466. White Scorpion Poison! Hand Over Your Weapons!

"Drink up!"

In an opulently decorated room in the eastern quarter of Drakenborg, a group of men were feasting without restraint.

The large room had only one window. Day and night, the sound of screams echoed constantly from outside, but it didn't dampen the group's enjoyment in the slightest.

In the center stood a massive oak table. A brass candlestick, already turning green, sat atop it. Hardened wax caked the holder, and the flickering flame was barely the size of a bean.

The candlelight illuminated mashed potatoes, bread, apple pie, and half-carved smoked fish on the table… along with a large barrel of ale placed right in the middle.

"Hahaha!"

A gaunt middle-aged man dressed in a tight-fitting, ornate purple coat — a simple brown horse embroidered on his chest — slammed his mug onto the table with a thud, wiped the foam from his lips in a feigned heroic gesture, and burst out laughing:"Lord Evenson, I must thank you again for introducing such a fine deal to our House family!"

"Now I'm just waiting for the Rissberg Group's Civil Cooperative Organization to settle in Montecalvo — let's see how the Cocke family dares challenge us for the mines then!"

"Come, Lord Evenson! I'll toast to you again!"

He eagerly raised his cup without waiting for the others and downed it in one gulp.

The man referred to as Evenson was a burly figure clad in fitted leather armor, his thick beard covering much of his face. Even at this feast, he hadn't removed the beautifully adorned longsword at his waist.

At that moment—

Looking at the already drunken and exhausted young House, a flicker of contempt passed through Evenson's eyes. Still, he took a sip and then turned his gaze toward the last man at the table: "If anyone deserves the credit, it's Lord Padrek Vasquez and his white scorpion venom. Who'd have thought just a tiny injection would silence that little wolf cub completely."

"Even I know those freaks have insane resistance to poison. I've heard they drink it like water…"

"High resistance to poison… hmph…"

Padrek Vasquez, dressed in a brown mage's robe, lifted his chin and snorted disdainfully. "Witchers may be the pinnacle of our genetic mutation experiments, but it all depends on which witcher."

"One who's only just passed the Trial? Where's he supposed to get poison resistance from…"

Rebuked so condescendingly by the mage, Evenson's face twitched with embarrassment, red and green creeping up his cheeks. His right hand tightened around the wine goblet.

Noticing the tension, young House quickly tried to smooth things over: "Speaking of that white scorpion venom… tsk, tsk… I've never seen someone completely paralyzed by poison — unable to move a muscle — and still remain conscious."

"Those dark red eyes, that expression of disbelief… tsk, tsk…"

Seemingly pleased by the praise, Padrek Vasquez smirked with satisfaction: "Anyone injected with white scorpion extract — hands, feet, even a single finger — can't move. They can't blink, can't swallow. Without the antidote, next comes loss of control over the eyes, visual impairment, then full-body convulsions from the pain, intense tremors…"

The more Padrek spoke, the more excited he became. By the time he got to the full-body convulsions, he even closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, savoring the description.

This caused young House's forced smile to stiffen awkwardly.

These mages really were a bunch of lunatics.

He cursed them silently, then glanced at Evenson — who seemed utterly accustomed to it — and quickly changed the subject: "But speaking of witchers — Lord Evenson, Lord Padrek Vasquez…"

"That Wolf School witcher, Danthe… he's not going to survive, right? If he does, it could spell disaster for the House family…"

Though House spoke with a tone of exaggeration, when he mentioned the family, his voice carried an intentional seriousness.

"How could that be possible?" Padrek Vasquez sneered. "That was the Ancient Leshen — the Forest God of this world. Even we warlocks avoid that monster at all costs."

"Besides, that witcher named Danthe was completely unprepared and even brought along three little wolf cubs. There's no way he could still be alive..."

Young House nodded and poured himself another cup of wine from the wooden barrel. He hesitated for a few seconds before speaking again: "But I heard from the family's steward that Danthe isn't just any witcher. He's a Witcher Master from the Wolf School. Could it be that—"

Padrek Vasquez's face turned cold as he barked harshly: "With such cowardice, what can you possibly accomplish?"

"So what if he's a Witcher Master? They're still just failed experiments. You think they can rise above us warlocks?"

"That Ancient Leshen, one even we warlocks dare not face — and you think they survived it?"

Rebuked, House's expression froze. He forced an awkward smile and quickly tried to appease him:"Of course, of course..."

But in his mind, he was muttering: 'If witchers were really just failed experiments, then why go to such lengths? Why not just crush them outright?'

'And also...'

'Would a 'failed' little experiment really be worth making such a fuss? Why would a great warlock like Padrek Vasquez rush back in such high spirits after merely knocking them out, without even confirming whether the witchers survived in the Leshen's territory?'

Of course...

He only dared to think these things in his head — and only because he knew that Padrek Vasquez wasn't particularly skilled in mind-reading.

After all—

A warlock from the Rissberg Group's Civil Cooperative Organization, closely connected with that behemoth known as the Ban Ard Academy, was not someone the House family could afford to offend.

And anyway, even someone like Sir Evenson — who outranked him — had to bow his head and work day and night just to escape this cursed, man-eating place called Drakenborg…

What's a little humiliation in comparison?

At the oak table, the three men continued drinking and chatting. With the combined flattery from House and Evenson — and the flowing wine — the mood quickly became lively once again.

It was at this moment...

Knock knock knock~

A sudden knock echoed at the door.

"Who is it?" Evenson put down his cup, frowned, and stood up from his seat.

Although he was the administrator of Drakenborg and commanded several thousand men, he was only a baron and had no personal guards — he had to open the door himself.

To think, in the early days of Drakenborg, managing several thousand prison guards, the administrator surely couldn't have been just a lowly baron.

But this cursed place offered no wealth, no military merit, and was choked with rules. It was also especially dangerous — with daring elves breaking prisoners out on occasion and monsters frequently surfacing in the city…

Naturally, the position of administrator kept falling in status. Any noble with the means would try to pull strings to avoid being appointed here by the king.

As for him, his family's situation had worsened year after year, leaving him no choice but to accept this post. Otherwise, their estate wouldn't even be able to uphold the bare minimum dignity of nobility — they'd have nothing to eat.

The stingy king didn't pay for his personal guard's wages, so naturally, Evenson couldn't afford to hire any himself.

Of course, even so, in a place like Drakenborg, it wouldn't be hard to find a few soldiers to act as personal guards.

But who could really tell who was truly trustworthy, and who might be a spy planted by the king, the Ban Ard Academy, or the Rissberg Group's Civil Cooperative Organization?

To avoid bringing disaster upon himself, it was better to just handle things personally. Besides, in Drakenborg, there wasn't much use for guards anyway.

Creak~

The wooden door opened.

A wave of warm air poured in. Sam, whose hands and feet were numb from the cold, paused as he caught the scent of wine, grease, and the faint crackle of bread.

"Who are you? What do you want?" Evenson demanded coldly.

Sam instinctively gave a slight bow and quickly answered, "Sir Evenson, I'm Sam, currently on gate duty to—"

"Get to the point!" Evenson cut him off impatiently with a wave of his hand.

"Y-yes… a man claiming to be Danthe, a Witcher Master from the Wolf School, is outside the gates carrying a child. He requests entry to Drakenborg for medical treatment..."

Before Sam even finished speaking, he saw Evenson instinctively glance back into the room.

Following his gaze, Sam saw that at the oak table—still cluttered with food and wine—a thin nobleman, much like Evenson, also turned to look at the man in the brown warlock robe.

The warlock's bony fingers clenched around his wine cup so tightly that the veins bulged out. His expression was extremely sour.

Of course, neither Evenson nor young House dared say aloud what they were clearly thinking: "Didn't you say that even a Witcher Master wouldn't survive?" — they wouldn't dare provoke Padrek Vasquez like that.

Realizing what they were doing, both men casually shifted their gazes away as if nothing had happened.

"You said they want to enter Drakenborg for treatment?" Evenson asked.

"Yes," Sam replied, though he found the atmosphere in the room strange, he wisely didn't ask. "The witcher named Danthe said he was wounded, and the child he's carrying is badly injured..."

"Is Master Danthe seriously hurt?" young House couldn't help but interrupt.

Sam glanced at him, then looked to Evenson for permission.

"Answer him," Evenson said.

"It looked pretty bad," Sam recalled Danthe's appearance. "His leather armor had clear damage, and his face was very pale..."

Evenson turned to glance at Padrek Vasquez. The warlock's excitement was written all over his face. He stood up abruptly and nodded vigorously: "Let them in. Bring them here. I'll treat them myself!"

House's face flickered with conflicting emotions, but in the end, he said nothing.

"You heard him—go quickly! Bring them here!" Evenson ordered. "But don't mention Padrek Vasquez. I'll arrange for one of the city's physicians to meet them."

"Yes, Sir Evenson."

Sam gave the room one last subtle glance before turning to leave.

"Wait!" Evenson suddenly called after him.

"You don't need to bring swords for treatment. Have them leave both Witchers' swords in the guardroom at the city gate. Both Witchers' swords."

"Also, call Karlo, Wyatt, and Captain Milo. I remember they've always admired the Witchers of the Wolf School."

Sam hesitated for a second, then said, "Yes, Sir Evenson."

Bang~

The wooden door was shut.

"Impressive, Sir Evenson!" Young House complimented.

Evenson nodded and looked at Padrek Vasquez: "Congratulations, Lord Padrek Vasquez, you have new experimental subjects."

Padrek Vasquez excitedly downed his drink in one gulp: "Help me capture these two Witchers alive, and I'll help you get out of Drakenborg!"

Evenson nodded firmly.

"Do you think there will be any problems?" Young House felt uneasy.

"One young wolf cub, one heavily injured old wolf — what problem could there be?" Padrek Vasquez sneered at him. "Don't worry! I'll treat my premium subjects with the highest standards..."

Considering both Witchers were seriously wounded, Young House could only nod.

For some reason, a phrase his late father, old House — once an old Witcher — had said years ago suddenly flashed through his mind—

'An injured wild wolf is the most dangerous…'

-----------------------------

Waiting was unbearable.

Especially when your companion was locked up in a prison notorious for cruel torture.

The rushing water sounded like flowing over wet paper covering the face; the howling mountain wind whipped like a leather whip cutting the air; and the piercing, agonizing screams that shattered the night sky—each one sounded eerily like Bond's voice...

Of course, Bond was not a prisoner. Right now, he was just a newly minted Witcher of the Wolf School, a nobody.

Torture was used to extract information that couldn't be gotten by normal means, and Hughes had no information, so torture most likely wouldn't be inflicted on him.

But realizing this only made things more worrying.

Is Bond really still alive?

Uncontrollable wild thoughts ignited fury, causing heart to race and breaths to grow heavy.

Danthe's reaction was even stronger than his.

"We can save Bond."

He rasped, lips barely moving, unsure if he was talking to him or just muttering to himself.

"Open the gate by trickery... find Bond... call the royal griffin... escape..."

"Don't focus on anything else unrelated to us, find Bond and we leave..."

-----------------------------

Allen, lying on his back, occasionally murmured in agreement, feeling the thunderous pounding of his heart beating like a war drum inside his chest.

No one knew how much time had passed.

Suddenly, Allen lifted his head, looking toward the riverbank.

Hurried footsteps on cold stone slabs were caught by the Witchers' keen senses.

Along with faint calls muffled by the city wall.

"Lower the drawbridge!" The guard who went to report shouted, his voice carried by the wind, causing the two Witchers of the Wolf School to breathe out in relief simultaneously.

The plan was working.

Creak\~ creak\~

The rope strained on the winch, and the wide, long wooden drawbridge with steel hoops groaned as it slowly lowered. With a thud, it slammed onto the stone floor.

Danthe carried Allen across the drawbridge just as it immediately raised again, like a beast in the forest snapping its bloody jaws shut.

When the drawbridge was fully raised, it clicked shut.

The city gate's wall opening squeaked harshly as it slid open.

The guard who went to report came running, torch in hand.

"Master Danthe," the guard panted, "Lord Evenson invites you in..."

"Where are the doctors of Drakenborg?" Danthe asked urgently.

"Don't worry!" The guard led the way, "Lord Evenson has already summoned the city's doctors. He's waiting for you now in the administrator's office of Drakenborg."

"That's good!" Danthe felt reassured.

But then he noticed the guard did not lead them into the castle but stopped in front of a wooden door lit by candlelight inside the gatehouse.

"What is this?"

"Master Danthe, please hand over your weapons!"

........

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