481. The Legacy Vessel of Ronnie Dickinson! The Legacy of Lebioda!

"Ronnie… Dickinson?"

Allen stared blankly at the crimson horizon.

Witchers, sorcerers, Aen Elle…

He had slain many "people" before, but this was the first time he had seen a human name appear in the monster-hunting log's bounty summary.

What… was this?

Had Ronnie Dickinson reached some realm where even the Witcher Codex acknowledged his accomplishments, separating him from the generic label of "sorcerer"?

A flood of thoughts surged through Allen's mind in an instant.

The cold system chimes rang softly in his ears—ding, ding, ding.

Then suddenly, a strange question popped into his head—where do the names in the bounty log come from?

Where did it pull terms like Drowner King, Bog Nymph, Ghoul, Foglet, Royal Griffin, and so on?

"Ghoul" and "Foglet" were fine—they were canon monsters from the witcher world, whether the books or the games. Even the alchemy formulas pulled from the Codex were clear proof that the Codex had a tight connection to the source material.

So using canonical names made sense.

But Drowner King and Bog Nymph?

These had never appeared in the witcher world. Even now, the Wolf School and Ban Ard referred to the Drowner King as the "Ice King," and the Bog Nymph was known as the "Serpentine Giant"…

So where did the Codex pull those names from? Was there some hidden record somewhere?

Allen realized he had completely overlooked this basic question until now.

"Ronnie Dickinson…" he murmured softly.

"Could it be that the reason his name appeared in the bounty summary was because he engraved his true name—like the concept of a devil's True Name in fantasy novels—onto whatever 'source' the Codex extracts names from?"

"And he was a sorcerer, no doubt about that."

"So what let him transcend the label of 'sorcerer' and leave behind his name?"

Ding!

The cold notification chime faded.

With a thought, Allen opened the Witcher Codex.

[Monsters Defeated: "Ronnie Dickinson" (Lv.99), "Sorcerers" (Lv.54)]

[Rewards Summary:]

[Tactical Victory – Base Rating: D]

[Overlevel Kill +3 — C]

[Beheading Intimidation +3 — B]

[Outnumbered +3 — A]

[Final Rating: A]

[Loot Gained: Ronnie Dickinson's Legacy Vessel, Sorcerer's Memories x8, Experience Orbs x12, Ronnie Dickinson's Treasure Chests x5, Sorcerer's Chests x5]

Ronnie Dickinson's… Legacy Vessel?

The Witcher Codex switched to the inventory tab. The icon for Ronnie Dickinson's Legacy Vessel was a semi-transparent golden goblet. But it wasn't a wine cup—it resembled a trophy, complete with two elegant handles.

The moment Allen laid eyes on the goblet, floating amid countless golden motes, a wave of grandeur and epic emotion washed over him.

It was an emotional transmission, raw and immediate.

Ronnie Dickinson's Legacy Vessel wasn't a physical object. Allen could tell it was more like a purified essence… no—more like a concept.

[Name: Ronnie Dickinson's Legacy Vessel]

[Type: ?]

[Function: ?]

[Note: Knowing too much before you're strong enough may not be a good thing. But since it's a vessel, it's naturally meant to contain something.]

Its info panel was as minimal as the "@#￥%&'s Essence" or "Leshen's Essence" entries. The only difference was that this one had an extra line in the note.

"Vessel…" Allen repeated under his breath, pondering the line. "A Legacy Vessel… is it a vessel for legacy, or one forged by legacy?"

And this concept of "legacy"…

His first thought went to trials from Greek mythology in his past life.

Heracles, son of Zeus, sought redemption for the murder of his wife and children by completing twelve impossible labors for King Eurystheus of Mycenae. In doing so, he ascended to godhood and took his place on Mount Olympus.

Ronnie Dickinson was a sorcerer. That much was certain.

The appearance of his name in the Codex's bounty log—did that imply he had transcended his peers? Just like Heracles ascended, had Ronnie begun to step into a new plane?

And what was that plane?

Divinity?

But there had never been any precedent for a mortal becoming divine in the witcher world. Melitele and Kreve were born of ancient worship, above mankind, not mortals who had ascended.

Also…

"Ronnie Dickinson didn't seem particularly transcendent," Allen muttered, gripping the griffin's mane, frowning as he tried to recall. "Even if there was an information gap between us, he didn't behave like someone beyond human limits…"

And…

Why had he never heard of this kind of ascension for sorcerers?

People like Hen Gedymdeith and Tissaia de Vries were surely more talented and powerful than Ronnie Dickinson. What about Lady Vera?

Did she have her own Legacy Vessel, too?

"…Significant blood loss. Signs of residual toxins. But after taking White Honey and Swallow, there's some color in his face now…"

Vesemir's voice came from behind, interrupting Allen's thoughts.

I'll ponder this more when we return to the temple…

Allen cast one last glance at the golden goblet in his inventory and closed the Witcher Codex.

He couldn't use the Legacy Vessel while riding the griffin. Besides, he had some doubts about whether someone else's vessel of greatness could even be used by him.

At some point, Bond had been dressed in Evenson' leather armor—his physical wounds now hidden from view. Though still unconscious, just as Vesemir said, the pale, childish cheeks now had a hint of color. He no longer looked like a corpse.

Even his breathing was stronger.

"When we return to the temple, we'll ask Lady Ianna to take a look," Allen said, pulling a vial of White Honey from his potion pouch and handing it to Danthe. "Master Danthe, you should drink one as well—to purge any lingering Blizzard toxins from your system."

Danthe was staring blankly at Bond. Hearing Allen's words, he looked up and hesitated for a moment. He didn't take the potion immediately—he was clearly more reserved now than back in the tower.

It was Vesemir who snatched the bottle and shoved it into Danthe's hand.

"It's just a damn potion. Drink it when you're told, quit acting delicate." Vesemir smacked him firmly on the back. "Don't look at Allen's age—his stash of wealth probably outweighs both of ours combined!"

"Forget one bottle of White Honey—he could down a few hundred of those and some Blizzards, and the kid wouldn't even blink."

You and I aren't the same…

Danthe glanced at the unconscious Bond, then at the now-quiet Fred, and shook his head silently. Because of you, your apprentice has become so strong that even I can't make sense of it. And mine... because of my carelessness, nearly met death…

"The Danthe I know wouldn't be stuck in guilt and regret like this," Vesemir said, clearly noticing something. "Besides, they're all still alive. Hughes was already out of danger when we left. When we return, we'll see him again…"

"Who could've imagined someone would do something like this?"

"Yeah, Master Danthe," Fred also walked over, speaking sincerely, "Honestly, it was us who got tired of hunting drowners and wanted to try something different. No one's blaming you. Not me, not Hughes, not Bond either."

"These past six months, we've learned a lot."

"Don't worry. I'm fine." Danthe forced a smile, nodded, and then looked down at Bond again, lost in thought.

Vesemir sighed softly.

"Skreee~"

The royal griffin suddenly let out a sharp cry, circling once in the sky before gradually descending.

"Hm?" Vesemir frowned and turned to Allen. "Not heading back to the temple yet?"

Allen glanced at Danthe and shook his head. "Let's wait a bit. Master Danthe and I... still have one promise left to fulfill."

"Promise?"

Danthe raised his head in confusion.

——

The morning sun bathed the damp old keep, while the Kembatt River in front of the castle shimmered like gold.

Suddenly—

Shouts rang out from the sparkling river.

Then—

Creaaaaak creaaaaak—

Chains scraped along the winch, and the wide steel-rimmed wooden drawbridge groaned as it slowly lowered, slamming down hard onto the stone road.

Three horsemen galloped out of Drakenborg at full speed, swifter than the morning wind blowing through the mountains.

"You've got some nerve…"

As the riders flew past, a voice of astonishment came from the settling dust.

"We just kidnapped the highest-ranking officer in Drakenborg. The fact that the city didn't erupt into chaos is already a miracle," Allen shrugged. "Who would've thought we'd actually come back?"

"Besides, Drakenborg's definitely reporting to their king right now. No need to even knock."

"So we really came back just to tell Sam a story?" Danthe couldn't help but ask.

"No!" Allen shook his head. "We came back to fulfill our promises."

"What's the difference?"

"The difference is—your promise is to tell Sam the story of Lebioda. I have a promise of my own to keep. If Bond were in urgent need of healing, I wouldn't insist—but since his condition has stabilized, a little more time won't hurt."

"What promise do you have to fulfill in Drakenborg?" Danthe was puzzled.

Allen didn't answer—because at that moment, they saw the promise Danthe had made.

Sam was standing at the city gate, just as he had been when they first met, guarding alongside another soldier.

Which wasn't all that surprising. After all, Danthe had tried his best to clear Sam of suspicion, and with Evenson taken away, things had settled down. Naturally, Sam returned to his post at the gate.

At that moment—

Sam stared vacantly at the messengers riding away, replying absentmindedly to the other guard, a man named Martin.

"Sam, was that a royal griffin flying overhead just now?"

"Mhm~"

"Sam, three messengers! Tsk, tsk! Something big must've happened in the eastern quarter last night, right? It's those two witchers, isn't it?"

"Mhm~"

"Sam, you were there all night—don't you have any inside info?"

"Mhm~"

"Mhm, mhm, mhm! Then say something already!" Martin snapped, frustrated.

Sam finally lifted his head to look at Martin—and his expression suddenly changed, as if the royal griffin had just left and a dragon was now soaring across the sky.

"What? What is it?"

Martin, startled, tightened his grip on his spear and followed Sam's gaze—only to see nothing.

"Nothing," Sam said quickly, his face shifting again. He turned and jogged toward the open gate, calling back over his shoulder, "Cover for me, Martin! I'm just going to relieve myself! I'll be right back!"

Martin responded with a nod, scratching his head in confusion. "Going to the latrine, just say so. 'Relieve myself'—sounds like some dancer from a brothel…"

Meanwhile, after putting some distance between them, Sam slipped into a quiet corner and whispered urgently: "You—you're still here?!!"

"To fulfill a promise," Allen said with a smile, appearing alongside Master Danthe.

Sam froze for a moment—then gripped his spear, eyes wide with excitement. "You mean? The Prophet?!"

Realizing he'd raised his voice too much, he clamped a hand over his mouth. A few seconds passed before a worried look spread over his face.

"Don't worry," Allen said, "if we had a way in, we'll find a way out. Besides thanking you for your help, we also wanted to ask another favor."

Allen paused, then asked: "Do you know where the injured guards from last night are?"

——

Sam didn't accept Allen's suggestion—that he point them in the right direction and let Danthe stay behind to tell the story.

Instead of simply pointing them in a direction, Sam asked their intentions and then took the lead without hesitation.

"Lebioda was a shepherd in Kaedwen, in Daevon."

"Of course, by the time I met him, he was no longer a shepherd…"

Danthe began recounting the story of Lebioda in a slow, vivid voice.

He spoke of events from when he was still an apprentice traveling with Aristo, all the way through the tales he experienced himself and those passed down secondhand after their journey ended.

Lebioda graduated from Ban Ard…

Lebioda defeated all the drowners—those creatures that appear in every village tale—for the sake of the common folk…

Lebioda attempted to share with the peasants the knowledge usually locked away in noble houses and sorcerers' towers—teaching them how to become mages, how to cast spells…

And of course, he was predictably ostracized by the aristocracy and his peers, ultimately expelled from Ban Ard…

All in all, aside from his identity as a male sorcerer, Lebioda was like every famous sage: nearly flawless in virtue, though not without a few small quirks.

For instance, he disliked grooming his beard, preferred to sleep on hard ground covered in straw, and was notoriously fussy and long-winded…

But it was exactly these quirks that made Lebioda feel more real, more human.

Sam listened intently, eyes shining with the light of a true believer.

Allen also listened carefully.

Not only because he was curious about Lebioda—after all, knowing that the Cult of the Prophet would one day become one of the largest religious factions in the Witcher world, who wouldn't be intrigued by its founder, a man revered as a saint?—but also because of Lebioda's identity.

In addition to being a shepherd and prophet, he was also a sorcerer—the same title held by Ronnie Dickinson.

And so, as he listened, several questions surfaced in Allen's mind.

Did Lebioda's efforts to break from his class and teach wisdom to commoners count as a "great deed"?

Did Lebioda also forge a Great Deed Vessel? Had he transcended to something greater?

And then…

Just like Heracles, who ascended to godhood after self-immolating in agony from the poisoned robe of the Hydra…

Could it be that Lebioda, too—who also died in fire—had not truly…

Died?

At that thought, Allen suddenly interrupted Danthe.

"Master Danthe, do you know about Great Deeds?"

...

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