vesemir's hand.

Out of trust for the Melitele Archpriestess and concern for Allen, Vesemir didn't move. Besides, the strange blade that couldn't even scratch Allen wouldn't hurt him either.

Sure enough.

Vesemir didn't feel any pain, and the blade withdrew.

Not even the faintest cut appeared on his hand.

"Hm?"

Vesemir's eyes widened.

A second later, a thin cut appeared where the blade had passed. Beads of blood seeped out, delayed.

This wasn't dullness. This was sharpness at an extreme, creating delayed wounds.

But… but Vesemir had clearly seen this very blade pressed hard against Allen's back, leaving only white marks.

"That doesn't make sense…" Ianna murmured as she summoned golden light to heal Vesemir's hand instantly. "A number-four scalpel can slice through tough cowhide and shave bone thinly. It shouldn't struggle to break a Witcher's skin…"

The scalpel was used lightly across Allen's body.

The blade pierced flesh but failed to open any actual wounds. Within moments, the skin recovered as if it hadn't been touched.

Allen let out a few instinctive groans of pain but seemed otherwise unaffected.

That's when Ianna noticed the peculiar looks from Vesemir, Nenneke, and Lysa. Especially Lysa, who looked both indignant and amused.

"Ah, right…"

Ianna awkwardly pulled back the scalpel, hesitated for a second, and asked, "Have you Wolf School Witchers been modifying the Trial of the Grasses formula?"

Vesemir furrowed his brow.

"If it's a secret, you don't need to answer," Ianna added, though her sharp eyes betrayed curiosity.

"It's not exactly a secret," Vesemir replied, shaking his head. "There were adjustments to the process, but that all happened after Allen completed his trials."

"As far as I know…"

The Witcher master adjusted the brim of his wide hat, thinking back to encounters with Cat School Witchers. "Others who passed the trials with him can still be injured by normal blades."

"What about Allen?" Ianna pressed.

"Allen…" Vesemir murmured thoughtfully. "Allen…"

Upon reflection, Vesemir realized that while Allen had suffered injuries—nearly dying together during an encounter near Pontar River—he'd never seen the young Witcher wounded by a sharp weapon.

During the Cat School ambush, Allen had single-handedly taken down seasoned assassins. Later, in the apprentice combat tournament, Cat School initiates—despite doping themselves—couldn't touch him, even in groups.

Even Vesemir and Aristo, ranked in the top three swordsmen of the Wolf School, were no match for him.

He was extraordinary.

"Sorry," Vesemir shook his head. "I've never seen Allen hurt by a blade. I don't know what's happening…"

"Not even once?"

The three priests of varying ages but increasing heights, all dressed in gray robes, crowded around the prone and shirtless Allen, their eyes wide in disbelief.

The scene looked almost comical.

But Vesemir didn't laugh. After pondering for a moment, he affirmed, "Before the Trials, I'm not sure. But since then, Allen has been my journeying apprentice. He's been with me most of the time, and no, I've never seen it."

"Incredible! Truly incredible!" Nenneke murmured. "No wonder he's called the Hero of Kaer Morhen... the Blue Death…"

Lysa didn't speak, though her bright eyes lingered on Allen.

"Impressive. Not even Zerrikanian steel could do this," Ianna added in admiration. But then she looked at the scalpel in her hand, shaking her head with frustration.

"But if we can't break his skin, how do we drain the bruises and treat his injuries?"

"Even with a Witcher's healing ability, blood clots impede circulation and muscle recovery. This could be fatal…"

The room fell into an uneasy silence.

While Ianna prepared another spell, Vesemir hesitated to voice the absurd solution forming in his mind.

Suddenly, Allen stirred.

"I…"

"Allen spoke!" Lysa stood up straight.

"What?"

Everyone held their breath. Ianna leaned closer to hear him.

"E-E…lsa…"

After listening carefully, she looked up, puzzled. "What does 'Elsa' mean?"

"It's Elsa… Elsa!" Lysa interrupted eagerly. "That's the name Allen gave his sword. His silver sword—the one he named after slaying many great monsters…"

Allen named it?

Vesemir's theory was confirmed. Just as he was about to speak, Lysa's comment froze him in place.

"I've heard of it," Nenneke nodded slightly. "The Blue Death from the North, composed by the bard Ymir. Many wounded Witchers like singing it…"

"…The fourteen-year-old Kaer Morhen knight, who named his beloved silver sword, Elsa…"

Nenneke softly hummed a few verses.

Even a bard wrote about it?

Vesemir's lips twitched as he tightened his grip on his wide-brimmed hat. The brim wrinkled under his fingers.

He opened his mouth, planning to clarify that Elsa was actually his sword—a blade forged with his life savings, and the name was his idea.

But on second thought…

How could he explain that 'his' silver sword was now famed across the Continent thanks to Allen's feats?

Ah!

That was my sword!

'My sword!'

"Silver sword…" Ianna raised an eyebrow, glancing at the two sheathed swords leaning against the wall. Among them, the one with the most elegant curve and a silver hilt caught her attention.

"So Allen means to use his sword…"

"The silver sword can cut through his flesh." Vesemir's face was pale, his lips twitching slightly. After an internal struggle, he decided Allen's situation took precedence.

Clang!

He stepped to the corner, skillfully drawing Elsa.

For reasons he couldn't quite explain, after not wielding this sword for a long time, it felt strangely foreign in his grip.

The hilt's icy touch seemed to reject him.

"But the silver sword… if I remember correctly, isn't that—" Nenneke spoke with a peculiar tone, her eyes fixed on the boy lying on the treatment table.

Vesemir remained silent, staring at the gleaming silver blade.

"Let's try it, Ianna," Lysa interrupted the awkward atmosphere in the treatment room. "If Allen says it'll work, it must be right."

"Then we'll try." Ianna exchanged a glance with Nenneke.

Witcher swords are heavy. Crafted to fully utilize the enhanced strength of mutated bodies, they are designed to cleave through the toughest of bones. They are even heavier than a knight's longsword.

The older and more skilled the witcher, the heavier the sword they wield.

As a master witcher over a century old, Vesemir's beloved Elsa naturally weighed far more than Ianna, now in her twilight years, could possibly handle.

Nenneke and Lysa couldn't wield it either.

Thus, the task fell to Ianna to mark the location, depth, and force needed, while the witcher master precisely maneuvered the blade to carve suitable incisions—like etching patterns on a fruit core—on Allen's back and the necrotic areas of his limbs.

Fortunately.

Vesemir was not just a master swordsman but also an expert in dissecting monster materials. Over the years, his extensive injuries and long-standing experience had granted him an unparalleled understanding of witcher anatomy.

In truth, the temple of Melitele did have silver daggers.

But the ones they possessed were ceremonial—either made of soft pure silver or entirely unsharpened.

Shk~

Shk~

Dark, putrid blood sprayed from the small incisions like crimson swords.

In the blink of an eye, the entire treatment room was filled with the thick stench of iron.

Tears welled up in Lysa's eyes as she breathed heavily, unable to bear the sight.

Instinctively, she wanted to turn her head away from the gory scene.

"A witcher is either fighting a battle or walking the path toward one," Ianna remarked flatly, noticing her reaction. "Allen is no exception, perhaps the most extraordinary of us all. Watch closely; you'll need this knowledge one day."

The slowly rising and falling flesh was riddled with bleeding incisions, and the once-white bedsheets were now entirely stained red.

Lysa had no choice but to suppress the unsettling weightlessness in her chest and force herself to watch the gruesome sight, her eyelids trembling.

She knew Ianna was right.

Realizing this filled Lysa with an acute sense of dread, forcing her to widen her eyes even further.

She suddenly understood that since her parents' passing, the person she could least afford to lose wasn't Ianna, her aunt, Nenneke, or Sadia, but the boy lying before her, younger than herself.

Even though he was hailed as Ellander's hero, the scourge of deadly specters, the youngest master witcher, the Blue Death who spread death with his silver sword…

Death was still death.

Her father's unwavering adherence to knightly virtue hadn't spared him from the Reaper's scythe…

Nor could a victorious hero avoid lying weak and pale on blood-soaked linens, his fragile breaths seeming as though they could cease at any moment.

A witcher is a profession closest to death in all aspects.

Every single one of them…

An inexplicable sense of urgency surged within her.

As if missing these fleeting seconds would doom her to lose him someday—next time, or the time after that—through some oversight or cowardice born of this moment.

Though…

She never truly had him to begin with.

The treatment ended with Ianna casting a warm golden light.

Allen's breathing steadied. Aside from looking pale from excessive blood loss, he was out of danger. All that remained was rest and recovery.

"Ah…" Ianna exhaled deeply, wiping the sweat from her brow.

"Such a troublesome child," she scolded Allen playfully. "Disturbing people's sleep in the dead of night. Who knows where he went to get into a fight this time…"

Lysa was carefully applying green medicinal salve to his wounds and securing them with bandages. Hearing Ianna's words, she defended Allen: "Allen isn't like that. He must have had a good reason… Allen, what are you saying?"

Mid-sentence, Lysa froze.

From Allen's bloodstained lips, faint whispers emerged.

She leaned closer.

Everyone in the treatment room stopped what they were doing.

In the silence, they all heard it clearly:

"Ban Ard… will never be a threat again."

Both Vesemir and Lysa felt their hearts tremble at his words.

.....

📢20 advanced chapters on p@treaon📢

For advance chapters: p@treon.com/Uchiha_Itachi007 (replace @ with a)

378. Could It Be He's Not the Child of Prophecy?

379. Spiral! The Witcher Who Commands Time and Space!

380. Source LV1.

381. Allen, What Are You So Anxious About?

382. The Blue Death.


next chapter

Bab 377: 378. Could It Be He’s Not the Child of Prophecy?

A forest near the outskirts of Ban Ard.

"Have you… ever encountered anything like this before?"

Hearing Miguel's question, Vilgefortz's eyes flickered slightly.

"No," he replied without hesitation, shaking his head. "Ithlinne's Star Phantoms are incredibly complex. I've only recently started learning it and haven't fully delved into all its intricacies."

Miguel nodded without suspicion. "A ritual as powerful as this, one that even the elusive Wild Hunt cannot escape from under the light of the Stars, is indeed extraordinary."

"Such an exceptional spell is worth studying further," Vilgefortz agreed, testing the waters with a question. "Miguel, what do you think…"

He gestured toward the crater on the ground before them.

"…who—or what—this… 'person' could be?"

Miguel picked up on the subtle implication in Vilgefortz's tone. "You don't think this person exists?"

"It's highly suspect. The Wild Hunt's rampage and the missing experimental artifact…" Vilgefortz shook his head. "But it's hard to imagine anyone, even Hen Gedymdeith himself, managing to leave behind a Wild Hunt corpse, let alone decapitating one."

Miguel fell silent. That was indeed a significant issue.

In truth, when they had fought that particular Wild Hunt warrior, it was this same compelling reasoning that had made them dismiss the possibility of someone watching from the shadows. Otherwise, they would have been more vigilant and likely avoided such a crushing defeat.

Could there really be someone in this world stronger than Hen Gedymdeith, the mighty sorcerer?

Wait… stronger?

Why must it be a human?

Miguel's mind flashed with realization.

Clap!

He smacked his forehead sharply.

"Elves!"

"What?" Vilgefortz blinked in confusion.

"It has to be the elves!" Miguel gripped Vilgefortz's shoulders with both excitement and fury. "Only those long-eared forest-dwellers would have the means to deceive us…"

"Yes! That's it!"

"Ithlinne has been dead for centuries. Do you think the elves wouldn't have a way to counteract or conceal themselves from 'Ithlinne's Star Phantoms'?"

"All of Hen Gedymdeith's might and magical expertise came from his time studying in the Aen Elle courts. Just because he couldn't do something doesn't mean the elves can't…"

"And… and…"

Miguel's face flushed red as he grew more animated, joy and anger intertwining as he unraveled the truth.

"Not to mention the attack on Ban Ard! The destruction of the academy wouldn't have been known so quickly by powerful factions unless the elves were involved…"

"The largest enclave of elves on the Northern Continent lies just beyond the forests east of Ban Ard. And don't forget… before the Conjunction of the Spheres, Ban Ard captured a few elves, but they mysteriously escaped from the dungeons…"

At this thought, another flash of insight struck Miguel.

"Perhaps… perhaps all of this is an elven conspiracy!!!"

"Why?" Vilgefortz, still reeling from the sudden turn of logic, asked instinctively.

Smack!

Miguel slapped Vilgefortz's shoulder forcefully, glaring at him with exasperation.

"Think about it! Not long before the Conjunction of the Spheres, a group of unidentified elves was captured at Ban Ard and then vanished without explanation…"

"Do you think they just wanted to sightsee in a human prison?"

"No!" Miguel swung his right arm emphatically. "They must have done something!"

Thud, thud, thud.

He paced rapidly near the crater, muttering under his breath about the Conjunction, the Curse of the Black Sun, elves, and the Wild Hunt.

Then, abruptly, he stopped, his bloodshot eyes snapping to Vilgefortz, who recoiled in shock at the intensity of his gaze.

"How cunning!" Miguel spat bitterly, seemingly speaking to himself.

"First, they orchestrated the Conjunction during the Apprentice Combat Trials, ensuring the King of Kaedwen died at Ban Ard, sowing discord between sorcerers and the royal family…"

"They might have even colluded with the witchers to time everything so perfectly. No, wait…" Miguel shook his head. "The Cat School works with us, and the Wolf School is neutral—a bunch of rigid fools. They must have other ways…"

"For ancient races like theirs, it wouldn't be hard."

"Ban Ard's falling out with Aretuza, Kaedwen's war with Aedirn… the elves of Dol Blathanna have ties in Aedirn too…"

"The wars not only drained the kingdom's forces but also drew many capable sorcerers to the front lines under agreements with the new king, leaving the academy defenseless…"

"The Conjunction's powerful disruptions awoke the Wild Hunt, which then struck a crippled Ban Ard…"

"It all fits. Even the strange stone we're chasing, taken from the 'Hazardous Experiment Storage Warehouse' was originally something Jenks stole from the elves. It could all have been part of their plan…"

"What a devious, ruthless strategy!"

"What kind of monster has emerged among the elves?"

As Miguel pieced everything together, a chill ran down his spine.

Before Vilgefortz could sort through his thoughts to respond, Miguel suddenly slapped his forehead again.

"Damn!"

"What now?"

"Why do you think the long-eared ones planned this so meticulously?" Miguel's face drained of color as a bead of sweat slid down his temple.

"The academy is in ruins. The headmaster is gravely injured and unable to oversee affairs… Kaedwen is locked in a fierce war with Aedirn, unable to spare any forces… two successive disasters wiped out not only the citizens of Ban Ard but even the surrounding villages…"

"This is Ban Ard at its weakest!"

"What are those long-eared bastards planning to do?!"

Before Vilgefortz could answer, Miguel began chanting a spell in panic.

Whoosh!

An orange-red portal, swirling with forest winds, materialized before them. Branches and leaves swayed violently in its presence.

"Quick, Vilgefortz, follow me!" Miguel shouted in alarm, charging toward the portal without waiting for a response.

It seemed he had entirely forgotten the humiliation of losing ten of his twelve sorcerers to the Wild Hunt's vengeance.

Vilgefortz stood frozen, his mind a tempest of thoughts.

This wasn't the first time Ithlinne's Star Phantoms had faltered—this was the third occurrence.

Back when the mage named Lyon escaped, Vilgefortz had already noticed anomalies in the illusion spells.

Mentioning Hen Gedymdeith had merely been a diversion from the truth.

The Child of Prophecy was his, and Vilgefortz wasn't one to share his vision of the future with others. But the more he listened to Miguel's reasoning, the less he could find fault with the logic.

Could Ithlinne's Star Phantoms only fail in the presence of the Child of Prophecy?

He wasn't sure.

The spell came from Aen Elle-era tablets. Who knew if the elves had some advanced cloaking or concealment magic to counter it?

And that assumption was the crux of his argument for the Child of Prophecy's involvement—the only reliable reason he had.

Besides, there was his gut instinct.

A powerful instinct!

Otherwise, how could a fourteen-year-old witcher, barely a boy, have crossed such vast distances in only a few days to reach Ban Ard?

A child of his age wouldn't have such motivation—or means.

Would he have overlooked such contradictions?

Yet now, Miguel's reasoning was logical, coherent, and utterly convincing.

The elves were, indeed, the greatest beneficiaries of this event.

"How odd…" Vilgefortz murmured as he stepped toward the portal, frowning. "Could all this truly be the work of the elves and have nothing to do with the Child of Prophecy?"

---------------------------

The Next Day.

Temple of Melitele.

He woke from his slumber to find soft golden sunlight streaming through the window, bathing the room in a warm glow.

"Where am I?" The witcher instinctively raised a hand to shield his eyes from the light.

"Hiss~"

His muscles, stiff and aching as if unused for ages, spasmed painfully, drawing a low groan from his lips.

A tickling sensation brushed against his cheek, accompanied by a faint, fresh scent of eucalyptus carried on the breeze.

He tried to turn his head toward the familiar scent's source, only for it to move closer to him instead.

Raven-black hair danced in the air, touched by the sunlight and turned into strands of gold. Translucent, snow-pale skin radiated an alluring glow. And those eyes—clear as the mountain streams of early spring—drew his gaze.

For a moment, he thought he recognized the face, though it felt strangely unfamiliar.

"Allen, you're awake!" A soft, melodic voice called out, like a rose swaying gently in the breeze.

"Ly…sa?"

His slightly unfocused cat-like pupils adjusted, allowing him to recognize the girl before him.

"It's me!" She smiled gently.

Allen felt his hand being wrapped in the softness of silken fabric.

"This is the Temple of Melitele. You returned last night… Vesemir carried you back here. Your injuries were severe…"

The words spilled from her rosy lips, a soft chatter recounting the events of the previous night. Though it was slightly noisy, the witcher found his tense body relaxing as he listened.

Half-awake, his eyelids began to grow heavy once more, sleep creeping back over him.

Lysa noticed this, her voice softening: "You've lost a lot of blood and need rest to recover. Don't worry about the arrangement with Duke Mason—Vesemir left with the others early this morning."

"Rest well, Allen. I'll bring you lunch, just like I did during Orchard."

The witcher felt as though he nodded, though he wasn't sure if he actually moved. Sleep's embrace grew heavier, and he surrendered to it once more.

Before he drifted off, he thought he heard a quiet "Thank you" whispered near his ear.

Thank you?

He wanted to ask, but his eyes had already closed.

-------------------------

"...Serra…"

"...Vanished…"

Fragments of words drifted into his consciousness, and the witcher's eyes snapped open—awake.

Though there was no light source, he could see the "darkness." The darkness before him had taken shape, becoming a pitch-black corridor spiraling upward like the staircase of Kaer Morhen's northern tower.

'Where am I?'

The witcher asked aloud, but no sound came forth—not even to his own ears.

Realizing something was wrong, he looked down.

Below him was a staircase of shadows, but there was no trace of boots, greaves, or potion pouches. No—there was nothing concrete to describe. It was as if nothing existed.

It felt as though his very being was reduced to a pair of floating eyes—a mere viewpoint suspended in this unknown void. Even the colorful spheres associated with visions of Melitele's realm were absent. This was something else.

'Am I just a consciousness floating here?'

The witcher's thoughts felt sluggish, like a poorly oiled cogwheel grinding forward with difficulty.

'Am I dreaming?'

No answer came.

In this boundless, eerie void, he should have felt fear, yet no emotions surfaced.

If no answer was forthcoming, he decided not to waste effort seeking one. He focused on the broken fragments of sound that had roused him, attempting to track their source.

Experimenting, he willed his viewpoint to shift.

To his surprise, it obeyed seamlessly, leaping like a blink spell to any shadowy corner his "gaze" could reach. In this peculiar place, it seemed he could teleport endlessly, moving wherever his thoughts directed him.

'Is this place mine to command?'

The witcher shook his "head" instinctively, only for his perspective to spin like a twirling camera, inducing vertigo.

'This dream… it's strangely amusing.'

As he mused, a pale-blue flame flared to life within the darkness, far below on a shadowed staircase.

'Hmm?'

Curious, he directed his view closer, stopping at the edge of the spiraling steps. Ahead lay a vast void, the stairs winding both upward and downward into the blackness.

'Wait…'

He peered downward. Something stirred in the depths of the dark—a subtle thinning of the shadow, like a misty glow.

Before he could make sense of it, the pale-blue flame drew nearer.

Clip-clop, clip-clop…

The echo of hoofbeats reverberated through the void. Then came a procession of riders clad in crimson armor, astride skeletal horses exhaling blue spectral mist.

'The Wild Hunt!'

The witcher's instincts screamed danger.

'Why is the Wild Hunt appearing in my dream?'

'Unless…'

'This isn't a dream!'

'Where am I?'

The witcher asked himself the same question for the third time.

The hoofbeats grew louder, and the spectral riders drew closer—barely two hundred meters away now.

The witcher instinctively sought cover but found none in this bizarre realm. The endless staircase offered no escape as the Hunt approached.

Two hundred meters. One hundred fifty. One hundred.

The burning stench of blue ghostfire was nearly palpable.

Desperate, the witcher's focus landed on the Hunt's lead rider, locking eyes with the distinct, blood-red glow of the specter's gaze.

"Who dares?" the figure snarled.

The skeletal steed reared up, its bony frame outlined in ghastly light.

"Who dares spy upon us?!"

.....

📢20 advanced chapters on p@treaon📢

For advance chapters: p@treon.com/Uchiha_Itachi007 (replace @ with a)

379. Spiral! The Witcher Who Commands Time and Space!

380. Source LV1.

381. Allen, What Are You So Anxious About?

382. The Blue Death.

383. The Guiding Stone of Ard Gaeth's Gate.


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