The Witcher: The Alchemist Who Walked the Witcher’s Road

Following Folan's lead, Victor passed through the underground tunnel behind the arena and entered the Fist of Fury. Even down below, he could still hear the boiling roar of the crowd overhead.

The boy looked perfectly calm. He patted his guide on the shoulder and pointed upward, asking whether the fighting had already started.

Folan understood at once and explained, "You're the main event. Before you go on, there'll be a few fights between younger men, mostly settling things like winning a girl's favor or disputes between villages over fishing grounds, using this stage to bring it to an end."

"So what, no village ever trains especially hard and then deliberately picks fights with its neighbors?"

"For something that dishonorable, their clan chief would teach them about honor."

The underground passage had been reinforced with stone blocks, and torches were fixed into the walls every short distance. There was no standing water on the ground, either.

"This arena of yours is pretty good. You keep it in great shape."

"That's thanks to Birna. She donated quite a few jewels to help fund repairs for the Fist of Fury. She's a fine queen, good in every way, more or less, except she meddles too much and talks far too much."

"Meddles in what?"

Folan rubbed at his thick, bearded chin. "This is just between us, but Svanrige should have come to the Fist of Fury long ago to prove himself. Because of Birna's interference, he hasn't even made it through the Warriors' Path!"

A gust of wind just then made the tunnel torches flicker.

"She says a king's son should not be risking his life doing dangerous things. Who knows what she's thinking. Even kings used to lead us raiding Nilfgaard every year."

After hearing the complaint, the boy covered a yawn with his hand. He had no comment to offer on the political order of the Isles, and even less from his old memories to draw on.

He dimly remembered that when he first played Geralt and arrived in Skellige, he landed just in time for King Bran's funeral, after which the various clans each put forward their own sons and daughters as candidates for the throne.

The main story had been the witcher helping the an Craite siblings build up glory and prestige, until one of them reached the throne.

Most of the smaller details were a blur now. Just like Yoana the armorer or Hattori the dumpling master, he only remembered them once he ran into them again.

After a few more turns in the passageway, Victor followed Folan into a preparation room. It was obvious the place had been specially arranged for him as the final attraction. The room was large, and there were fully ten inspectors waiting inside.

They were there to make sure the boy was carrying no sharp weapons and no magical items. The latter would mostly have been useless anyway, since the entire arena had been built atop a dimeritium vein, and the disruption to spellcasting was severe. So the inspection focused mainly on the former.

The strange thing was that there was one unexpected person in the room as well, the daughter of House an Hindar, Svani.

Seeing Victor's confusion, she smiled and explained, "I'm a shieldmaiden. I'm qualified to take part in the inspection."

Her smile was mild and gentle. Her muscles looked like gnarled roots under skin. The phrase "Barbie with biceps" really did not do justice to how terrifying she was.

Victor nodded in greeting and spread his arms, letting the shieldmaiden assigned to pat him down begin the inspection. The first woman approached with a dazzling smile, and the familiar hint of indecency in her expression suddenly reminded him of Ves, that woman in Vizima whose shirt never seemed to stay buttoned.

Sure enough, the first thing this lady did was open with the old cup-and-check.

…

In a private box beside the VIP section of the arena, Svani was absent. For the moment, only the an Craite siblings and Svanrige were there.

Shaking his head in dissatisfaction at the quality of the fights below, Hjalmar turned and asked, "Svan, what about you? When are we finally going to see you fight? Is your mother still not allowing it?"

"My mother believes I shouldn't take these kinds of risks," the king's son replied calmly.

"Freya preserve us, what risk? There are no weapons involved, it's just a fistfight. No one's asking you to challenge the champion of the Fist of Fury…"

"The queen believes it does not suit my position."

"You don't have a blasted position. Who knows what Birna is thinking. You're a Skelliger, we're born fighters. If you won't take on the Warriors' Path and you won't enter the Fist of Fury, it'll do nothing but harm your reputation."

"She is my mother." Svanrige's expression did not change.

Hjalmar shook his head and turned to his sister on the other side. "If you ask me, the reason the king spent the last few years leading us out against Nilfgaard every year was probably because he didn't want to stay here and listen to Birna nag."

He said it loudly enough that it was clearly also meant for the king's son.

Cerys blinked and ignored her brother.

Svanrige's face remained as still as deep water, as though he had heard nothing at all. No one noticed that both fists had clenched tightly on his knees.

…

In the completely sealed final preparation chamber, Dovahkiin Victor now sat alone on a stone bench at the end of the corridor. About a hundred and fifty feet ahead, beyond an iron gate, lay the arena itself.

The boy wore tight riding trousers, sturdy boots, and a thin cloth shirt on his upper body. Beside him lay two rolls of cloth, which he would soon use to wrap his fists.

These were all the possessions he had left after the inspection. When he went out to fight, he would be allowed to wear only these.

Thinking back to the inspection, Victor's lips curled upward. Compared to the utterly shameless way Ves used to tease him, the shieldmaidens had been almost restrained and gentle. The reason was easy enough to guess. Back then it had just been an ordinary handful, now it was the Dragonborn's crown jewels.

And from the scattered comments Victor had overheard, it was obvious that getting to be the one who laid hands on him had been decided beforehand with a guessing game.

"Come."

"Pack, here."

At his call, ripples shivered through empty air, and the herbal satchel fluttered into view.

He immediately took out the usual three-part set, Thunderbolt, Blizzard, and Tawny Owl, and drank them after pulling the corks. Then he took out a Dragon Shout Potion and downed that as well.

Without the echo of the full arena bowl, the power of the shout would drop dramatically. But at point-blank range, one good blast would definitely make Olaf feel it.

Besides, he was the Dragonborn. If he did not unleash at least one dragon shout, what was the point? Selling an identity was far easier than selling talent. One shout, and he would look genuine enough. The crowd would go wild for it.

Maybe it would not be quite as dramatic as in Gladiator, but win the crowd and you win honor, win honor and you win Skellige.

Two heavy knocks came at the iron door behind him, the signal that it was time to enter.

Victor tossed the herbal satchel down a drainage channel, picked up the two cloth strips from the bench, and began wrapping his fists.

…

Hearing footsteps, Svanrige and Cerys rose to greet the woman who entered the box. Even the proud and self-assured Hjalmar stood.

There was no helping it. He might have been one of the greatest young warriors of his generation, but this woman was universally acknowledged as the strongest war-god among them. Even though she had chosen to serve Freya and withdrawn from the contest for worldly power, everyone still had to respect both her standing and the flail in her hand.

Cerys spoke first. "Well? Well? What did you think down there? What was his real expression like? After seeing Olaf, was he trembling in fear?"

"You've both been here for days already and still haven't had a chance to talk to him?" Hjalmar asked.

"Not yet. No chance to sit down and drink with him. The day before yesterday Cerys and I went out to have fun, and yesterday he shut himself in his room and never came out."

After returning the greeting and motioning for the three of them to sit, the quiet young woman walked over to the railing and looked down at the fight in the arena, which was nearing its end.

"He gives me a very strange impression. His attitude is calm, completely unruffled, as if he has already decided Olaf is beaten.

I'm looking forward to seeing him fight now. That clawed brown bear is in the full prime of its life. I couldn't beat it without a weapon, so I really want to see what he intends to use to win."

Just then the arena announcer's voice rang out.

"Gentlemen, ladies!

Combat is our sacred tradition! The blood spilled in this arena is witness to the strength of our clans!

The victor will become champion, but let me say this, anyone with the courage to enter is already a hero!

Now let us welcome today's hero, the Dragonborn from the east, Dovahkiin Victor Corion!"

The first swell of voices rose again, and then came a chorus of a hundred booming male voices, singing The Return of the Dragonborn for the assembled crowd. Wrapped in that song, the boy stepped into the circular arena wearing only his light clothes.

He noticed that natural stone pillars had been left standing around the ring. Those might prove useful before long.

As the song slowly moved into its refrain, many in the audience joined in. In the center of the arena it felt as if he stood at the heart of the world, while cheers rolled over him like crashing surf.

Bathed in song, reveling in the cheers of the crowd, the boy lifted both arms high.

"Hah, look at him. If you didn't know better, you'd think he'd already beaten Olaf," Hjalmar said.

The other two said nothing. Only Cerys answered him.

"Are you jealous that he's this popular? If you had enough glorious deeds to your name, you'd get the same kind of welcome."

"Oh, my dear Sparrowhawk, don't provoke me. I simply haven't had the right chance yet. Sooner or later I'll prove I'm worthy of the honor of House an Craite."

…

At last, as The Return of the Dragonborn faded away…

Victor grabbed the cloth on his left shoulder with his right hand and tore hard.

Rip.

The crowd, which had only just begun to settle, erupted again. The boy was bare-chested now, and his entire back was covered by a full tattoo.

It was a creature people had never seen before, difficult to describe, something out of myth bearing the traits of a serpent and a great lizard.

"What kind of creature is that?"

"No idea…"

"Is it some monster from the east?"

All across the arena, whispers spread.

Only Angoulême knew the answer. It was the auspicious beast of Bell Town, the dragon.

When the captain's obsession flared up, he had said more than once that one day he would absolutely have a full back tattoo so everyone would be forced to see it.

At once the girl felt much more at ease. If he had even prepared a completely pointless display prop like this, then he definitely had some way to deal with the beast.

The unrest in the crowd gradually faded again, because the heavy wooden gate was slowly opening, and at the same time the announcer bellowed:

"And now! Olaf, champion of the Fist of Fury, against Victor, the Dragon of Bell Town!"

Bang!

The door burst open and Champion Olaf lunged out.

Huff! Huff! Wrrr-roar!

It let out a low, furious growl.

To sharpen its fighting spirit, its food had been cut by two-thirds over the last two days, and the result was obvious.

It was drooling, staring at the boy as if it meant to devour him whole.

No, "as if" could be removed. It meant to devour him whole.

Victor raised both fists, wrapped tight in cloth, and settled into a fighting stance.

…

Remember, never fight a bear barehanded!

Bears are larger than tigers, and every inch of their bodies is dense with muscle. Even the usual vulnerable spots on ordinary beasts, the back of the neck and the spine, are buried beneath thick layers of fat.

If you are ever forced into a duel with a bear, first make sure you have mastered the Eastern Dipper Fist, an ancient eastern assassination art with a history of eighteen hundred years. (TN: Eastern Dipper=Big Dipper=Ursa Major, Ursa=Bear. Makes sense ig)

Its essential principle is to strike the body's hidden meridian points, destroying the enemy from within. The most famous practitioner in history was, of course, that universally known figure, the Flamebearer Sage.

Excerpted from the lurid pulp manual Brawling! What Real Men Love Most!

…

Just because Olaf was huge as a house did not mean it was slow. In truth, bears of its kind could run at speeds of up to fifty kilometers per hour, faster than the world-record-holding man.

Its acceleration at close range was even more terrifying. Fortunately, Victor knew the enemy well enough not to make the mistake of underestimating it.

The beast charged.

Under the tense gaze of the entire arena…

Victor drew a deep breath.

"Fus, Ro, Dah!!!"

A bolt of thunder seemed to explode out of empty air.

It was deafening beyond belief.

That was not a sound any human being should have been able to make.

The entire crowd was stunned by the sudden eruption of the dragon shout. Many were frightened badly enough to fall over, and some even lost control of their bladders. The stands dissolved into chaos and cursing. Fortunately, it was panic rather than injury, and no real harm was done.

Up in the VIP section, Ermion, who had been watching the match closely, knew the blast was likely harmless, but even so, the moment the boy drew breath, the druid threw up a magical barrier in advance and blocked most of the sound.

Even so, Queen Birna went pale with shock, while King Bran and Crach both rose at the same time.

In the side box, the younger generation reacted in different ways. Thanks to Angoulême's earlier warning, Cerys and Svani had covered their ears in time. They were shaken, but not nearly as badly as Hjalmar, who was so startled by the immense blast that he toppled backward off his seat and had to scramble up again looking rather miserable.

Svanrige, on the other hand, clearly had not received any warning from the girl, but he too managed to cover his ears in time and remained seated, watching the arena below with deep, intent eyes.

If people sitting that far away reacted so strongly, there was no way Olaf could be fine after taking the dragon shout at point-blank range.

The shockwave battered its eardrums, passed through the chain of auditory bones into the inner ear, and violently disturbed the cochlea, damaging the spiral organ and affecting the vestibular system as well, leaving the beast dizzy and throwing off its balance.

Dizziness did not mean total immobility, but it did make movement much more sluggish. Seizing the chance, Victor did not hesitate. He flashed to the side, into a position where the bear's claws could not strike directly.

Then he aimed at the flank and hammered away with his cloth-wrapped fists like a storm.

Rubbing at her ears, which were still ringing slightly, Svani watched Victor's movements and could not make sense of them.

The punches were undeniably fast and heavy, but attacks like that meant very little against Olaf, especially driven into the fattest part of its belly. It looked like effort spent for nothing.

A dozen seconds passed in the blink of an eye. The chaos in the stands gradually settled, and Olaf began to recover as well.

The bear's massive body suddenly twisted, and one claw slashed out. A fresh cry of alarm broke from the crowd. It had been a razor-thin escape. Three deep claw marks were left across Victor's chest. Had he been any slower, he would have died on the spot.

Olaf reared upright and let out a savage roar. It had been startled by its tiny prey a moment earlier, but the creature's attacks had accomplished nothing.

For the next few minutes, using the natural stone pillars in the arena, Victor ran circles through the ring and fought like a raider, darting in and out, striking whenever he could. His offense looked fierce enough, but this was not a boxing match. No one was counting clean hits, and there was no time limit.

The Dragonborn has not used another shout, Svani thought. Maybe there is a limit on how often he can do it, or some other restriction. He may once have had a chance, but he failed to make full use of it. If this drags on any longer, it is meaningless. Death will be inevitable.

Around the arena, the shouts cheering for the Dovahkiin began to weaken. Everyone could see Victor's fading position and Olaf's terrible majesty.

Crach glanced at Ermion, shook his head, and walked toward King Bran, preparing to ask a favor and have the match called off.

But at that very moment, the savage Olaf swayed, gave a cry of pain, and every Skelliger who had ever hunted a bear knew instantly that something was wrong.

Drool spilled from the corners of its mouth. After staggering a few steps, it vomited blood.

And then its condition worsened with terrifying speed.

The beast that had moved with such ferocity and speed only moments before was now reduced to a limping stumble, the shambling struggle of something already dying.

Countless knowledgeable eyes widened.

They could already see the ending.

The champion was about to change.

Victor approached carefully, landed several more blows into the belly from the side, and after confirming that the champion no longer had the strength to swing a claw, he vaulted up onto the bear's back and began raining merciless blows from his cloth-wrapped iron fists onto its head.

At last Olaf could endure no more. It crashed to the ground, blood steadily leaking from its eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. In its dark gray eyes there still lingered a trace of confusion, as though it could not understand how everything had suddenly come to this.

Under Victor's unrelenting blows, that final trace of confusion faded into nothing.

…

The winner stood.

The loser lay on the ground.

All eyes fixed on the last man standing in the arena.

The entire place fell silent.

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