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

Far in the south stood the city of Nilfgaard, also known as the City of Golden Towers. This magnificent city on the banks of the Alba was the heart of the Empire, the Empire's capital.

And at the core of the City of Golden Towers, the Imperial Palace was the primary residence of the Emperor of the Nilfgaardian Empire.

"Ym'grymie aep Aard Ker'zaer, Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep Morvudd, Emhyr var Emreis!

Bow before His Imperial Majesty, the White Flame Dancing on the Barrows of his Enemies, Emhyr var Emreis!"

Accompanied by the herald's proclamation, the head of the intelligence service waiting in the audience chamber, Viscount Vattier de Rideaux, bowed deeply to welcome his sovereign, the Emperor of Nilfgaard, Lord of Metinna, Ebbing, and Gemmera, Sovereign of Nazair and Vicovaro, King of Cintra.

Brown-eyed, black-haired, his hair slicked back without a strand out of place, the ruler of half the civilized world and the invader of the other half, Emhyr var Emreis. His actions and decisions shaped the fate of the world and its people.

The Emperor picked up the document and began reading it. Its title was The Current State of Skellige. His ring tapped lightly against the tabletop, signaling his spymaster to begin his report.

Vattier held his breath and focused. "Your Majesty, the intelligence is correct. Bran an Tuirseach died of..., however the official claim is that it was heart failure. Those in Skellige who are friendly toward us... hope to receive more assistance. Shall we increase our support?"

Without looking up, the Emperor's lips curled into a cold smile, and his ring continued tapping on the table. "Interesting. So Bran went that way. Of course we should increase our support. We must properly thank the old man for his many years of consideration."

He continued reading the document and waved a hand, dismissing the viscount.

Receiving the order, de Rideaux bowed once again and slowly backed away. He had nearly reached the door when Emhyr's voice suddenly sounded from behind him.

"Wait... who is this 'Dovahkiin'?"

...

Dovahkiin, the peerless hero praised in the song The Return of the Dragonborn.

He is Victor, from east of Zerrikania, crosser of the Korath Desert, storm-born, fated to transcendence, the Pure One of Melitele's Prophecy, master of the Eastern Dipper Fist, the Dragon of Bell Town, Dawnbreaker, the alchemist monster hunter, traverser of the Path of Warriors, arena champion, slayer of wraiths, transcender of nightmares, cutter down of a hundred men with drawn blade, the Last Dragonborn, Dovahkiin, Bearbreaker Victor Corion.

, The Current State of Skellige, compiled by Vattier de Rideaux

...

When the first light of dawn swept across the north of Ard Skellig, Kaer Trolde stood tall upon the mountain peak, grand and steep, every bit the fortress Clan an Craite was proud of.

And below the fortress bridge spanning the strait, a sailboat with a lion-shaped figurehead was crossing that cruel vast sea as calmly and joyfully as the sun itself, heading toward the most prosperous foreign port in the archipelago.

Standing proudly at the prow and admiring the view was the captain of the Thousand Sunny, Victor Corion. At his side, speaking with him, was the Phantom Troupe's handyman, Vigi.

"Hah, looks like we made it. At least we aren't late after all." Victor patted the rogue on the back. "You did well."

When they had left Larvik harbor, Cerys had sailed with Clan Heymaey's warship, traveling together with Lord Donar, Otrygg, Svani, and the others. They had warmly invited the Phantom Troupe to join them as well, but Victor had not been willing to abandon his own ship.

One wrong turn of fate had brought them straight into a sudden storm of wind and snow. Though the Thousand Sunny had managed to overcome it in the end, it had still blown them several days off course. Fortunately, by the reckoning of the days, they had still arrived in time.

Taking off his helmet, Vigi scratched his hair awkwardly. "Captain, I'm truly sorry. My ship-handling still isn't good enough."

"Don't worry about it. Once the ship docks, let the crew handle the details. We'll head straight to the funeral."

"Understood. I'll make the arrangements right away."

...

Once the Thousand Sunny docked, Victor took the lead and broke into a run. The Parkour King of Kaer Morhen had not earned that reputation for nothing. Luckily he had been to Kaer Trolde once before, so he knew how to reach the funeral site.

He had not run long before he heard the familiar booming voice of the archdruid Ermion in the distance.

"A man's life in this world lasts no longer than the blink of an eye. Today, we stand here in deepest sorrow to mourn our kinsman, our friend, Skellige's great king..."

Using his arm to shoulder people aside, Victor pushed forward. Today he was wearing Skellige noble attire, so no one found his behavior inappropriate.

At last he squeezed through the layers of the crowd and reached a more open stretch of ground. Just then Victor saw four warriors carrying King Bran's body pass right by him on their way toward a small boat.

At a glance, the body had clearly been prepared. Bran's complexion was still ruddy and lifelike, yet the sight utterly severed the boy's last shred of wishful thinking. This was no deception, the king was truly dead.

Victor let out a deep sigh. Nearby stood a little hill serving as the viewing platform. The outermost ring was made up of warriors guarding the site, the middle ring was reserved for the clan heirs, and at the very top stood the leaders of the island clans, King Bran's widow, Ermion, and the honored guests.

As he started walking toward the viewing platform, the boy could not help thinking with a trace of dark humor that if a meteor happened to fall from the sky and flatten this hill right now, Skellige's entire line of succession might be wiped out in one stroke.

As Victor approached, the noble clothing he wore should not have been enough to let him pass through the clan guards at the foot of the hill. But the men of Clan Tuirseach, Clan Heymaey, and Clan Dimun, upon seeing his face, all silently stepped aside and opened a broad path for him, each pressing a hand to his chest in salute.

That small stir also drew the attention of the heirs standing on the second tier. The moment Cerys saw him, she covered her smile with one hand. Ever since the blizzard had separated them, she had been worried the whole time about Victor's safety.

Their eyes met, and she knew that he knew how much she had cared.

Standing on the second tier were Svanrige of Clan Tuirseach, Svani and Otrygg of Clan Heymaey, Hjalmar and herself of Clan an Craite, Halbjorn of Clan Dimun, and Blueboy Lugos of Clan Drummond.

When she noticed that Victor had no intention of stopping and was heading straight for the highest level, Sparrowhawk could not help worrying for him. The first few clans might know him or at least have dealings with him, but the heirs of Clan Dimun and Clan Drummond did not know anything about this Dovahkiin. If it caused a conflict, that would be bad.

She was about to speak up and introduce him, but Hjalmar gently pressed a hand out to stop her. Cerys froze in surprise and lost her chance to speak.

Then the situation unfolded in a way she had never expected. Blueboy Lugos and Halbjorn both smiled and nodded, allowing the boy to pass without objection. Their tacit approval meant that among Skellige's second generation, not one heir objected. All of them recognized Victor Corion's right to stand at the highest point and witness the funeral there.

Hjalmar quietly told his sister, "You only just got back, so I haven't had the chance to tell you. Our brother has made a dazzling name for himself in the south. Dovahkiin's fame is immense now."

After hearing the explanation, Sparrowhawk's expression grew complicated as she watched the boy climb the hill one firm step at a time, until he stood shoulder to shoulder with the leaders of the island clans.

...

Standing at the top, Victor let his gaze roam across the people there. He saw Birna at the front, then a young woman he did not recognize, and behind her stood Crach and Ermion. There seemed to be some subtle meaning in that order.

He nodded in greeting to the Madman Lugos and to Holger Blackhand, whom he had met before. Then Victor noticed that the warriors below had begun placing King Bran's body onto a small boat. According to Victor's understanding of Skellige custom, they were about to perform a sea pyre.

A sea pyre, when a king renowned for courage and battle dies, his grave goods consist of a ship and the spoils he won in life. The mourners place everything aboard, including the dead man himself lying within in peace, then they send it out under sail, and at the end set it ablaze from afar with a flaming arrow.

At that moment, the young woman standing second in the order suddenly broke into sobs, turned, and started running downhill.

The archdruid stepped out and stopped her. "Child, you need not do this."

"I know. But I want to," the young woman said, brushing Ermion's hand aside.

Victor's heart stirred. Judging from her place in the line, he guessed the young woman might have been one of King Bran's lovers. Wait, was she about to die with him!?

The thought had only just clicked into place, and before he could stop her, she had already run past him and headed downhill.

"She's lost her mind. A girl that young. Birna should be the one going, she's the one who shared his bed the longest."

"Quiet. This is her choice."

Hearing the whispers around him and watching her back as she ran without hesitation, Victor felt annoyed that he had not stopped her. Yet unexpectedly, she was stopped all the same. The one who blocked the path of King Bran's lover and prevented her from following him in death was none other than Svanrige on the second tier.

He stood in the way of his father's lover, his expression stern as he spoke to her. The distance was too great to hear what they said, but before long the young woman sank to the ground and began weeping uncontrollably.

Relieved, Victor stored the scene away in his memory, then turned back just in time to see that the warriors had finished their preparations, lowered the sail, and were now pushing the boat out of the harbor.

A long while passed, and the lone sail became a distant shadow.

A flaming arrow was lit from the brazier. The one who loosed it was King Bran's nephew, Crach of Clan an Craite.

When the arrow landed on the boat, flames billowed up in fierce waves. The horns wailed in grief, and the seagulls shrieked overhead.

At that sight, the boy felt a strange blur between his previous life and this one. In the game he had witnessed this more than once through Geralt's eyes, but in this life, the White Wolf himself was fated never to see it.

Shaking his head, Victor turned his gaze away, and immediately regretted the glance. Among the honored guests stood three women whose clothes were so stingy with fabric that at a glance they could only be sorceresses.

The other two did not matter, since he did not know them anyway, but what made the boy wince with regret was that, as if the White Hall in Vizima were repeating itself, the woman looking him straight in the eyes was none other than Keira Metz.

The petite, slender royal adviser had bright, gleaming eyes, the sort of expression she wore whenever she found something interesting and her spirits rose. After all, the very fact that Victor could stand at the highest point of the viewing platform said a great deal.

Pretending not to have seen her, the boy turned his attention toward Ermion. The burning ship had already been reduced to ash, and the archdruid now stepped up onto the speaker's platform and began his funeral oration.

"Bran, King of Clan Tuirseach, has embarked on the final journey of his life, and our glorious ancestors await him at its end.

"They will hunt and raid together. They will sit by the fire and praise the mighty deeds of days gone by. From this day forward, he will live on in our hearts.

"And one day, we too shall stand beside him, all of us facing the sea together.

"That will be a beautiful day."

When the speech ended, the wind howled and the snow drifted softly.

After the archdruid, the next to speak was Crach an Craite. Wearing a gold circlet that made his red hair shine all the brighter, he raised his voice and proclaimed, "The clans of the Skellige Isles live together and die together. In times of war, tradition binds all clans under the rule of one king. We have bid Bran farewell, and now it is time to choose his successor, to lead us in the fight against Nilfgaard's Black Ones.

"Tonight, the gates of Kaer Trolde stand open to all who cherished Bran of Clan Tuirseach. Come and enjoy endless food and drink.

"And when the wake feast is held, any man who believes he has the right to become king, step forward himself!"

With that, amid a thunder of cheers, Crach stepped down from the platform and came over to Victor, gripping him by the arm.

"Thank you for coming to see him off on his final journey."

"King Bran was a ruler and an elder worthy of respect."

"He was. But now he is gone. Can you come to Kaer Trolde a little earlier tonight? There are some things I want to discuss with you before the feast."

"I'll come in advance."

...

After the funeral ended, Victor quickly blended into the crowd and vanished from the harbor hill before Keira could latch onto him. Though not exactly an enemy and not exactly a friend, sorceresses might as well have been a synonym for trouble, and the boy was not in the mood to deal with her right now.

Just as on his last visit, the Phantom Troupe chose to stay at the New Port Tavern. (TN: Fixed, I had previously always translated it as New Harbor)

Jonas, the innkeeper and good mate of that rogue Vigi, welcomed them with the same honest warmth as before. But from the sadness on his face, the boy could see his grief and gloom. Thinking of how beloved King Bran had been by his people, Victor could only feel impressed.

They entered the large suite they had rented. Oak shields and embroidered tapestries hung on the walls, and the flames in the hearth filled the room with warmth. Eager to shake off the fatigue left over from the previous night, the boy quickly set up the great pot and threw himself onto the bed for a short sleep.

...

Winter nights came early, and with snow in the air, by a little past three in the afternoon the sky had already turned gray and dim.

Riding toward Kaer Trolde, Victor followed the tunnel winding upward through the mountain and could not help marveling at the sheer magnitude of the engineering. To carve out a passage broad enough for several mounted riders to move abreast, straight through the mountain itself, must have cost an astonishing amount of labor and resources.

After passing through the tunnel, he left the horses at the stables and came to Kaer Trolde's bridge. Once he crossed it, he would officially be entering the castle.

Looking down from the bridge, he could clearly see the stretch of sea hundreds of meters below, the very waters the Thousand Sunny had sailed through that morning.

Taking Angoulême and Vigi with him, Victor suddenly felt he had picked a bad time, because three women were being blocked outside the castle gate by the guards.

The gate guards clearly had no fear whatsoever of sorceresses. "Get lost, you three sluts who don't even know how to wear proper clothes. No one here needs you spreading your legs today!"

"We are guests here for the wake feast. Is this truly how Clan an Craite treats its visitors?" snapped the unfamiliar sorceress at their head.

"Ha! The clan chief already gave his orders. Showing up at the funeral was enough for the likes of you. As for the wake feast, it only welcomes true friends of King Bran. It doesn't welcome spies like you who only came to gather information.

"Now get lost! Stop blocking the way for the real guests!"

The guard shouted abuse and even tried to shove them.

Seeing that, Victor sucked in a breath. A sorceress of higher standing than Keira Metz, one able to stand in front of her, there were only a few women the boy vaguely remembered who fit that description, and every one of them was the sort who could turn a guard to ash on a whim.

And yet it was obvious they were still restraining themselves. Whether it was the presence of anti-magic weapons or political considerations, neither allowed them to turn hostile and strike. Knowing they would not be able to enter openly, the sorceresses stepped back and passed by the Phantom Troupe.

As he received the respectful, almost ceremonious welcome of the gate guards, Victor could feel that sharp gaze at his back. Keira Metz would definitely take out her anger on him after he had witnessed her being insulted by the guards.

Sorceresses... troublesome women.

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