The Witcher: Wolf School's Hunting Notes

The wind blew from the mountains down to the plains.

Clouds drifted past the moon, hovering over a city forged from massive blue stones.

"The 'princess's' castle has no dragons flying above it, nor are there heavy troops besieging it..."

"Houghton lied."

Vesemir tied his horse's reins to a tree by the ancient road. His golden cat-like eyes glowed faintly in the dark, betraying a hint of suppressed anger.

It was precisely because Houghton's letter conveyed such urgency, like a life-or-death situation, that he had rushed back to Kaer Morhen, only to set out again with Allen down the mountain.

They had traveled non-stop, braving wind and rain. The relentless pace had left even the younger witchers with bloodied thighs, and their hurried journey had caught the attention of a high-ranking sorcerer hostile to witchers...

And yet, here they were.

There wasn't a dragon, nor were there heavy troops.

The solid walls of Vergen, hewn from the mountain's rocks, bore no signs of siege or attack. Even the shrubs and trees outside the city gates looked exactly the same as they had on his last visit...

No!

In fact, it was now the Blooming Month, and the trees and shrubs were bursting with life, flowers blooming vibrantly, making the place seem brimming with vitality.

His apprentice was right in his assessment.

The Kaedweni army had never reached this place.

"Hmm..." Allen stroked the mane of his horse, Carrot. "Houghton definitely lied, but since we're already here, we might as well enter Vergen and have a look..."

He paused and added, "Surely, he wouldn't send a distress letter all the way to Kaer Morhen just to play a prank on us."

"If he did, he's finished!" Vesemir growled, adjusting his wide-brimmed black hat. His exposed eye glinted with a menacing gleam.

Even though Houghton was a renowned dwarven master craftsman, he had no right to toy with the Wolf School like this.

"Haah~"

Taking a deep breath, Vesemir calmed his anger and glanced at the enormous city, crouched like a great beast between the mountains.

"We'd better be careful going into the city, just in case."

"Got it."

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

After undergoing the Trial of the Grasses, every witcher becomes a born assassin: light-footed, sharp-sensed, and tireless.

At night, in a city crisscrossed by narrow alleys and sparsely populated, their abilities shine even more.

In fact, Allen seemed even more adept at this than Vesemir, who had decades or even centuries of experience on him. It was as if Allen were a fish in water.

Even though he had only visited Vergen once, for just a day, he always managed to find the perfect hiding spots before Vesemir, avoiding the gaze of guards and passersby.

This left the experienced grandmaster astonished, reduced to simply pointing out a general direction while trying to keep up.

What could he say?

The Cat School truly excelled in assassination techniques, and their Level 5 dual swords were indeed highly effective.

After entering Vergen, the two witchers encountered some challenges climbing the city wall, as the gates were closed at night. But no one noticed them as they reached the stone house of Vergen's leader, dwarven master blacksmith Houghton Qui-gon.

"The guards along the way are still Aedirnian. There are slightly more of them compared to last time, but given the war between the two kingdoms, that's understandable..."

Vesemir muttered to himself as he observed the distribution of guards and their expressions around Houghton's residence. His last shred of trust in the dwarven blacksmith was gone.

"Don't overthink it, Master Vesemir," Allen said, patting his shoulder. "From the sound of his breathing, Houghton is resting in his bedroom. Let's meet him and find out the truth."

Vesemir nodded.

Emerging from the alley and avoiding the patrols, he took two quick steps and leaped effortlessly onto the second-floor balcony.

Allen followed closely behind.

Pale moonlight blanketed the balcony like frost. The wooden door was tightly shut.

"Snore—hoooonk—"

Thunderous snores escaped through the cracks in the door.

"Sleeping soundly, isn't he?"

Vesemir sneered, pushing the door.

It rattled slightly but didn't budge.

It was locked.

He peered through the gap.

A thick metal bar, about the width of a finger, was wedged across the center. But such an obstacle was no match for a witcher grandmaster.

Although Vesemir didn't know lockpicking, he was well aware of a simple principle: metal melts under high temperatures.

The heat from an Igni sign was more than sufficient to melt steel.

Extending his right hand and channeling his magic, Vesemir prepared to use the sign to sever the metal bar.

Allen stopped him, gripping his hand. "Let me handle this."

"You?" Vesemir paused for a moment and stepped aside, confused.

Wouldn't using Igni achieve the same result?

He watched Allen curiously, only to see him move his hands deftly around the door.

Click.

A soft sound broke the silence, and the door loosened.

"Huh!" Vesemir's gaze towards Allen instantly changed.

Stealth could be attributed to natural talent—being innately sensitive to people's gazes and good at spotting hiding spots.

But lockpicking? No one is born knowing how to pick locks...

Where had his apprentice learned this skill?

"Allen, you..."

"Just a little unimportant trick," Allen waved it off. "We have more pressing matters to attend to."

Indeed, unlocking simple locks was part of the Cat School's dual sword training, which prioritized practicality over purity.

The balcony door lock fell under the category of "simple locks."

Vesemir nodded, suppressing his curiosity for now, and pushed the door open.

Creak.

The wooden door opened.

Houghton Qui-Gon lay alone on his sturdy stone bed, eyes closed, snoring loudly.

Click.

As Allen locked the balcony door behind them, Vesemir had already reached the dwarf's bedside.

Smack!

He slapped Houghton on the forehead.

The snoring stopped abruptly.

Houghton's eyes fluttered open, groggy. When he saw the witcher grandmaster, his eyes widened in shock.

"Vesemir..."

"Keep your voice down!" Vesemir hissed, covering Houghton's mouth. Only when the dwarf nodded did he let go.

To the two witchers' surprise, Houghton's first words were not panicked questioning but an excited exclamation as he grabbed Vesemir's hand.

"You Wolves finally came!"

Allen and Vesemir exchanged bewildered glances.

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

"You're saying the letter was sent because the Aedirnian king forced you to?" Vesemir rubbed his hair, frustrated.

Fearing complications, he had left his hat with his horse outside Vergen. Now, the wind blowing through the stairwell ruffled his hair, and it was unexpectedly annoying.

"Strictly speaking, it was the king's knights... but yes, that's essentially it," Houghton said, leading the way with a lantern. "Demavend II has an uncanny knack for shameless cunning, doesn't he?"

The flickering candlelight cast the three figures' enormous shadows in the narrow stairwell.

"Back then, he also—"

"Stole your favorite hammer, waited until you were searching for it, and then stole your boiler and anvil as well. You had no choice but to agree to that scoundrel king's request, didn't you?" Vesemir interrupted. "You've told me this story many times already!"

"Allen's heard it too," the witcher master added after a pause.

"Alright then." Houghton smacked his lips and glanced at Allen, his long black beard quivering.

It took him a few seconds to recover from being interrupted.

"Although I only sent the letter under the coercion of Demavend II, I must say something in their favor."

Houghton kept walking, turning back to look seriously at Vesemir. "Demavend II was left with no choice."

"What happened?"

"Two or three weeks ago, Vengerberg was attacked by a Royal Griffin..."

A Royal Griffin... Allen instinctively glanced at Vesemir and happened to meet the witcher master's gaze.

"That feathered beast suddenly descended from the sky one day. Its flapping wings unleashed winds strong enough to topple a large section of shanty town in Vengerberg's lower district..."

"And then it started showing up nearly every day, targeting a city that had already been drained by the war. Vengerberg is probably the poorest royal capital in the entire Northern Realms now. They say even Demavend II's treasury is completely empty. The Royal Griffin isn't an easy beast to deal with, and the city guards that remained suffered heavy casualties as a result."

"So they needed an experienced witcher, and Demavend II sent someone to find me—though I don't know which bastard leaked the information that you were staying at my place. To prevent the message from being intercepted by Kaedweni forces, who would exploit the chaos in Aedirn, they sent a cryptic message about Verden being under siege and me being gravely ill to attract some Wolf School witcher masters."

"Who would've thought it would be you two who showed up..."

"By the way, the last I heard, you two were still in Ellander. How did you get my letter?"

Before the two witchers could respond, the dwarf seemed to remember something, stopped stroking his beard, and turned back to look at Allen with a hearty smile.

"Good job, King of the May Festival in Ellander."

"Only a witcher like you would be worthy of the great beauty I've crafted. Trust me, when you see her, you'll fall in love instantly."

"Stick to the point, Houghton!" Vesemir interrupted the dwarf. "So, Demavend II just wants someone to deal with the Royal Griffin, right?"

"This isn't off-topic... Fine, fine..." Under the witcher master's glare, the dwarf relented. "More or less. Driving it away is acceptable too, as long as it stops attacking Vengerberg."

"That feathered beast has completely disrupted the supply route to the front lines, forcing them to take much longer detours, which has put enormous pressure on logistics."

"They say things are going well for Aedirn on the front lines. Demavend II's eyes are bloodshot with anxiety. One day, after the beast raided the royal granary, he nearly rushed out to fight it to the death himself. Luckily, his guards were quick to stop him."

"When you go to Vengerberg, you should demand an exaggerated reward. It's a rare chance to make a fortune..."

"Why not hire a sorcerer..." Vesemir frowned, his lips pursed. "I mean, Vengerberg should have a court mage. For them, killing a Royal Griffin might be hard, but driving it away should be doable."

"Don't talk like an amateur, Vesemir..." Houghton didn't look back, pausing briefly before continuing down the stairs.

"Even village farmers know the stronghold of mages is in Kaedwen."

"Besides, Vengerberg's court mage, Fritz, was imprisoned recently for espionage—inciting war, leaking critical intelligence, summoning monsters, sabotaging roads. He's now chained with dimeritium and locked in a dungeon."

"Demavend II is despicable, but he's not stupid."

After that, the stairwell fell into silence.

The sound of their footsteps echoed against the cold, hard stone walls.

"Houghton, you know the Wolf School—"

"We're here!" Houghton cut Vesemir off.

The two witchers looked up.

Before them stood a metal door that shimmered faintly under the candlelight, emitting a bluish hue.

The surface of the door was covered with intricate runes and mechanisms resembling levers and gears.

Although Allen didn't know what the runes carved into the door meant, he recognized the material as the world's most expensive metal—dimeritium. This was not a lock that Igni could melt.

And this was not the same place they had visited last time to take their measurements.

"Please turn around," the dwarf instructed.

The two witchers exchanged glances and obediently turned their backs.

"Clank—creak—"

The sound of metal scraping and strange mechanisms moving echoed around them.

It took quite a while.

"Done."

The witchers turned back at the sound.

The dwarf was gripping one of the blue levers, a proud smile on his face.

"The treasury, where I keep my finest creations, the rarest materials, and countless treasures."

"Vesemir, Allen, if not for your impeccable reputations and the close relationship I have with the Wolf School, I wouldn't have brought you here in the dead of night."

Before the two witchers could speak—

"Crack—"

The heavy dimeritium door swung open.

A chill white mist poured out instantly, filling the entire corridor.

As the fog dissipated, the dwarf stood tall, stroking his beard with pride.

Behind him was a space roughly the size of the hall at Kaer Morhen.

Yes.

Under the candlelight in Houghton's hand and the magical lamps inside the treasury, the floor, walls, and ceiling all shimmered with the unique blue glow of dimeritium.

The entire treasury was one massive dimeritium vault.

Looking inside, Allen saw for the first time what it truly meant to be surrounded by riches.

Besides precious monster materials, the room was filled with swords, hammers, daggers, axes, and all kinds of armor, each radiating a gentle magical glow.

"Buzz—"

The medallions on the two witchers' chests vibrated greedily.

But neither of them paid attention to the buzzing.

Allen's gaze swept across the treasury and instantly locked onto a red medium armor set in the northeast corner.

He had a strong feeling.

That was his Grandmaster Wolven armor.

But...

"This looks nothing like the one Vesemir is wearing!"

.....

📢20 advanced chapters on p@treaon📢

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336. A Stalemate.

337. Neutrality?

338. Repaying a Favor or Owing One?

339. Strange Strengths and Lifts.

340. Hunting the Royal Griffin.