478. Handsome Is a Lifetime Commitment!

"Wait, Allen!"

Karlo's expression changed dramatically upon hearing that. He immediately rushed forward, trying to convince Allen to abandon such a reckless idea.

If Evenson died, then there would be no need for any disguise—after all, there'd be no one left to answer to.

The king would send someone to investigate, sure, but by that time, every trace would be wiped clean. Besides, they were all already exiled to Drakenborg. At worst, they'd be docked some pay. When a successor took over, they'd still have to rely on the same people. But for a witcher, it was a completely different matter.

Breaking into Drakenborg to rescue fellow witchers who'd been kidnapped and experimented on? Killing a few sorcerers in the process? That could be justified. The sorcerers had always had a poor relationship with the School of the Wolf anyway—and in this case, they were clearly in the wrong.

But Evenson was a properly titled baron, personally appointed by the King of Redania to govern Drakenborg.

Killing him would be no different than challenging the king's authority.

Even if Evenson was the true villain behind it all, it wouldn't matter.

What mattered was never right or wrong—but position.

If someone wanted to exploit the incident politically, the School of the Wolf could easily find themselves in conflict with a whole faction of nobles.

And people with motives...

Aren't there countless sorcerers in the Brotherhood who loathe witchers?

Unfortunately, it was already too late.

Karlo had only just taken two steps when he heard Allen shout, "Flash!"

Before anyone—Karlo, Wyatt, or the rest of the guards—could react to what was happening—

Zzzrraaaap!

It was like a miniature sun had exploded right before their eyes.

The blinding light hit like a punch. Pupils shrank violently. Eyelids twitched uncontrollably. Their brains reeled. The world tilted, as though they were weightless, drifting through air.

Screams rang out all around them.

As a top-tier assassin, Karlo had endured all manner of attacks. He shouldn't have been taken down so easily. He shouldn't have become this helpless. But Allen's identity had lulled them into complacency. He wasn't an enemy—no one was on guard.

And besides...

"Damn it! That intensity—what kind of magical flash spell is this?" Karlo clenched his eyes shut, tears involuntarily streaming down his cheeks. "Is that kid Allen really just a witcher?"

"What kind of freak has the School of the Wolf produced?"

And then—

"Don't worry, Karlo!"

Allen's voice suddenly rang out inside his mind.

"The times have changed!"

Karlo struggled to open his right eye. Where Allen and Danthe had stood moments ago was now nothing but rubble.

The two figures were already gone—springing off the shoulders and heads of several guards as they vaulted out of the laboratory.

"That little brat, talking about the 'times'…"

Karlo let out a soft snort and shook his head.

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

Of course, not every guard had been hit by the magical flash. Some were lucky—either shielded by others or happened to blink at just the right moment. And there were plenty of those.

But those who weren't blinded, upon seeing two deadly witchers charging forward, immediately dropped to the ground, mimicking the howls of their incapacitated comrades.

Even the guards outside the bronze doors—who hadn't seen a flash at all—pretended to collapse in fear.

Not one of them stood up to block the escape. Not one.

As a result, Allen and Danthe's return journey was unexpectedly effortless.

"That Evenson guy must've really pissed everyone off…"

As they exited the lab, Danthe shifted Bond higher on his shoulder, then glanced back at the fake-unconscious guards and shook his head.

Allen twirled his sword in his wrist, reversed his grip, and slid it into the void beside him.

From the tip down to the hilt, the entire blade of Balmur vanished into thin air, as though swallowed by the void itself.

After a few attempts, he had grown to really like this way of drawing and sheathing his sword.

The summoning spell was a beginner's-level incantation—nearly instantaneous—and no slower than drawing from a scabbard. But it had the added bonus of concealing his witcher identity.

And in battle, an information advantage was sharper than any legendary sword.

Besides…

This sword-drawing technique?

It looked cool.

Having just tasted its elegance, Allen found it hard to stop.

"If a knight's cloak doesn't catch the first drop of blood," Allen murmured as he finished sheathing into the void, "his squire will only ever cower behind a shield."

Danthe froze for a moment, staring at the space where the sword had disappeared. A flicker of envy passed through his eyes.

"That... does make sense..." he nodded, mulling over Allen's words. "Evenson not only failed to get his cloak stained with the first drop of blood—he didn't even make it to the battlefield. No wonder the guards are so demoralized..."

"Probably many of those guards were saved by witchers in the past," Allen added. "Just like Wyatt's shieldbearers, like Karlo, like Sam…"

Danthe let out a long breath, as if exhaling all the weight in his chest. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Walk the path of glory, and you'll never walk alone."

"That's something Chief Sol always used to say. Another of her sayings was, Between fate, there are two blades..."

"Evenson underestimated the School of the Wolf and overestimated his own authority in Drakenborg. Neither blade was sharp—he can't complain about losing."

"By the way," Danthe glanced at Allen's right hand and casually asked, "That summoning staff spell—can an ordinary witcher learn it?"

"Not really," Allen replied with a soft laugh. "Master Danthe, as you said, summoning a staff is magic. It's not the same as our signs."

"No chance at all?" Danthe sounded a bit unwilling. "That ice spear spell you made—even though the incantation was, uh... a bit weird—it was still learnable."

Allen shook his head. "That was something I created myself. But summoning a staff is a standard mage spell. It requires high elemental affinity, plus strong mental perception of space, and the ability to mana-calc—"

"Alright, alright," Danthe cut in with a wave, clearly having a headache just from hearing words like element, space, and calculation. "If I can't learn it, so be it. For a witcher, the sword is life—it belongs on the back."

What followed was a barrage of his usual poetic nonsense: "Man and sword must be one," "Elements may betray you, but steel never will," "A sword has feelings and must be constantly nurtured," and so on.

But then—

Allen suddenly added, cutting off Danthe's monologue:

"Still… our witcher signs were originally adapted from mage spells. Once we're back at Kaer Morhen, maybe I can discuss it with Lady Vera—see if we can modify it into a sign."

This time, Danthe didn't continue with any of his sentimental remarks.

He went quiet for a few seconds, met Allen's eyes, and after a beat, grumbled, "You little brat," before breaking into hearty laughter himself.

Two witchers, under the jurisdiction of Drakenborg, walked down the tower steps, casually chatting and laughing along the way.

The damp air was like any ancient fortress.

Almost as if...

They weren't in enemy territory at Drakenborg, but strolling through the Kaer Morhen Fortress on a drunken afternoon, stepping out of their quarters and heading to the castle hall to trade tales with the returning wintering witchers.

Only the occasional guard head poking out from corridors, doors, or corners—then quickly retreating—reminded them they were still in "enemy" land. Still on the battlefield...

Outside the tower, a cavalry unit a hundred strong, and guards numbering in the thousands, were waiting.

Three more flights down, and Evenson's barking orders could already be heard faintly.

The two witchers from the School of the Wolf suddenly fell silent.

Clip-clop-clop~

Their footsteps echoed through the corridor and down the stairs, the sound hollow, heavy, and solemn.

"You don't object to what I'm about to do?" Allen suddenly broke the silence.

Danthe shot back with a question:

"If I did—would it stop you?"

Allen shook his head.

"At least you're honest..." Danthe chuckled, shaking his head as well. "Since you won't listen anyway, why would I object to something I can't stop?"

He looked at Allen's still youthful yet increasingly mature face and let out a soft sigh.

"Drowner Slayer," he suddenly called out Allen's nickname from Kaer Morhen. "I can't stop you like I used to back at Kaer Morhen—keeping you from hunting anything besides drowners."

"Now, you can go wherever you want—from the Blue Mountains, across the Buina River, all the way to the Dragon Mountains. I've got no control over that."

"That's a bit much," Allen muttered, twitching his mouth. Who in their right mind would travel that far just to kill a few low-level beasts? "Also, that 'Drowner Slayer' nickname is terrible. I don't even know who came up with—wait?!! It was you?!"

He caught Danthe awkwardly turning his head away.

"It's not that bad, right?" Danthe gave a nervous laugh. "I thought it sounded fine. But if you don't like it, no big deal. Sooner or later, a new title will replace the old one."

The new ones aren't much better either… Allen thought silently.

Danthe, after the brief bit of humor, stared down at the heavy, unmoving darkness at the bottom of the stairs. His smile faded, and his voice dropped, steady and grim: "This time—they crossed the line."

He turned to face Allen squarely.

Allen saw the exhaustion etched into Danthe's battle-worn face—an exhaustion that couldn't be hidden after a full day of fighting. But in those brown, cat-like eyes, there was a burning fire that wouldn't be extinguished.

"A witcher can die, Allen—of course we can…"

"No one is immune to death. For witchers, death isn't an end—it's a return."

"But—!"

Danthe's voice rose, his fury pressing through clenched teeth:

"But a witcher of the School of the Wolf may die at the hands of a leshen, or a foglet. He may even be dragged into the depths by a drowner, lungs filled with foul water, drowned alive and torn apart…"

"But what he cannot—"

"What he must not suffer—is to be framed by humans, caught in schemes and conspiracies, traded like a bargaining chip in their filthy, backroom games of power!"

"I don't care who they are, Allen—I don't care who stands behind them!"

"Allen!"

Danthe gripped Allen's shoulder firmly, staring into his eyes with unwavering resolve: "Do what you need to do."

"For everything else—I've got your back."

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

In Front of the Tower

Evenson wasn't standing at the gate. Instead, he was heavily guarded by several Shield Guards left behind, along with nearly a hundred heavily armored cavalry led by Milo stationed in front of him, and nearly a thousand guards covering his flanks.

"You're saying the laboratory of the Rissberg Group's Civil Cooperative Organization was broken into, and then a sorcerer died right after the intruder entered?"

Evenson frowned deeply, staring at Little House, who was limping and covered in blood.

"Yes! I just saw him click-clack a few times, and the sorcerer was dead..."

Little House waved his arms frantically, completely incoherent as he tried to describe what he saw. Cold sweat poured down his forehead as he finished, "Lord Evenson, that kid is definitely a seasoned assassin! I suspect he might be from the Cat School—you know, those witchers specialized in killing. I heard they—"

"What nonsense are you spouting? Scared stupid by a bit of blood?" Evenson scowled in disgust. "That kid with Danthe is not an assassin, much less a witcher. He's a sorcerer. A female sorcerer!"

"Huh?" Little House was dumbfounded. "But… but… but…"

"No more buts." Evenson waved his hand impatiently, cutting him off. "So what if two measly witchers broke in and used some cheap tricks to kill one of Rissberg's sorcerers?"

"Tonight's lab is occupied by members of the Rissberg Civil Cooperation's entire Department of Nonhuman Studies. Even Lord Ronnie Dickinson of the High Council of Sorcerers is present. How could they possibly get away?"

"Guards!"

He beckoned, and a guard came forward.

"Baron House has taken a heavy blow to the head and isn't thinking straight. Take him to Physician Soran to get patched up."

But… but I saw those were the eyes of a witcher… Little House wanted to protest, but before he could get the words out, the fierce guard had already half-forced, half-dragged him to the rear of the formation.

There, two or three white-robed medics were tending to the wounded Shield Guards and soldiers, stopping their bleeding and treating their injuries.

"No way anything can go wrong. No way," Evenson muttered to himself. "Wyatt and Karlo went up there with people. And Lord Ronnie Dickinson's with them. Just a lone witcher from the School of the Wolf, and a female sorcerer—what could possibly go wrong…"

The more he whispered to himself, the more his confidence seemed to build. But even so, there was still a faint, nagging unease gnawing at him.

It made Evenson especially irritable. Inwardly, he cursed: "Damn mutant freaks, monstrosities, devil's spawn—why can't they just die obediently and become material for our sorcerers? Wouldn't that benefit humanity?"

"Monsters are almost gone. Humanity doesn't need witchers anymore."

"Why can't they just act like worn-out rags and throw themselves into the garbage heap?"

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

After cursing in his heart a few more times, Evenson finally felt better.

He glanced around at the slightly restless guards. Just as he was about to send someone to check the tower, he looked up—and thought he saw a silhouette move at the entrance of the tower.

"That is…"

Before he could finish—

"Screee—!"

A shrill, furious yet jubilant screech tore through the sky, crashing down with crushing force.

"BOOM!"

For a moment, it felt like the heavens had collapsed.

"What was that?"

"What's in the sky?!"

"A monster! A monster!"

The guards immediately fell into chaos.

Evenson stared in horror at the looming beast diving down from the sky like a collapsing shadow.

Just as he turned to flee into the tower—

Suddenly, darkness eclipsed the firelight in front of him.

Evenson looked down—

And met a pair of piercing, azure beast eyes brimming with killing intent.

"Screee—!"

High above, the royal griffin shrieked into the heavens.

...

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