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

The arena was very quiet.

It was the kind of silence that came when people witnessed something they could not understand and had no idea how to react.

Everything had changed too fast, too suddenly. Only a few short minutes had passed between the giant bear seeming utterly unstoppable and collapsing into a dying struggle.

But that silence did not last long.

From the first person to the last, they all realized the same thing at almost the same moment, Olaf was finished, and a new arena champion had been born.

Dovahkiin Victor Corion.

Then, unable to hold themselves back, they erupted into cheers, applause, and the signature stomping thunder of the Fist of Fury. The audience shouted in unison, "Dovahkiin! Dovahkiin! Dovahkiin!"

Raising both arms high, the boy, as the victor, bathed in glory and in the roar of the crowd.

In the side box, the four members of the younger generation stood by the railing, watching the winner in the arena and listening to the stomping of the Fist of Fury, the highest praise that could be given to a champion. It was reserved for human champions alone, so ever since the champion before the champion before Olaf had ascended to the heavens, that ceremony had not been heard for a very long time.

"He's really something else. If I get the chance, I'd love to fight him myself," Svani murmured.

Cerys frowned. "Don't joke around. Olaf didn't look badly injured on the outside, but the way he was gasping at the end, his insides were probably smashed to pieces. That should be some kind of special fighting technique."

"That's exactly why it would be worth challenging!" Svani's eyes blazed with eagerness.

Beside them, Svanrige said nothing.

In an even tone, Hjalmar said, "Our King Bran is coming out."

Sure enough, the next moment the arena gate opened, and Bran Tuirseach, king of Skellige, walked into the arena followed by his royal guard.

Outside the gate, meanwhile, two men remained where they were, speaking quietly.

The Great Druid Ermion said, "…Don't worry, Crach. Nenneke was right, that boy is clever and steady. That was my impression too when I spoke with him the other day. He knows exactly what he's doing. He won't say the wrong thing."

"Skellige needs heroes, not legendary heroes," said the lord of House an Craite, his arms folded.

The crowd's cheers died down quickly. It was rare for the king himself to come out and praise a fighter, but not without precedent. It had simply been uncommon in recent years, mostly because the previous champion had clearly not cared in the slightest for royal praise.

This was the second time Victor had seen King Bran.

Now that he had personally come to this land, lived in this city, and gathered so much information, his impression of the seemingly dignified and hearty king was completely different from before.

Bran was unquestionably unusual. Among the many kings Skellige had seen through the ages, he was the first to learn the art of compromise. At feasts, with mellow wine, warm words, and the right exchange of favors, he had bent one proud and unruly clan chief after another to his will.

The mother of his eldest son, the queen, was his perfect partner. People said that during banquets, Birna quietly kept every suspicious rumor and every suspicious act in mind, then told her husband all about them when they lay down to sleep.

And now, standing before a man like that, the boy placed a hand to his chest and bowed flawlessly.

"Brave king of Skellige, Victor Corion greets you."

His voice was steady and deep, carrying clearly to every corner of the arena.

Stopping in front of Victor, King Bran planted both hands on his hips.

"Tell me, young man, where do you come from, and where are you bound? What do you seek upon this land?"

His voice rang like steel.

With his head still lowered, the boy heard the implication in every word.

He raised his head and answered in a clear voice, "I come from Bell Town, east of Zerrikania. I crossed the Korath Desert and came to Skellige.

While I remain upon this land, I hope to gain the friendship and aid of its people.

I will stay for a few short months in this realm of warriors, slay monsters, hone my craft, and then return to my homeland."

Ermion raised an eyebrow. "Not bad. Very clever words."

Crach grunted in his rough voice. "Decent enough. At least he has made it clear from the side that he has no interest in power. Though from another angle, the fact that he'll be leaving soon also makes others lose the urge to recruit him. Before this, he might even have had a chance of becoming a son-in-law of Clan Tuirseach."

"Or Clan an Craite," the druid said mildly.

The king was clearly pleased with the answer, so he drew himself up and declared, "Warrior Victor, you shall find what you seek here. I, Bran Tuirseach, on behalf of Skellige, welcome you."

Then he paused for a few seconds.

"Welcome, Dovahkiin!"

The moment the title was acknowledged by the king himself, the entire arena went mad again. The thunder of stomping seemed to shake the sky. The name of the Dragonborn was now fully confirmed.

…

That afternoon, in the underground mortuary beneath the arena,

the moment the swollen belly was cut open, blood sprayed out like a fountain, drenching the three men and splashing the walls behind them.

The chief examiner and his two assistants did not flinch at the gore, but as soon as the corpse was opened, shock spread across all three faces. The sight before them made their skin crawl.

"How… how in the world was this done? It's impossible!"

"Incredible… the hide is completely intact!"

"But all the internal organs inside are practically ruined."

"With wounds that severe, running around would have turned the bleeding into a flood. No wonder Olaf dropped so fast."

The three men exchanged looks. In all their long years of professional experience, they had seen worse scenes before. For example, the champion Olaf had killed two champions ago had been in just as much of a mess internally. The difference was that back then, the ribs had at least been visibly shattered as well.

But Olaf was different. Bone, flesh, and hide were all intact. Only the five viscera and the six bowels had been utterly devastated. The three looked at one another, each equally stunned.

For a giant bear to suffer injuries so impossible to deflect, only an extremely heavy weapon should have been capable of doing it. But the fact that the bones, flesh, and hide were unharmed ruled that out completely. And they had all been present at the fight. The damage had unquestionably come from fists.

One of the assistants, a more imaginative fellow, suddenly suggested, "Should we open the head too?"

All three had watched the match earlier, so the other two immediately understood.

Together they pried open the skull.

Just as expected, the inside was mush.

The chief examiner looked at his two colleagues, thought for a while, and then said, "This technique should be a unique eastern fist art, force passing clean through muscle and fat to strike deep within. I can't say for certain whether defense would be effective against it.

What can be said with confidence is that after taking nearly a hundred blows, Olaf's internal organs had almost all ruptured. So for now, we'll provisionally record the technique as Hundred-Burst Fist."

The assistant on the left nodded. "Agreed."

"Agreed," said the assistant on the right.

"Then I'll report these findings to the king and place them in the records."

…

On the night the championship changed hands, the Tuirseach banquet hall on An Skellig was once again alive with clinking goblets and flowing drink.

A welcoming feast was being held, one to welcome the clan's new friend, Victor the Dragonborn, come from east of Zerrikania, and his friends and followers had naturally been invited as well.

Of course, one could also say that they had simply wanted an excuse to throw another feast. But whatever the reason, as the excuse for the feast, the boy had no choice but to sit inside and enjoy Skellige hospitality.

Great gulps of liquor, great mouthfuls of meat, it all felt rather excellent.

Like the buffet-style feasts popular on the Continent, the entertainment included bards singing, jesters performing, and a local specialty, brawling.

After draining a huge swallow of liquor, Hjalmar let out a satisfied breath. "…Haah. Don't worry, it's fine. There's rarely a feast without blood. Once people get drunk, they start fighting. It's normal entertainment here."

"But it looks pretty intense," Victor said, taking only a small sip in comparison.

"They know their limits. Nobody's allowed to kill anyone. If you beat a man to death, your life pays for his. Otherwise, want to go take a look?"

Sweeping his gaze around, Victor confirmed that Dandelion was busy establishing a new artillery position, Vigi was bragging to several people, and Angoulême was having a wonderful time with Cerys.

Slightly drunk, the boy and the eldest son of House an Craite walked over to the edge of the hall to watch the fight.

Unexpectedly, Svanrige was standing on the opposite side, also watching the brawl. Victor nodded to him in greeting.

The Dovahkiin's appearance by the ring caused a small stir, but once people realized he had no intention of stepping in, the atmosphere quickly returned to its heated normal state.

No one challenged him. The corpse of the giant bear was barely cold, and earlier that very day, before everyone's eyes, he had beaten Olaf to death.

Besides, he had already announced that he was returning the championship title to the Fist of Fury, so a new tournament to claim the crown would begin next month.

Now that the title had returned to human hands, there were many who wanted it. A person would have to be out of his mind to challenge the boy at a feast.

…And yet there really was one.

"Victor, I can call you that, right?"

The one speaking was Svani. The warrior woman had just finished a whole great jug of mead, and now her eyes were shining brightly.

"May I challenge you? I'd really like to try your Hundred-Burst Fist!"

Victor blinked. The newly confirmed Dovahkiin looked slightly blank for a moment. What had she just said? She wanted to try what of his?

His mind, mildly fogged by alcohol, turned over the words before he realized they had decided to name the method he used to kill the giant bear Hundred-Burst Fist. It was a little odd, but honestly fairly fitting.

For one fleeting second, he remembered the time when he had first created that thing, and punched himself lightly in the stomach as a test, only to feel nothing, then hit himself a few more times and suddenly end up rolling on the floor in agony. For exactly one second, a desire rose in him to share that happiness with the lady before him…

Then he crushed the thought at once.

It was far too dangerous. One slight mistake and there would be no saving her.

Noticing that everyone around him was waiting for an answer, and that even Hjalmar and Svanrige, who knew the power of the Hundred-Burst Fist, had grown solemn, Victor sensed that the mood had suddenly become tense, like a storm gathering.

He thought for a moment, then smiled, picked up two large jugs of mead from the nearby table, and held them up.

"You can, if you can drink me under the table!"

The instant the words left his mouth, another hand reached out from beside him and took one of the jugs.

"That won't do. The girl from House an Hindar already had one round. If we're going to make this fair, then you should drink a jug with me first."

The speaker was the Sparrowhawk of House an Craite. At some point Cerys had come over as well, and her eyes on Victor burned with fighting spirit. Clearly losing their earlier handshake contest had not discouraged her in the slightest.

Victor rubbed his nose. An alchemist feared nothing.

"Fine! I accept both your challenges!"

And so that night, both hosts and guests enjoyed themselves to the fullest.

…

Before I became a master of aphrodisiacs, I was first a master of hangover cures.

, Anonymous

…

The afternoon after the feast, at the docks of Urialla Harbor, Victor and Angoulême hurried there to see off an old friend of the troupe, the bard Dandelion.

He had once again succeeded in establishing a new artillery position for himself, and once again given himself a limited-time choice, leave now or die.

Fortunately, Victor had already proven his identity as the Dragonborn, so Dandelion could now move freely. On top of that, the boy smoothed the way with crowns, and before long they had hired a captain reliable enough to carry the poet back to Novigrad.

That captain's name was Sukrus.

Yes, that very same bastard who was so enthusiastic about spreading poetic culture while also running sightseeing trips at sea.

The old acquaintances, reunited after a long time apart, chatted for a bit. They learned that the young lord Aryan had already left, and that the "reward" he had given was very generous indeed, enough for the captain to enjoy a good life for quite some time.

Victor handed Dandelion the address of Fergus's smithy and a letter to be passed along to Yoana, instructing him firmly to make sure the message reached them. After that, the Phantom Troupe bid the bard farewell once more.

Watching the sail that carried him away shrink into the distance, Victor sincerely hoped that Dandelion would not cause him any more trouble.

Then again, now that even the Dovahkiin matter had been handled, it would probably be hard for the bard to create any bigger problems for him in the future.

…

And then the afternoon after that, at the same Urialla Harbor, by the same docks, Victor and Angoulême, this time with rascal Vigi in tow, came to see off the troupe's new friends, the an Craite siblings and Svani.

They had originally planned to stay a few more days, but first, news had come from Hindarsfjall that some matter required Svani's attention. So despite her obvious reluctance, she had no choice but to temporarily give up her plan to challenge the Dragonborn.

Meanwhile, after spending several days with his uncle King Bran and finishing his business, the patriarch of House an Craite was returning to Ard Skellig, and so the brother and sister would accompany their father back to Kaer Trolde.

Standing in the harbor and watching the two sailing ships disappear into the distance, Angoulême kept waving at her two new sisters.

Victor, meanwhile, was thinking over the conversation he had with Crach an Craite before they left, a conversation for which Crach had deliberately summoned his children to listen as well.

Crach, lord of House an Craite and master of Kaer Trolde, had a head of ginger-red hair and the nickname Sea Boar.

As the most powerful lord in Skellige, he possessed every quality of a hero, and inspired fear in his enemies as well. After the First Northern War, when Cintra fell, Crach refused to sign the armistice. He swore a bitter oath that Nilfgaard would pay in blood.

So even though the North and the South had already made peace, Skellige continued to harry Nilfgaard, burning, raiding, and slaughtering through its water fortresses across the provinces.

Yet for all that iron-handed ferocity, when he spoke to Victor, his tone had been warm, kindly, almost paternal.

"If you have no real business here, leave An Skellig sooner rather than later. Empty praise remains empty in the end. Take that as advice from an elder, and also because it could drag you into trouble you don't need.

Think about what you came to the Isles for. You don't need to tell me now. Just remember that if you come to me, House an Craite is willing to help you. That is what I owe Ciri."

The moment Crach said that and mentioned Ciri again, the two siblings straightened at once.

"…Father!?"

Crach waved them silent and went on.

"Victor Corion is a brother acknowledged by Ciri. I want you to treat him as a brother too, not as the Dragonborn."

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