Passing through Theodula Pass, the Phantom Troupe reached the place where the Nevi Valley and the Sansretour Valley met. Belhaven, located there, belonged to the Nilfgaardian Empire's province of Nazair, and the road south led to the Duchy of Toussaint.
Belhaven was not a particularly wealthy place, but it was ringed by open-pit and underground mines of all sizes, and iron ore mining was the pillar of its economy.
That was why, in the game, there had once been two pieces of equipment named after Belhaven, the Belhaven brigandine and the Belhaven blade. The latter was even one of the best steel swords.
Since Victor was visiting the place, of course he was not going to miss the chance to purchase high-quality iron ore. After learning the basics from the master armorer Yoana, though he was no outstanding smith, he was confident he was an expert at selecting ore.
Moreover, local sanitation was managed quite well, so Angoulême, who had just received a thirty percent raise, was perfectly happy wandering around, buying food and drink until nightfall before returning to the inn. But the scene that greeted her when she entered the room gave her such a fright that she immediately had to pass a Will check.
Will check passed, the girl did not scream.
Her leader, the generous and wise Mr. Victor Corion, was leaning against a beam with his eyes closed in meditation. In one hand, he held a piece of meat. From the tail feathers, it was clearly part of a cockatrice's rear. In the other, he held a lump of iron ore still smeared with mud. On his face was an oily, perverted grin.
It was a sight too beautiful to behold. The troupe member turned her head aside, unable to look. "Ahem, ahem, Vic, I'm back!"
Opening his eyes, Victor gestured for Angoulême to sit by the table, the smile at the corners of his mouth not fading in the slightest. To describe that expression in concrete terms, it was probably as radiant as a ridiculous grinning reaction meme.
"You came back at just the right time. I have two pieces of news to share with you. Which do you want to hear first? One is good news, and the other is also good news!"
Thinking that her leader was having another episode, Angoulême felt helpless, but since she had just received a raise, she still twisted her two caterpillar-like thick eyebrows together, gnashed her teeth, distorted her face, and gave a full performance of deep deliberation.
"I've decided… I want to hear the good news first."
"You want to hear the good news first? No problem!" Victor held up the bloody, foul-smelling piece of meat in his left hand for a close-up display. "The good news is, look at this feathered cockatrice butt. Note that it is not a chicken butt. It contains an extremely rare Void trait, one I've discovered for the first time so far. Sure enough, good deeds really do bring good rewards. From now on, we need to slaughter more rare monsters!"
Angoulême covered her nose to block the stench. "What Void trait is so amazing? And don't you find the smell unbearable?"
He indicated the little bottle on the table with his eyes. "Relax! I don't find it unbearable at all, because I applied nose-blocking ointment. Also, hurry up and ask about the other piece of good news!"
Picking up the nose-blocking ointment and applying it under her nose, the girl pointed her chin toward the lump of iron in the young man's right hand. "This is the other good news?"
The young man threw his head back and laughed. "Exactly! As expected of you, completely correct. Ore Voice! I can hear the voices of ore now. After going through all these trials and hardships, I've finally grown again. Don't rush. Let me explain to you how amazing this is.
"For example, take this piece in my hand. Don't be fooled by the fact that it looks like an ordinary lump of iron. In truth, it is a lump of iron with dreams. It is absolutely determined to become an axe. If it's used to forge an axe, there's a high chance of producing a quality item.
"And it naturally comes with two Void traits, quality boost and increased sharpness. After forging, if I guide and activate them, I can guarantee it will be at least a fine-grade axe, and even an epic-grade result is quite possible!"
Though it sounded impressive, Angoulême had already grown used to communicating with Victor. The prettier the pie he painted, the more she had to watch out for pits.
The girl's face went wooden and expressionless. "It does sound rather impressive. So what's the price? Or rather, what are the restrictions?"
The young man stood and walked toward the cauldron. "Don't be so tense. There aren't any other problems. The price is time, and the restriction is also time.
"Because the voices of the ore are still very vague. It takes a very long time to distinguish them before I can hear clearly what they're saying. Like this piece of iron ore, if it hadn't been shouting especially loudly, I wouldn't even have noticed that I already had Ore Voice.
"Tsk, tsk. Alchemy was already a huge time sink to begin with. Now add hearing training on top of that, and I still have to practice swordsmanship and maintain my health. There's never enough time in a day. Good thing I have a very long lifespan to slowly build things up!"
Hearing Victor's complaint, Angoulême was slightly startled. She instantly forgot the question she had originally wanted to ask about the cockatrice butt's Void trait, and instead asked about something else. "Vic! After becoming a witcher, how long can you live now? Will your appearance keep changing from here on? I mean how fast you'll age."
Standing in front of the cauldron, he put away the meat and the iron. With a clatter, Victor poured a large bag of oren coins into the cauldron.
"Why are you asking that? If I don't go out of my way to get myself killed, a conservative estimate would be four or five hundred years to start with. As for my appearance, using Vesemir or elves as a reference, I'll first grow normally until I'm about twenty-five. Then my appearance will settle for two hundred years. After that, I'll look ten years older every hundred years, until I settle at around fifty-five. From then until death, I probably won't change again. Something like that."
After saying that, he held a stirring rod in one hand and a floren coin in the other as reference. The alchemist began to concentrate on cooking money, so he did not notice the thoughtful look on Angoulême's face after she heard his answer.
There was a reason Victor was so focused. First, he was not familiar with the Black Sun pattern on florens. Second, according to Capital, with a twenty percent profit, capital grows restless. With a fifty percent profit, capital takes risks. With a hundred percent profit, capital dares to risk the gallows. With a three hundred percent profit, capital dares to trample every law of mankind.
He was admittedly not capital, but turning Foltest's profile into the Black Sun pattern could bring him a nine hundred percent profit…
…
"I wish to take you to a place, a world from a fairy tale."
, Geralt of Rivia
…
Travelers from the Northern Kingdoms, when they first stepped across the border into Toussaint, often had the illusion that they had walked into a fairy tale. Here, harsh weather did not exist. Even winter was often clear and cloudless, with only gentle breezes blowing.
Thanks to the fine climate, the woods and thickets of this land bore plump, juicy fruit through all four seasons, sparing the residents from hunger. The environment was also ideal for grapevines, and with abundant oak barrels as resources, the high-quality red wines brewed here were famous throughout the world.
With no need to worry about survival, the people knew etiquette and honor. They had ample leisure to pursue romantic poetry and sweet love, preserved the traditional culture of chivalry, and treated travelers with warmth and friendliness. Thus, the Duchy of Toussaint was also known as the land of wine and love.
The endless wine, song, and festive atmosphere of Beauclair, the duchy's capital, made it a poor place to discuss business.
So any merchant with even a little sense knew that truly shrewd business was not done inside the city, but at the wine estates scattered throughout the realm, or in the small settlements that formed around taverns.
On this day, near the end of summer, inside the Cockatrice Inn, where merchants and travelers frequently came and went, two knights in the prime of life were enjoying leek pie, pâté sandwiches, Chateau de Conrad Cabernet, and delicious crayfish chowder.
"Ah… truly marvelous. Can anyone tell me what that Queen of Kaer Trolde is thinking?" Baron Milton de Peyrac-Peyran, bald-headed and with a luxuriant beard, said as he swallowed a mouthful of leek pie and raised his cup.
The also bald knight Palmerin de Launfal, who wore Elvis-style sideburns, raised his cup and clinked it against his. "Heaven knows! But this is indeed a good thing. Even the Isles have begun to understand the worth and value of knights. We ought to be glad."
"Please! Palmerin, are you serious? Where is there room for knights to exist in Skellige? I hear their horses are all used for plowing fields, and she doesn't even know where the knight she ennobled has gone! I only think it's an amusing joke."
"Careful, Sir Peyrac-Peyran. Her Enlightened Ladyship would not like the way you put that! She believes the appearance of a queen in Skellige is a gratifying step forward, symbolizing that the Isles will become less barbaric, and more… what was the word again… civilized and rational."
The two nobles laughed heartily, then went back to tasting their food.
Without warning, someone approached, and a cautious, courteous voice came over. "Forgive me. A traveler from afar pays his respects to you both. As soon as I entered, I heard that you noble knights seemed to mention Skellige. I left there not long ago. May I ask what has happened in the Isles?"
Palmerin and Milton looked at the newcomer, and immediately felt the situation was wonderfully interesting.
This was a young man with four knife scars on his face. His unhurried attitude and proper, fitting manner of speech revealed genuine noble bearing in every way. But his mutated pupils, he was a witcher!
In Toussaint, though there was still a small amount of malice toward witchers, among the common folk the proportion was probably only one-tenth that of other places. And once one rose to the noble class, there was basically no prejudice at all, and even respect.
So Palmerin, with his Elvis-style sideburns, pulled out a chair. "Please sit, sir from afar. If you do not mind lowering yourself, perhaps you would be willing to share our food. I am Palmerin de Launfal, and this is Milton de Peyrac-Peyran."
"Victor. Victor of Bell Town." The witcher nodded in thanks and sat down without hesitation.
"No need to be reserved, Mr. Victor. You absolutely must try this crayfish chowder. A specialty of the Cockatrice Inn, and unmatched in all Toussaint!" Milton, with his rich beard, was warm and cheerful.
Palmerin tapped the table. "He is right. Do not doubt it. If you come to this inn, you must drink this."
The summoned waiter quickly set out the tableware. Victor raised his cup in toast to the two knights, then filled a plate with crayfish chowder and ate it with leek pie. Sure enough, it was fresh and delicious.
After confirming that their guest was eating with enjoyment, Palmerin cleared his throat and began to speak. "In truth, it is nothing major. Just an amusing anecdote. Do you know Lady Cerys, the newly chosen Queen of Skellige not long ago?"
"I do. I was fortunate enough to attend her succession ceremony." And after the ceremony, he had served as her mount. Thinking of that queen who had insisted on being on top the entire time, Victor smiled knowingly.
"Lady Cerys has sent notices to the various countries, declaring that Skellige has ennobled Victor Corion, from east of Zerrikania, as an honorary knight, with his fief in the capital, Kaer Trolde. That is quite an extraordinary honor!
"You must know that Skellige has never had a tradition of knighting people in the past, so he is even Skellige's first and only knight! Come to think of it, this lucky fellow even happens to share your name." At this point, Palmerin paused and lifted his cup to moisten his throat.
Milton continued, "As for the amusing part, everyone knows Skellige horses are used for plowing fields, and they have almost no warhorses. As a result, certain sharp-tongued troubadours have already invented the tale that this Mr. Victor is a boar knight skilled at riding wild boars!"
After listening to the first half of Palmerin's explanation, Victor only found it funny. And after hearing the second half… it was even funnier! Sure enough, regional prejudice existed everywhere.
Strictly speaking, Skellige did have warhorses. Svani was very skilled at charging into battle, and her flail techniques became even more imposing on horseback. It was just that most of the time, they used Viking longships to come and go like the wind, making it seem as though they had no warhorses.
That said, did this mean he was now Cerys's honorary knight? It still felt rather unreal. Perhaps after learning that Angoulême had been ennobled as a Temerian knight, the queen had remembered to register him under her name. Otherwise, there was no need for the perfectly good Dovahkiin to add a knightly title on top. No one in Skellige cared about knights in the first place.
After analyzing the whole matter, the witcher threw it to the back of his mind. Battles against drowners or ghouls were not suitable table conversation, so he shared with the two knights what he had seen in the snowy mountains and hot springs of the Isles instead. His vivid descriptions made them listen with great interest.
Good times were always short. Just as the meal was about to end, noise suddenly came from the entrance. Then Victor heard Angoulême's booming voice yelling, "I'm not talking nonsense! I'm telling you, this head isn't a cockatrice at all. It's just a crude fake pieced together from parts of a pheasant, a weasel, and a pig!"
The witcher blinked. He knew what the girl was talking about. Before entering, he had noticed some strange stitched specimen hanging at the inn's entrance. Though the craftsmanship was quite refined, the needle marks could not fool supernatural vision capable of seeing the smallest details. Since he had faintly heard news about Skellige, he had let her move about freely.
"Forgive me, I need to step away for a moment. The one arguing should be my companion." After apologizing, Victor rose and walked toward the door, intending to stop Angoulême from shouting. Though it did not look like a cockatrice no matter how one looked at it, and he had a ready-made trophy head in his herbal satchel, there was no need to embarrass others and ruin their business.
As he passed through the crowd, the witcher medallion suddenly trembled. Victor swept his gaze around slightly, glanced over a young woman in a cloak, then walked to Angoulême's side. She was currently arguing with several drinkers over whether the head was real or fake.
But before Victor could speak, Milton, who had followed him outside, had already cried out in surprise. "Oh, my heavens! By Prophet Lebioda, Angoulême, is that you, you little monkey?"
The noble knight's appearance temporarily stunned the other voices into silence. Angoulême stared at Milton's face for a moment, then abruptly stretched out a finger. "Ah! It's you, Beard Uncle!" Then she pointed at Palmerin beside him. "And Sideburns Uncle! What are you doing here?"
//Check out my P@tre0n for 30 extra chapters //[email protected]/Razeil0810