Karl shifted the conversation, glanced at Geralt, and made his decision directly.
"Alright," he said calmly, "I'll go with you and take a look."
Natasha had been rapidly calculating her next moves, already preparing a dozen arguments and even bracing herself to pay a certain price if persuasion failed. She had studied the rumors surrounding this so-called Grand Duke of La Valette in detail—especially the tale of him defeating an entire army on his own. Such a feat was enough to make any rational lord hesitate when facing a dragon, a creature that even kings feared.
Yet she never expected Karl to agree so readily, without bargaining, conditions, or hesitation.
Natasha's violet eyes brightened, as though she were seeing the first light of dawn after a long night. For a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to believe the matter was settled cleanly.
But just as that quiet joy rose in her heart, Karl added another sentence. His gaze returned to Geralt, steady and sincere.
"Remember," he said slowly, "I'm doing this for Geralt's sake."
The words were like a splash of cold water. They did not extinguish Natasha's satisfaction entirely, but they dampened it enough to bring clarity. Once again, it was made unmistakably clear that Karl's reason for agreeing had nothing to do with her eloquence, logic, or any unspoken deal. It was friendship—nothing more, nothing less.
A few days later, a sizable party traveled along the winding road that led toward the region where rumors of a dragon had begun to spread.
Karl, Geralt, and Natasha rode near the front. Geralt and Natasha were side by side, while Karl followed half a horse's length behind them, quietly observing the strange and growing procession that now called itself a dragon-hunting party.
Behind them rolled a simple flatbed wagon drawn by a patient horse. Dandelion sat cross-legged upon it, cradling his beloved lute. His fingers danced across the strings as if the road itself were a stage. From time to time, flamboyant verses burst from his mouth—grandiose, romantic, and often slightly detached from reality. He praised the towering mountains, the thrill of adventure, and the poetic danger of the journey ahead, all in an earnest attempt to add artistic splendor to what was, in truth, a perilous expedition.
Most of those around him responded with looks usually reserved for fools or madmen. Dandelion, however, seemed either unaware of or entirely immune to such judgment.
As with any potentially profitable venture, word spread quickly. New faces joined the group almost daily. Knights and mercenaries came seeking glory, dreaming of slaying a dragon and earning instant fame. Merchants and alchemists followed with more practical ambitions, coveting the dragon's scales, bones, blood, and other rare materials worth fortunes. There were also opportunists with no clear skill or plan, merely hoping to profit from chaos.
The party grew larger and louder, its composition increasingly complex. Excitement, greed, and restlessness hung in the air like a gathering storm.
Amid this chaos, a middle-aged male sorcerer dressed in refined robes guided his gentle mare closer to Karl. The man wore a striking red top hat that made him stand out even among such a colorful crowd. Adjusting his path deliberately, he drew alongside Karl, his sharp eyes openly scrutinizing the young man.
From the sorcerer's perspective, Karl was an oddity. He had short golden hair and blue eyes, features rare enough to be memorable, and his face could certainly be called handsome. Yet his clothing was unremarkable—plain, practical, and devoid of any noble crest or sign of status. He looked like a common adventurer or a free citizen with modest means.
More puzzling still, aside from the greatsword strapped to his back—its hilt wrapped in coarse cloth and clearly heavy—Karl wore no armor at all. Not even basic leather protection.
In a group preparing to face a dragon, such a lack of defense seemed not merely unusual, but outright foolish.
"Hey, young man," the red-hatted sorcerer called out, his tone casual but tinged with the authority of age and experience. "What's your name? Are you here for the dragon hunt as well?"
He paused, then added in what sounded like well-meaning advice, "It's extremely dangerous to ride into something like this without armor."
"A dragon's claws and teeth are razor-sharp," he continued. "One careless swipe could tear someone as unprotected as you apart."
"Courage is admirable," the sorcerer concluded, "but recklessness will only get you killed."
Karl was not wearing his true, widely known face. Using his Bio-Force Field, he had subtly altered his features, bending light and adjusting details just enough to appear as a different person. His facial structure remained balanced and natural, but the nuances were changed, and even his skin tone was slightly different.
Aside from Geralt and Natasha—who had been informed in advance—even Dandelion believed this was Karl's natural appearance. In fact, the bard had privately remarked that the man possessed a distinctly heroic air.
Hearing the sorcerer's words, Karl turned his head. A relaxed, almost lazy smile appeared on his face, as though he were heading to a picnic rather than a dragon's lair.
"My name is Aernfaeddie," he said evenly. Then, instead of answering directly, he asked, "But tell me—why must we hunt the dragon?"
He continued before the sorcerer could respond. "If it hasn't attacked villages or killed innocent people—if it's simply remaining in its territory—wouldn't it be enough to drive it away from human settlements?"
Karl shrugged lightly. "As for armor, I don't think I need it. Wearing armor would only slow me down."
He added, still smiling, "What protection could be harder than a body trained to its limits?"
The name Aernfaeddie made the sorcerer frown slightly. It carried the cadence of Elder Speech, and in the elven tongue, it seemed to hint at meanings connected to the sun. Combined with Karl's golden hair and striking features, it raised an intriguing possibility.
Could this young man possess elven blood?
When Karl spoke against the blind slaughter of the dragon, the sorcerer's expression softened. In fact, he felt a spark of delight. He believed he had encountered a kindred spirit—someone who understood the importance of maintaining nature's balance, protecting ancient and endangered creatures, and resisting the senseless killing driven by profit or vanity.
A pleased smile spread across the sorcerer's face. He was just about to launch into a deeper discussion—about ecological equilibrium, the value of rare magical beings, and the misunderstood nature of the green dragon rumored to dwell in these lands.
Then Karl's comment about his flesh being tougher than armor landed like a brick.
All the carefully prepared words jammed in the sorcerer's throat. The smile froze, and the corners of his mouth twitched uncontrollably.
In an instant, his view of Karl shifted. The thoughtful young man with shared ideals was replaced by the image of an insufferable egomaniac.
In the span of a heartbeat, Karl's first impression gained three new descriptors in the sorcerer's mind: arrogant, conceited, and foolish.
"Ahem," the man said, straightening in his saddle and reclaiming his composure. "I am Dorregaray—a sorcerer devoted to protecting endangered species and maintaining the natural balance of the world."
He drew a deep breath and continued in a noticeably drier tone, deliberately emphasizing his philosophy. "You," he added with thinly veiled irony, "are a very confident young man."
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