Karl nodded and closed the wooden door behind him. "I suppose so. But today is a festival, so bringing weapons is just for... show."
The two walked along the winding path toward the market, where warm light reflected from the earthen dwellings along the road. The air was filled with the aroma of freshly baked pies, stews, and honey cakes, and faint music and laughter drifted from afar.
When they arrived at the market, the celebration had already begun. A huge bonfire burned in the centre of the square, and hobbits danced and sang, forming a circle around it. Children ran and played, holding desserts and toys in their hands. The stalls were laden with festive delicacies, including whole roasted suckling pigs and honey-glazed hams. Mountains of berry pies and barrels of frothing ale.
However, the greatest attention was drawn to the "performance" taking place on one side of the square.
"Look! The wizard is setting off fireworks!" Bilbo exclaimed excitedly, pointing ahead. Several glowing orbs of different colours — red, blue, green, and gold — rose into the sky. They shot upward with a deafening roar, transforming into a sky full of dazzling sparks that scattered like stars. Some even took the shapes of birds or flowers, lingering in the night sky for a few seconds before gradually fading.
At the centre of the open space stood an old man in a grey robe, holding a long wooden staff in his hands. Each time he waved his staff, a beam of light shot into the sky, exploding into a new firework. He wore a tall pointed hat, its brim shadowing most of his face, but his long white beard was clearly visible in the firelight.
The hobbits were utterly captivated; children cheered and shouted, while adults applauded and exclaimed in admiration.
Almost at the very moment Karl's gaze fell upon the old man in the grey robe, the old man seemed to sense something. He paused briefly, then slowly turned to face Karl and Bilbo. In the firelight, Karl could clearly see the other's face: deep wrinkles, thick white eyebrows, and bright, piercing eyes hidden in the shadow of his brow.
The old man in the grey robe first looked at Bilbo, his eyes very kind. When his gaze fell upon Karl, a barely perceptible flicker of surprise passed through his eyes. His elegant clothing, the two swords on his back, and his height, far exceeding that of ordinary men — among hobbits, whose average height was about a metre, Karl, at 1.93 metres, certainly resembled a little giant. More importantly, he sensed a strange aura from this man.
The old man's surprise lasted only a moment, after which he quickly composed himself. He thoughtfully stroked his beard, a nostalgic look in his eyes, as if trying to remember something about this man.
Karl looked at the old man in the grey robe, an involuntary smile appearing on his face. Hey, isn't that Magneto? Oh wait, that's not right. In this world, he should be called Gandalf, the greatest berserker of Middle-earth.
"Mr. Karl, do you know that wizard?" Bilbo asked quietly, noticing Karl's expression.
"I've only heard of him," Karl replied vaguely, not taking his eyes off Gandalf.
At this moment, the surrounding hobbits also noticed Karl and greeted him with smiles.
Good evening, Mr. Karl!
Happy festival! Did you bring your sword to the celebration today?
Do you still have that cabbage you sold last week? My wife said it was the most delicious cabbage she'd ever eaten!
Karl politely responded to each question; after three months of adaptation, he had fully integrated into life in the Shire. The hobbits had initially been wary of this stranger, but they quickly succumbed to his vegetables and good deeds. He had driven off a pack of wolves in the forest, dealt with wild boars threatening the crops, not to mention the delicious and affordable vegetables. In the eyes of the hobbits, Karl was a somewhat eccentric but absolutely reliable and kind neighbour.
"Come on, let's find a good spot." Bilbo pulled Karl toward the bonfire.
In the end, they chose a spot closer to the front, from where they could see the fireworks well without being too close to the fire's heat.
After a brief observation, Gandalf set off a few more fireworks, then put away his staff, apparently concluding the performance. He moved through the crowd, occasionally exchanging a few words with other hobbits. But his gaze almost imperceptibly swept over Karl and Bilbo.
Finally, he "happened" to wander over to a long table near the two of them, pretending to select apples, his ears pricked.
The hobbits gathered around the bonfire began a new dance cycle to the sounds of bagpipes and hand drums playing lively tunes. Bilbo lightly tapped his feet to the music, clearly wanting to join in, but out of politeness, he stayed with Karl.
"Mr. Karl, you said you're a witcher. What's the difference between a witcher and a mercenary?" Bilbo asked quietly during a musical lull.
"I've heard that human mercenaries sometimes pass through Bree, and they look... well, a bit different."
Karl casually glanced at Gandalf nearby, a grin forming on his lips. The wizard in the grey robe was "focused" on studying the colour of an apple. He began to speak selectively, choosing knowledge relevant to the world but not revealing too much.
"Witchers are heroes who protect people, appearing when they are in greatest danger and most in need."
"To face threats that ordinary people cannot handle — such as monsters, evil spirits, and beings corrupted by darkness."
Bilbo listened intently: "Like a knight from a fairy tale?"
"Not quite. Knights serve their lords; witchers serve... those who need help." Karl shook his head.
"Whether the other party is a farmer or a lord, if they are truly in danger and can afford the reward — which is usually small — they will take action."
"Payment? I thought heroes weren't paid for their work." Bilbo blinked.
"Witchers also need food, equipment maintenance, and potion ingredients," Karl chuckled.
"Moreover, appropriate compensation ensures that the person seeking help is serious, not just playing a prank."
Bilbo thought for a moment and nodded: "That makes sense. So they're very popular?"
"Those who do good deeds should be thanked and praised."
At this moment, Gandalf approached, stopping nearly three steps away. He took a glass of ale, pretending to drink it, but his ears were pricked.
Karl paused for a moment, his voice now carrying complex emotions: "Not always, Bilbo."
"Witchers are often misunderstood, and they may even be oppressed or arrested by those in power."
"Why? Don't they protect people?" Bilbo was stunned and somewhat incredulous.
"For several reasons. First, lifespan," Karl said slowly, not taking his eyes off the blazing bonfire.
"A witcher's lifespan can reach nearly five hundred years, far exceeding that of an ordinary person. This frightens some and makes others envious."