"I hope your so-called physical body can maintain that confidence when you are facing a dragon's breath."
After delivering those words coldly, Doregare did not spare Karl another glance. It was as if remaining even a second longer in the presence of such an unreasonable, self-important youth would somehow lower his own dignity.
He urged his horse forward sharply, increasing the distance between himself and Karl. His expression was dark with displeasure as he moved back toward the portion of the group that, in his opinion, seemed far more rational—professional adventurers who relied on equipment, tactics, and magic rather than reckless bravado.
Karl watched Doregare's retreating back without any visible reaction. A faint, indifferent smile rested on his lips as he continued riding at an unhurried pace, as though the brief confrontation had never occurred.
Yet deep within his clear blue eyes, a trace of amusement flickered—subtle, fleeting, and impossible for others to notice.
This dragon-hunting expedition, it seemed, was already proving to be far more interesting than he had expected.
Doregare, on the other hand, felt increasingly dissatisfied. The brief exchange with Karl had left him with a deep sense of irritation. To him, the young man embodied the most dangerous kind of arrogance—confidence without discipline, strength without caution.
Seeking more sensible company, Doregare naturally gravitated toward the two individuals in the group who appeared truly professional: Natasha and Geralt.
As he drew closer, his gaze settled first on Natasha.
Even though her magical aura was tightly restrained, the faint fluctuations of chaotic energy surrounding her could not be completely concealed. To someone as experienced as Doregare, it was immediately obvious.
He raised an eyebrow slightly and asked, his tone carrying near certainty, "My lady, you are a sorcerer, are you not?"
Natasha showed no surprise at having her identity recognized. She turned her head toward him, her posture elegant and composed. A faintly haughty smile curved her lips, and her violet eyes shimmered with confidence.
"Do I not look like one?" she replied lazily, as though the question were hardly worth serious consideration.
Doregare fell silent for a brief moment. Rather than responding directly, he studied her more carefully, his gaze sharp and appraising.
"Almost everyone here," he said slowly, "is chasing either the fortune promised by a successful dragon hunt, or the glory of becoming a dragon slayer—fame that will be remembered for generations."
His eyes lingered on her face, deliberately pausing before continuing.
"But you," he added, "a beautiful and powerful sorceress, would hardly lack wealth or reputation."
The emphasis he placed on the word beautiful was unmistakable.
"So tell me," he continued, "what reason could you possibly have for involving yourself in something so dangerous?"
Natasha's expression shifted almost imperceptibly. She had faced similar questions countless times and had long since prepared answers that satisfied public expectations.
Her voice, when she spoke, carried an air of solemn responsibility.
"Dragons are creatures that must be eradicated," she said evenly. "They possess intelligence beyond our imagination, yet harbor deep contempt for humanity."
"A single breath of dragon fire can reduce an entire city to ashes," she continued. "They are a latent threat to all civilized races. Eliminating such dangers is the duty of anyone with the power to do so."
Her words were lofty, righteous, and perfectly aligned with conventional moral arguments.
The moment she finished speaking, Doregare's lips twisted into an open sneer.
"Hypocrite," he spat.
The word was clear, sharp, and filled with disdain.
Without offering her another glance, he yanked on the reins and urged his horse forward once again. It was as if even looking at Natasha any longer would somehow taint him.
He quickly rode ahead, distancing himself from both Natasha and Geralt, likely searching for companions who shared his beliefs—or at least those he considered less false.
Natasha's expression darkened instantly.
Her lips pressed into a thin line, and anger flared in her violet eyes like a sudden spark of lightning. For a moment, she looked as though she might unleash a sharp retort or even a spell.
But before she could speak, Geralt, who had been quietly observing the exchange, turned his head toward her.
"Natasha," he said in his rough, hoarse voice, "what you just said…"
He paused briefly, choosing his words with uncharacteristic care.
"…doesn't really match what you actually believe."
He knew her well. While Natasha possessed her own sense of order and morality, she was not someone who would risk her life for vague ideals like the greater good of humanity. Her motivations were usually more personal, more pragmatic.
Natasha shot him a sharp glare.
Already irritated, she felt as though Geralt's comment had struck precisely where it hurt most. She let out a cold snort and turned her head away, refusing to engage further.
Silence fell between them, heavy and awkward.
Just then, a small commotion erupted from the rear of the group.
Another party had joined the already swelling dragon-hunting expedition.
At the forefront of the newcomers was a middle-aged man with thick, curly chestnut hair and a resolute yet faintly playful expression. His eyes were sharp, carrying both intelligence and humor.
He wore no visible weapons. Instead, he was dressed in a simple cotton long shirt paired with a dark brown tunic. On his chest, clearly displayed against a yellow background, was a coat of arms bordered in black.
Three black birds stood side by side upon it.
On his feet were sturdy riding boots, worn but well-maintained.
Even more striking were the two women riding close behind him.
They were Zerrikanian warriors—tall, bronze-skinned, with long black hair and almond-shaped eyes. Their gazes were alert and predatory, and every movement spoke of discipline and deadly skill.
Karl noticed the trio immediately.
A knowing smile curved his lips.
It seemed that nearly all the key figures in this dragon hunt had finally gathered.
Maintaining his distance, Karl chose to observe quietly, his interest growing by the moment.
The middle-aged man's gaze swept across the group and quickly locked onto Geralt's unmistakable figure—white hair, cat-like eyes, and the unmistakable attire of a witcher.
A genuine smile spread across his face.
"Geralt!" he called out warmly.
Geralt turned at the sound of the familiar voice, surprise flashing across his features, quickly followed by unmistakable pleasure.
"Borchi?" he said. "It's good to see you, my friend. I didn't expect you to be here."
Borchi laughed lightly and urged his horse forward until he was riding alongside Geralt.
"You know me," Borchi replied. "I have never supported the senseless hunting of ancient, intelligent creatures."
"So I came," he continued, his tone earnest, "to do what I can to prevent a tragedy—whether for humans or for the dragon itself."
Their reunion was warm, and it seemed they were about to fall into deeper conversation when the mountain to the side suddenly roared.
A series of thunderous booms echoed through the canyon.
The earth trembled.
Loose soil and jagged rocks broke free from the mountainside, crashing downward in a massive landslide. Dust billowed into the air, reducing visibility in an instant.
"Landslide!"
"Run! Cross the bridge!"
"If you don't want to be buried alive, move!"
Shouts of panic rang out as chaos spread through the group. The hunters at the front turned pale and whipped their horses into a frantic sprint.
Ahead of them lay a narrow, aging wooden suspension bridge spanning the canyon.
As the panicked crowd surged forward, the bridge let out a long, shrill creak. The ropes strained violently, and the wooden planks shook under the sudden weight.
When it was finally Natasha and Geralt's turn to cross, disaster struck.
The bridge, already weakened by years of neglect and now overloaded beyond its limits, gave way.
With a sharp crack, the supports snapped.
The wooden structure lurched violently, plunging downward as screams echoed through the canyon.
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