Feet hurrying, Victor went down the stairs. The shopkeeper, Marcus T.K. Hodgson, was dozing behind the counter, leaned back in his chair like he'd been dropped by a punch, sleeping soundly.
He pushed open the shop door. The square outside was packed, cries of buying and selling rising and falling in waves—but that hulking figure was nowhere to be seen.
Jacques de Aldersberg of Aldersberg… had he really been here just now? Or had Victor been nodding off too?
Over the past half month, his coin reserves had recovered, his stock of potions and bombs was plentiful, and the boy had been corrupted by an "invincible" and comfortable life. Day after day passed in calm loops—his alchemy workshop, the fish market, Crippled Kate's, Hierarch Square, Books and Scrolls—five stops on the clockwork circuit.
With no worries at all, the boy had even lost the itch to go out at night and crack skulls. He'd almost convinced himself he was back in those carefree fairy-tale days.
But what had just happened was a reminder to Victor: it was far too early to enjoy an idle retirement. There were plenty of existences out there that could crush him flat. This was no time for a long holiday.
He went back inside and shook Marcus awake. After buying White Frost: A Mysterious Cataclysm or a Natural Phenomenon, Victor left the bookstore and headed for the Novigrad notice board.
…
Hunt the Bat
You shameless rat—where are you hiding?
Is your courage only good for picking on trash?
Tonight I'll be waiting for you at Beggar's Square!
Don't be late.
—Boslaer
Checking the date on the posting, Victor felt a stab of guilt. A challenge from seven days ago—looks like he'd already missed it.
But missing it couldn't be helped. A vigilante driven by whim only went out to beat down villains when the thought struck him, and only within what he could manage—that was already a gentle kind of mercy toward society. To shoulder "saving the world" on a whim would be nothing but stupidity.
The notice board was plastered with countless sheets of paper. It wasn't easy to pick anything meaningful out of the mess, but Victor felt he needed to pull himself together and remember why he'd started in the first place.
…
At dusk, Novigrad's harbor was all sea gulls and slanting sunlight, the water glittering like a painted poem—while sailors, drunks, beggars, and whores provided the grim little accents that made the scene feel real.
Normally, this was the King of Beggars' turf. But Victor had come here looking for Boslaer. Whoreson Junior had a ship docking today; the cargo mattered, so the white-haired elf came in person to oversee everything.
After living in Novigrad for nearly a month, the Dragonborn Bard was something of a minor celebrity—not too famous, not too obscure. Especially after Fergus's smithy opened, at least within the King of Beggars' territory he wasn't treated as an outsider anymore, but as a local who belonged.
His clothes didn't stand out at the docks, nor were they flashy. Thugs didn't bother stopping him to demand coin, and when he asked for directions, people actually pointed him the right way. He hadn't gone far before he spotted Boslaer, waving at him in welcome.
"Hey, my friend. What brings you to see me today?"
"I saw something interesting on the notice board and couldn't help coming to ask. I heard you challenged Batman to a duel—how'd that go?"
That was exactly why Victor had come: to get information, to climb out of couch-potato mode. Since the work of disguises and broken jaws was about to begin again, he didn't want to charge headfirst into a trap he couldn't see.
One of the white-haired elf's men spat to the side in disgust. "Pah! That rat didn't dare show his face. Mister Boslaer waited all night and he never came. Nothing like the brave sort they sing about in poems."
Boslaer shook his head. "I challenged him because a gang has to answer a provocation. Since he didn't show, it means it was an isolated case. So it ends here."
That easy, unbothered attitude set Victor's mind at ease.
"I see. Still—he sounds like someone people talk about."
"Personally, I rather admire him. Protecting women counts as chivalry. But on the other hand, I despise his lack of resolve. Trash should be killed outright. Beating them half to death is pointless—once they heal, they go right back to their old ways."
"Sounds like you don't like what your own men do?"
The white-haired elf spread his hands. "Order—reasonable order—is what makes rule last. That's what Mr. Alonso always says. And I agree. So those three bastards who broke the order are down in the sea right now, reflecting on how they broke it."
Just then, another man approached. "Sir, we've got most of the cargo unloaded."
Boslaer said, "Mr. Victor, perhaps you should step aside for a moment. What happens here next… nobles and poets don't seem to enjoy watching."
He waved the boy away.
Victor was about to speak when commotion on the pier drew his attention—a runaway teenager, slightly malnourished, sallow and thin. Several sailors were chasing him, and in his panic he bolted straight toward where Boslaer and Victor were standing.
The white-haired elf's hand went to his sword hilt, ready to strike—but after glancing at the Dragonborn Bard, he didn't follow his usual habit of drawing steel and cutting the fugitive down. Instead, he simply stuck out a foot and tripped him.
The boy slammed face-first onto the boards. Blood smeared across his features as he lay dazed.
"Help… please… help me…" His nails were cracked and filthy, streaked with blood as he crawled forward with desperate effort, inch by inch, toward Victor's boots. Just as his fingers were about to touch, the bard stepped back two paces.
Victor looked at Boslaer, his expression tight. "Human trafficking?"
The white-haired elf opened his hands and nodded with a bitter smile. "A proper, reasonable business. Some people find it hard to accept—Master Dandelion, for example. I respect their kind-hearted thinking, but business is business."
There was a tattoo on the boy's neck. He was a Skelliger.
Two sailors came over, grabbed his ankles, and started dragging him the other way. His nosebleed and fingertips painted streaks of red across the deck.
"Wait," Victor said quietly.
The sailors froze. Seeing the white-haired elf nod, they released the Skelliger boy's legs and stepped aside.
"If you drag him back like that, he'll be ruined!"
"I'm not planning to let him live," Boslaer said flatly. "I just don't want to handle it in front of you. Taking him back to dissect him for the others is a fine choice—lets them learn what happens to runaway slaves."
His face had been scraped raw by the boards, almost unrecognizable—devilish to look at—yet his eyes screamed one thing: he wanted to live. He stared up at the witcher apprentice, pleading.
Don't ask how eyes can plead. You see it, and you understand.
"Can I buy him?" Victor pointed at the ruined lump on the ground.
"He's yours," Boslaer answered without hesitation.
"But I must warn you, sir—he hasn't been broken in yet. He still has the nerve to run. Take him home carefully, or he may repay kindness with betrayal. The story of the farmer and the viper isn't rare."
Noticing the two men nearby practically vibrating with anticipation, Victor understood: if he so much as shook his head, they'd drag the boy away in the next instant and let him die slowly in agony.
"If I hadn't seen it, I could pretend I didn't know," Victor said. "But it's right in front of me. Thank you for the gift, Boslaer."
The white-haired elf waved it off with easy indifference, as if it were nothing at all.
Victor crouched and looked at the boy. Brown eyes. "Your name?"
"L… Luf…" The boy's speech was thick and unclear.
"Ruf?!"
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