My attempt at a Witcher and DanMachi crossover.

Six months after the defeat of the Wild Hunt, in the midst of a new age Geralt of Rivia is offered a contract he couldn't refuse.

With the ashen-haired woman now safe from the Wild Hunt, Geralt had decided to set down his swords in exchange for a calm, quiet life far, far away from the troubles of the world. The former witcher was content to live out the rest of his days in peace, but fate would have another twist. The fame of the White Wolf had stretched beyond the borders of the Continents, and it had been only a matter of time before someone would seek his aid…

A Time For Wolves

13th day of Birke, 1266

He ran. He willed his legs to carry him as fast as it can. Behind him a pair of figures vaguely humanoid chased him through the forest as a young boy ran for his life.

"H-Help, grandpa! Anyone!"

Everything became a blur as his sole focus was to survive. He didn't want to die here. Looking back, he began to pick up his pace when he saw how close they were. Maybe a meter or two? He wasn't sure, but he'd rather not find out. These things couldn't be reasoned with. Nothing except a painful death would come if he stopped now.

"H-Help—!"

He stopped when his face collided with something hard. He fell back, forgetting for a moment what just happened.

"Watch out, kid."

A voice. It was both rough and grave, but undeniably masculine. With a head of white hair falling on his shoulders. He wasn't sure who it was, however. Definitely not his grandfather.

"Stay behind me."

He picked himself up, remembering what was behind him. Seeing he had no other choice, the boy quickly hid behind the man's legs. He uttered a small prayer to the gods for granting him this good luck. Very good timing, indeed.

The man pulled out his sword. Strangely, he was carrying two on his back. "You're lucky, kid. Just so happened to be here when you came along," he muttered coarsely.

"T-thank you, sir! You have no idea, I-I thought they were gonna get me!"

"How'd you end up with drowners anyway? Didn't your parents tell you to stay away from swamps?"

"Y-Yeah, but— watch out!"

It was all for naught. The white-haired man dodged the drowner's claws with a pirouette and struck the creature's head, cutting it off with a single blow.

"Amazing…" the boy said in awe.

The second one tried to avenge its kin, but it was quickly put down when the man moved forward and impaled his sword into its chest.

"What's your name, kid?" his savior asked. He returned his sword to its sheathe.

"Bell… Bell Cranel," Bell replied. "A-and you're…?"

"Geralt of Rivia. Now kid, mind telling me where you're parents are?"

"Ah, the famed White Wolf. I have heard much about you…"

"G-Grandpa!"

Bell left Geralt's side and bolted for his grandfather. As he looked at the old man, he noted there was something different about him. Something he couldn't quite put a finger on. His instincts told him to be wary.

The old man smiled. "And I see you've brought back my grandson. Bell! What did I tell you about wandering off too far?"

"I-I'm sorry, grandpa!" Bell yelped, crying into his pant's leg.

"You know how dangerous it is to go out on your own. I have no choice, you are not allowed to leave the house for the rest of the week."

"What?! B-but—!"

"Bell," his grandpa sighed. "You had me worried sick, if not for this man here, I dare not think what would've happened to you."

'Reminds me of Ciri,' thought the witcher. Both mischievous and stubborn. The boy was almost a striking image of her, except for the eyes.

"Grandpa…"

"I wouldn't punish you if you didn't deserve it. It'll teach you not to do that again. Now run along now, I must speak to the man."

Bell heaved a heavy sigh. Not liking his punishment one bit, he marched off home with his head stooped down in silence, quietly muttering a few words of the unfairness of it all.

Geralt chuckled.

"I suppose you expect some form of payment…?"

"Normally I would invoke the Law of Surprise, but gold's enough for now," Geralt assured.

"Fair enough, I owe you a debt. Come with me." He signaled Geralt to follow him. They walked together then, leading Geralt to his home. Although when he wasn't looking, the witcher would cast a glance at the old man. There was definitely something strange about him. Certainly not a monster, else his medallion would've been humming. There was silence between them until the old man spoke.

"So how'd you end up in these parts, witcher? Quite a journey from the North," he began. "A few weeks ride?"

"I'm used to it. Got a job with good pay. Wouldn't be here otherwise," Geralt replied. Straight to the point. He still didn't trust him.

"I see. You must be well travelled, as a requirement of your craft."

"Hmm."

"You know, my grandson… he dreams of having the same freedom."

"Huh," Geralt snorts. "Believe me, he's lucky. Some would even prefer the company of a leper than a witcher."

"I'm not talking about that. What I mean is…" he stops. "Tell me, witcher, do you know the stories of heroes?"

Geralt almost blinked in surprised. "You're kidding…"

"He's but a child, he doesn't understand."

"We are not heroes," Geralt grumbled. "We kill monsters for gold. We expect payment for the things we do, and we don't do anything for free. Innocent or not, we generally don't involve ourselves in the business of other people." As in 'generally', he himself wouldn't stand for any sort of injustice.

"You're missing the point," he reiterated. "What I meant was… the freedom to do anything you want. To do what you want to do. To have an adventure. Become a hero to be remembered forever. That's what Bell dreams."

"A foolish one, if I may admit. Those tales belong in books. Nothing is as it seems in our world. You either die, or fight to live another day. Nobody has that freedom."

"Well, it is your opinion, but I believe in him."

"And why's that?"

"Your cynical view of the world. You forget what defines humans. It is the ability to adapt and create. What separates you from mere animals and monsters, it is the ability to bring wishes to life. To work for a dream, no matter how long it would take. It is what makes you extraordinary."

They were silent after that, but Geralt still wasn't convinced. He had seen enough of it. While there were those kinds of individuals, it was rare and few between. The world was a dark and twisted place, and prejudice was a monster even worse than the creatures he hunted. Even the greatest of men can stumble and fall. What he doesn't realize, during the course of time people forget. Grand efforts built over the years being lost in history. It didn't matter what you did, as long as there was evil in the world, nothing would change. The dreams of that boy — it would only get him killed.

"We're here," the old man announced, pointing to a wooden cottage. "Wait here, I'll fetch the coin." Geralt nodded his head.

He waited for a few minutes, but eventually the man returned with a small pouch.

"Here, your pay." He handed the coin over to the witcher. "And thank you again for saving my grandson. Good luck on the Path."

"Thanks. Farewell."

The old man watched as the witcher departed. Most likely to return to the North. Remarkable Geralt may be, he was also disillusioned, embittered from his struggles. Like the world was out to get him. Unknown to Geralt, as soon as he was out of earshot, the old man laughed.

"My boy, you'll understand one day. I'm sure you will both meet again."

Seven years later.

Orario. 20th day of Imbolc, 1273

"Hah, I did it…"

A sharp pain shot up through his bones. What was he thinking, pushing himself to this extreme? For someone like him who just started out, time was on his side, so why did he need to prove himself?

It was simple. He hated being weak.

"I can't forgive myself, if I don't do anything, then I'll never catch up to her."

The memories of that time came flooding back to him. He never wanted to relieve the experience again. It was embarrassing, haunting, and it taunted him for how useless he was. Someone like him couldn't stand to her greatness. Not until he has surpassed them all. He must exceed his limits.

"I have to do it, I have to do it all. A weakling like me has to work twice as hard. Just remember him…"

He picked himself up. Each breath was becoming a struggle now, and the taste of copper danced on his tongue. He had been fighting for hours now. But he had to push on. He was nothing otherwise. A man without worth.

Bell wanted to be cool like him.

"Huh? What's that?"

Several dark figures rose from the ground. "War shadows?"

They surrounded him. Featureless as they are, their forms were covered in shadow, except for a single red eye in the middle of their forehead.

Bell studied his opponents as he readied his knife. "I've gotta keep going. I can't stop here. I'm still too weak… TOO WEAK!"

He charged and attacked with a ferocity of a wild beast. Like a hot knife through butter, his dagger cut them down without much resistance. It didn't matter if they outnumbered him, he wouldn't be fazed. An unbridled desire fuelled his actions. He wanted to reach his goal, and one day prove himself to her.

It wasn't until the morning came did Bell finally stop to rest and chose to return home. Mostly because it would be suicide if he kept on going. During his run he managed to fight all manner of beasts, and each battle added more wounds to his body. A cut on his head caused blood to leak from his scalp, however, it wasn't serious.

"Hey look, it's that kid again…"

"Doesn't he learn anything?"

"Stupid rookie. He's probably pushed himself too hard and screwed up…"

As he left the dungeon, he would attract a few odd looks from other adventurers for his disheveled state. Bell ignored them still. He chose this path. It didn't matter what they think of him. He wanted to be strong, strong enough nobody would ever look down on him.

Bell stumbled as he willed his body home. Pain coursed through him like a shock of electricity jolting him awake. He thought about his goddess, she must be worried to death about him. He hadn't returned home during the night, or left any letter to tell her where he was. She must've thought the worst had happened. Bell cursed himself. He shouldn't get riled up over someone else's opinion.

Eventually he reached his home, a run down church in the ruins of an old town.

"Bell?"

He recognized that voice all too well.

A girl, looking no older than sixteen, ran up to him. She was a petite young woman, fairly small for someone her age. Yet, what she lacked in height, she certainly more than made up for with her womanly assets.

Bell smiled to assure her he was okay.

Then he fell, his body no longer having the strength to support him.

Luckily, his goddess was there to catch him.

"Bell! What…?" she said in worry as he began to cough out blood.

"Hestia-sama…" Bell began. He thought back to the white-haired man, how amazing he was. He forced his head up, looking her in the eyes, and gave her a bloody grin.

"Will you… will you help me with my dream?"

It was a great request. She wanted to say no, to tell him off and not to risk himself like this ever again. The thought of losing him, it was too much. But looking at him, she was reminded of a time long past. For Bell had the virtues only a rare few possessed. Qualities more powerful than any form of strength. Despite her concern, and the treacherous path Bell chose for himself, Hestia could only smile back at him warmly.

"Of course."

She was sweet music to his ears.

"Thank you, goddess…"

"I'll always believe in you, Bell. I—" Hestia blushed. "Hahah, don't worry. L-Let's get you cleaned up."

She helped lift himself up, supporting Bell's weight by placing an arm over her shoulders. Hestia would catch the scent of his sweat, a pungent mix of heavy perspiration mingled with his blood. It recalled the smell of adventurers who returned from a long, arduous journey.

"You really stink, Bell," Hestia frowned, making a face when she took another whiff of his stench. "You'll need a bath."

"Ah, sorry, goddess…"

He wasn't far now.

It was by luck he was able to gain some information about this place. If he hadn't come across a few travellers, he probably would've wandered in the wilderness more than he would've liked. He figured, once he reached the capital, he could meet up with his contact, since whoever it was failed to meet with him at the designated location.

"Whoa, slow down, Roach."

About a kilometer or so away rising above the forest canopy was a city that instantly reminded him of Novigrad. It was easily his destination, and quite impressive if he may admit. Despite the brief and relatively few dealings with the people of this land, Geralt had heard much about the fabled city of Orario and how, from what he gathered, its sheer wealth and its treatment of its residents would put most of the kingdoms of the North to shame. Along with the abundance of individuals called 'adventurers', the tales he had picked up from his long journey birthed a genuine curiosity of the many aspects of this country, though there was one main piece of information that stood out amongst all.

In any case, with the current circumstances if this news reached his homeland there would no doubt be drastic consequences, but surely would anyone believe him? It was certainly possible the Church of the Eternal Fire had always been aware, but kept it as a very closely guarded secret known only to a select few. Knowing her, Geralt was certain even Yennefer would rebuke it as superstition and a simple, over-religious fantasy, and since he hadn't bore witness to it yet himself he still thought it absurd. Thankfully, as a witcher, there were many factors that made it difficult for his words to carry any sort of weight. Very rare were there times where he was rather grateful for his condition, in fact. After all, there were some folk who would prefer the company of a leper than a witcher.

Now that he thought about it Geralt was filled with a small mixture of amusement and fear. Ironic when it was also so true. Knowledge indeed held power. If his people were to learn their deities have descended from the heavens permanently, it would be a revelation. A momentous event in their history. However, by choosing instead of rather than gracing them with their blessings, the gods have all but abandoned the war-ravaged North for another. An unforgiveable betrayal that would shake the world unlike anything ever felt before. It would incite madness so profound and devastating it could only lead to the worst possible outcome. More than a simple civil war or invasion/expansion of territory, but a bloody crusade that would only end with the destruction of an entire way of life. A spark quickly transforming into a sea of fire—

"Hmm?" He was torn from his quiet musings when he heard a faint rustle of leaves to his right. It was probably an animal, as he would suggest. Wolves maybe? He found monsters were less subtle. Taking a closer look, however, he didn't miss the gleam of a polished blade as it glinted with a dangerous light.

"Haaaah! Get him, boys! Easy pickings!"

They jumped out of the shrubbery on either side of him. To most, they looked menacing. The fact they outnumbered him made it appear like he would be quickly overwhelmed. They were seven in total, with most armed with a bladed weapon, either a sword, dagger, or axe, and one interestingly stood behind another member with a bow cocked with an arrow.

"Hold it there, stranger. You have something we want…"

Geralt barely batted an eyelash.

"Stand down. You'd rather not deal with me."

There was a ruthless and dangerous edge in his tone, but it was either ignored or put aside as a dead man's folly, fueled perhaps from their larger numbers. Besides, desperate men show their claws when cornered. Rather than cower away in fear, the bandits merely laughed. "Did you hear this cunt?! Who the fuck does he think he is?"

The witcher scowled. He pulled down his hood, revealing stark white hair and a pale, scarred face. He had a rather rugged, but handsome appearance suggesting he was in his mid to late twenties, but that was far from the truth. Decades of experience weighed heavily on his shoulders as he held himself with poise which spoke of many battles, both grand and small, and a deep, intimidating scar travelled down from above to below his left eye. Speaking of his eyes however, were the witcher's most notable trait and what would normally draw anyone's attention. To the people of the North, a clear indication of his identity and profession. Instead of regular round irises, they were narrow and slitted, shining with a bright golden color, which seemed to define his entire existence.

"I'm a witcher," Geralt growled. "You don't want to piss me off. Get out of here and make sure I never see you again."

There was an immediate indication his message had hit home. At the mere mention he was a witcher, the confidence they previously showed, just as quickly it had come it had gone in an instant.

"M-Master witcher? This… this is perfect!"

"What?"

Maybe his age was catching up to him, but he could've sworn these bandits were praising the heavens at the sight of him.

"And-And not just any witcher, the White Wolf himself. Geralt of Rivia!"

"Please sir, can you do us a favor?"

While completely dumbfounded, Geralt still managed to keep his composure. This was witcher business. He would admit, he had been caught off guard, but he quickly moved on. It was still one of the strangest things he had seen in a while, but he would put it aside for more important matters. He had a very clear idea of what they had in mind.

"Depends on what's it about. Monster problem?" Geralt asked.

"Aye, 'tis is, master witcher," one of the men replied. Geralt assumed he was their leader. "A brother of ours, went with a group of young'uns to the forest." He shook his head. "None ever came back."

"You're all brothers?"

"Born from the same mam, but from different fathers. All eight of us, now seven."

Geralt nods his head. "I see. So where is this monster?"

"He'll be in that hill." Barely peeking over the tree line, Geralt spotted a grass-covered hill not too far away although by foot, would be a considerable distance to walk. By his estimate, the distance would be around two kilometers. "A real menace, that one. Said to have killed over a hundred men. He got eyes like a dragon, and so fast you'd be dead before you even pull out your sword."

Geralt snorts. "Hmm, doubt it. Anything else I need to know?"

"Aye, 'tis isn't the first time we found someone willing. A couple of days ago us boys found us a group of soldiers, said we'd pay 'em to rid us of the beast. They reckoned they could do it, get a bit of glory, so they grabbed their weapons and set out…" he pauses. "Came back later to find 'em all dead. Whatever it was, they didn't stand a chance. This thing is more than us folk. Realized we needed a professional, clearly, so we all chipped in for a small reward, hoping someone would help..."

"Until you found me. You're lucky, there aren't many of us left…"

"And a damn shame that is," he laughs. "Well, master witcher, would you help us? Help us avenge those young'uns?"

Still mounted on his horse, Geralt gave a glance to the group before he made his decision. "Fine," he grumbles. "I'll take the job. Now let's talk about my pay."

"O'course, sir, no witcher ever does anythin' without the coin. We been saving up, you see. We be wantin' to get us some real adventurers before from the Guild, get revenge for lil' Johnny. You bring us its head, and we'll pay you handsomely."

'Same as always…' He had guessed right. A standard job. Typical witcher contract. It was fine as long as he was paid, as was every time a witcher was involved. He would also admit old habits played a hand too. Besides, a bit of extra coin wouldn't hurt.

"Alright," Geralt finished. "Well then, I'm off."

"Good luck, master witcher."

The entrance to the cave was a gaping hole along the side, close to the peak of the hill. It hadn't been particularly hard to find. The ground was soft, and there were fresh tracks left behind by the monster, alluding it had recently gone out to hunt. Geralt was certain this was its den. A putrid, thick stench originated from the darkness, like something had been long dead but was still decomposing. Littered along the entrance were leftovers and remains of what looked to be human, with stacks of bones, chunks of rotted flesh, and dried blood caking the dirt. Pieces of torn clothes, and scraps of shattered weapons and armor looked to have been thrown in random spots.

One item in particular caught Geralt's eye. He knelt down to get a better look. A suit of heavy armor, or what remained of it, leant against the wall next to the empty husk of what used to be a man. Examining its features, it appeared similar to most of what he found, and it shared many aspects which indicated the identity of the monster. Like the others, the armor was bashed in, especially in the chest. As if something large and heavy had slammed into the metal. Numerous holes coated with dried blood also littered the chest plate. A couple of swords, meanwhile, were strewn across the floor, some of them snapped in half.

Truly, this was a job fitting only for a professional.

Piecing together this information, Geralt was quick to narrow down the facts. He held little doubt as to what he was hired to kill.

"Hmm, large, deep dents in the armor means it was hit by something big, something heavy, and these swords... snapped in half like twigs. Holes in the chest are irregular shaped, punctured through the steel. And the bones, mangled, most of them broken. Interesting," Geralt murmurs. "This is definitely a fiend, but there's something here… a letter?"

He barely noticed it in the corner of his eyes. It was a tiny thing, easily missed if he hadn't stumbled upon it. There was a small note clasped in the hands of a skeleton beside the armor he was examining. Geralt took a glimpse of it, his curiosity piqued, and his mood gradually darkened the more he read its contents. What he would do if he just turned back around now, but he'd have nothing to gain. He made a mental note to deal with it later.

Geralt whistled for Roach to come and the horse immediately sauntered over to its master. He wasn't far, as Geralt allowed the horse to graze in the field in front of the cave. Reaching into a sack strapped to the side of his mount, there was a small chime before Geralt slowly pulled out the item he was looking for. It was a small, brown case, and upon opening it were several glass vials each holding different types of liquids of some sort.

He picked one up, and popping open the flask he put the tip to his lips before quickly downing the strange liquid. For any other person, consumption of a witcher potion was notoriously lethal, extremely poisonous to anyone who weren't tolerant to their toxicity. Even the weaker brews were fatal to ordinary humans. Hence once it was empty, Geralt hissed. It barely took a moment before he could feel the potion start to take effect, forcing itself through his bloodstream and further augmenting his enhanced eyes. Veins in his neck and face began to protrude from his skin, and the entirety of his vision began to change. Everything became clearer and more defined. Instead of looking at the pitch-black interior of the cave, Geralt could see perfectly through the darkness, as if it were midafternoon on a clear, hot summer day.

"Funny, just like when I killed that alp…"

Reaching into his back, the witcher unsheathed his silver sword. Crafted from a master elven blacksmith in Novigrad, it was undoubtedly a grand and intimidating weapon. Various runic sketches were inscribed onto the blade, providing a distinct glow to the weapon. Each rune offered a special effect, strengthening and giving versatility while increasing Geralt's attack power against monsters, humans, and non-humans. Unlike traditional swords, the guard carried a unique appearance, its shape pointing upwards into a V, continuing with a sleek, black leather grip which held three round rings through its center. Adding to the final touch was the sword's pommel, finishing with the heads of two wolves crossing over each other.

Geralt made a step, and slowly he ventured into the deep, dark abyss. As he walked through the cave, the stench became more powerful, almost unbearable to his enhanced senses. He could tell he was getting closer to its nest. The putrid odor meant the monster had hunted and killed many before, dragging its victims here to devour or to save them for a later time. Meaning it had long settled in this place. Geralt knew better than to complain about the smell however, as it wasn't nearly as bad as one of his old contracts. Fighting waist-up in sewage, covered in filth in a sewer while hunting a zeugl… nothing gets better than that.

A deep rumble suddenly echoed through the cavern. The monster was home, it seemed. Good, he thought, he wouldn't have to wait till dark for it to return. Picking up the sounds of the fiend's movements, Geralt focused his witcher senses to better locate his target. It took a moment, but Geralt was able to pinpoint its exact location by listening to the signs, and he guessed the monster had also sensed him. The fiend wasn't far now.

Without warning however, did the monster strike first.

"Come on," Geralt rumbled as the fiend reveals itself to him. It had stepped out from its nest to confront the witcher in order to defend its territory. Sensing the danger this man possessed, the fiend released a long howl of terror and aggression, warning the intruder it did not intend to let him leave with his life.

Amongst monsters, fiends were known to be one of the most dangerous creatures known to man. Similar to appearance to chorts, fiends were more ferocious, larger, and shorter tempered. Regarded as walking mountains of muscle, they were capped with sharp horns and tooth-filled heads. This one in particular, possessed pale skin and brown fur over its front elbows and on its back. In the center of its forehead was a third eye, which can lure its victims in a state of hypnosis.

These creatures were not for the inexperienced hunters. Even for a witcher, to take a fiend lightly was a death sentence. As far as Geralt knew, he was in for a tough fight.

The fiend proceeded to encircle Geralt, watching his every movement as Geralt followed. Each were waiting for an opportunity to strike the first blow, looking for openings in their guard. Combining incredible speed, strength, and a single-minded desire to kill, one strike from their paws could kill the witcher if he wasn't careful. Examining and waiting who would make the first move, it was the quiet before the storm.

Thankfully, Geralt didn't have to wait long.

He was forced to roll out of the way. Quickly standing back up to regain his guard, if he waited half-second too soon he would have been ploughed into the ground by the fiend's charge. Sensing an opening for a counterattack, Geralt stepped forward and twisted his body, sending a powerful upwards strike with his sword to the fiend's side.

"Argh," Geralt grunts. The powerful force of his strike had been hard and true, a deep cut sliced through the monster. Blood spurted from the wound as the beast howled in pain, a few droplets dripping into the ground as the beast retreated.

"As bandits in Velen say, 'I'll make remains of you.'"

Geralt continued his assault and took the initiative. He sidestepped as the fiend tried to swipe him with its paws, and Geralt made a fast, swift cut on its shoulder. Bringing his sword back, Geralt proceeded another dance, this time slashing the fiend's left forearm before twirling and sending a powerful strike to the monster's neck.

Blood splattered on the cave walls before Geralt took a step back, avoiding another potentially lethal hit this time from the fiend's horns. This thing was strong, he could tell, as though he had damaged it, fiends were also notorious for their healing abilities, and could quickly recover the wounds. In addition, it seemed to be getting angrier the more blows it was being dealt. Bringing his sword up to retain his stance, Geralt knew this was only the beginning.

They continued their exchange, with Geralt rolling out of the way or sidestepping when the fiend instigated an attack, always ready to provide a quick counterattack and attacking the vital areas. The head, neck, throat, back, sides, calves of its feet, all easy areas that made the creature stumble and stagger, Geralt aimed for these spots specifically, and at one stage the fiend's skin even caught on fire. An effect of one of the runes on Geralt's sword. Once struck, a spark is ignited on the opponent's body, burning them until it is put out.

This went on for a while, and as Geralt performed another combination of blows, it seemed victory was his. He dodged, lunged, attacked, counter-strike, pirouetted, thrust, jumped and cut, maintained perfect footwork, he combined all forms of maneuvers of witcher swordsmanship, all mastered exceptionally many decades ago. Moves which turned into a ruthless and deadly dance. Unlike the grace of a swan, it was the ferocity of a wolf which fuelled Geralt. Each strike was swift and powerful, effective and dangerous.

Impaling his sword into the ribs of the fiend, Geralt was sure he had stabbed its lungs. Pulling out the sword and making a quick twirl, he brought his sword down heavily on the fiend's face, blinding it by slashing one of its eyes. He then took a step back, moving out of the way as the fiend retaliated with desperate aggression. Geralt examined his work, bringing his sword up to guard. The monster was sure to fall now, either by his hand or it would succumb to its wounds.

Preparing what could possibly be the finishing blow, they encircled each other though this time blood dripped from the fiend's body. As expected, the fiend once again tried to run Geralt through with its horns, but the witcher expertly sidestepped out of the way. With its neck exposed, Geralt was ready to complete another hunt—

Suddenly, to his surprise, the tables were turned on him.

Towards the end of its run the fiend had slowed, and having been caught wide-open, he was left defenseless. Using the might of its horns, the fiend held none back in its strength as it smacked Geralt in the chest and sent him the flying into a wall.

"Shit…" His back smashed into the rock, but he was lucky nothing was broken. A rookie mistake. He supposed this was the price for being overconfident. He had pride in his abilities, after all. Back in Kaer Morhen, Vesemir would be rolling in his grave.

Geralt found the fiend wasn't finished with him, as not a second too soon, the witcher was surprisingly forced on the defensive for the first time. Having to commit to a forward roll away from its enraged run, the beast was becoming relentless in order to take its revenge.

Backpedaling into a corner, Geralt attempted to lure it in order to gain some ground and free himself to attack. The plan seemed suicidal, as it risked himself and a mistake would only make matters worse, but a short pause was all he needed to land the finishing stroke. As he used his sword to parry one of its paws away, Geralt watched as the increasing desperation and anger of the fiend finally overtook any reasoning it may have had. It thus only had one option. A more refined weapon and dangerous weapon which defines this monster as a force to be reckoned with.

It was over.

The fiend was opening its third eye.

Geralt reach for something attached to his belt. This was what he needed, what he was waiting for. The perfect time to finish this and fulfill his contract. A Samum bomb was the key, and if he timed it right, the monster would be disoriented and have no time to defend itself.

In its rage the fiend attempted to lure Geralt into its hypnosis, hoping to catch the witcher in its spell and draw him to his death. To the untrained, this tactic may have worked, but Geralt was ready and prepared, and to quote his old mentor:

"Never pounce on an advantage as soon as it appears. Wait till it stands to have maximum effect."

"Age does beget wisdom…"

Feeling the magic of the eye beginning to meddle with his mind, Geralt threw the bomb at the fiend's face. It was certainly painful to watch, but he felt no sympathy for the beast. There was a loud pop as the bomb exploded in a flash of blinding light, and having been thrown directly at the eye, the fiend howled an agonizing scream. Having been exposed directly at such intensity, it was as if its eye was torn straight out of its sockets, and Geralt knew its pain must be unbearable. Blood leaked down its snout, and the beast, forgetting the immediate danger of the witcher, sought to remedy itself as soon as possible.

Geralt wasted no time. Stepping forward then letting his body spin into a lethal pirouette, the witcher's sword flashed before he brought it down on the monster's throat.

Just another job on the Path.

"Monster's dead. It was a fiend that killed your brother. Must've wandered too close to it's cave, but I avenged him and those kids."

Geralt tossed its head to their feet. As was customary, presenting the trophy gave evidence he completed the job. Since most folk were not trusting of witchers, they would normally require some form of proof they hadn't been cheated. Notorious were the tales of witchers who were paid to rid a poor village of a monster, only to find later the problem still exists, with the scoundrel having run off with their coin. This didn't mean every witcher should offer himself for free, or failed to be paid an adequate reward. Indeed, a witcher's service required some payment— else anyone who dares faces a terror even more horrifying than monsters.

"Hahah! Thank you! We are in your debt, witcher! Here, your reward—"

The witcher put a hand up. "Hold it." Geralt stops him. "There's something you're not telling me."

"Yeah? What about it?"

"You lied to me." Geralt frowned in disapproval. He reached for the letter he found in his pocket. "Recognize this? You knew about the gold – must've thought you'd get away with it, did you?"

He was caught red-handed. So close too. Having been exposed as the fraud he was, Geralt's contractor had no choice but to admit defeat. There was no point in hiding the truth. If it weren't for that blasted thing, that bloody letter, the witcher would've never picked up the lies. Doing it for revenge? Him and his bleeding heart—

"What's it to you? I hired you to kill the beast, not debate ownership of what isn't yours." He shrugged his shoulders. "You did your job, now get out of here."

"You don't tell me what to do," Geralt hissed. He walked up to his face, eyeing the man threateningly. His contractor took a step back. "Say one more thing and I'll cut off your tongue. Give me my gold. Now."

Being forced to comply, he really didn't have a choice. To try anything now might even cost him his life. If he had any common sense, he understood his predicament. The great weight of Geralt's words fully sunk in, and he was fully obligated to follow with his threat. What, and who, could stop him? A group of lowly vagabonds who barely received any formal training? The scent of sweat emanated from his pores. It was as if he was staring at death itself. The stark white hair, pale skin, and those eyes — bards would sing ballads of the famed White Wolf, and he was but an ant to his legend.

He reached for his belt, and Geralt's eyes followed for any signs he may act aggressively, waiting for the first indication. More times than he could count did a man attempt to unsheathe his blade against him. In return he would act with aggression. The witcher was relieved somewhat for his contractor's sake when instead the man pulled out a pouch. Not that he would hesitate in putting them down, he just didn't see the need to have any blood spilt. He recognized, moreover, the man would rather face the gates of hell than continue to be in his presence. Despite attempting to put up a brave front, Geralt could see the small signs of unrestrained fear, the first indication from the uncontrollable shaking of his shoulders.

Taking his reward, Geralt was adamant to remind him of his mistake. "Some words of advice," he began. "Never try to cheat a witcher. Ever. Don't follow me, or I'll kill you."

As swift as the wind, Geralt turned without a second glance and mounted on his horse. With the city now within his sight, he beckoned Roach before they sped off down the road, following the path to fulfill a promise he was destined to keep. Maybe it was the strings of fate calling him here, but he felt a certain connection calling for him. Just like that time. As they say, as something ends, something begins.

Now was the time for wolves.

"Ah, I've been waiting for you," announced a man as Geralt walked into the bar. "Long journey, yes? I apologize for not meeting you earlier, but something came up so quickly, I barely had time to breathe."

Geralt took a seat next to him. "You're the one with the contract?"

"You bet, but first, introductions," he said, lending out a hand. "Hermes. A pleasure it is, Wolf."

They shook hands as Geralt acknowledged him. "Likewise," replied the witcher.

"You must be hungry," Hermes remarked brightly. "You're lucky. This place is a fine establishment. Excuse me! Mama Mia! We're ready to order please!"

A woman whose size would intimidate any man perked up and attended to them. Having a look at the strength in her arms, Geralt considered she was a former warrior prior to retiring as a proprietress.

"What would you two like?" she asked.

Hermes nudged his companion. "You go first, my friend. Order anything you want on the menu. Please, I insist. It's my treat. I must make up for my mistake, and it would insult me if you don't."

Geralt nodded. "All right, then."

"So before we begin our business, was your meal to your liking?"

Geralt was at a loss for words. Never before has he felt this sensation. Never again would he look at food the same again. This taste… did it come from the heavens? No longer would he be satisfied from half-cooked meat and unrefined meals. By combining food and creativity… it was truly a masterpiece.

"Hmm."

"Geralt?"

"Hmm."

"I think we've lost him!" Hermes laughed. He took a swig of his drink.

"No, just thinking," said the witcher gruffly.

"Oh? I see. Does that matter concern how divine our Mama Mia's cooking is?"

"Shut up and get to the point."

"My, my, you hurt me, master witcher. No need to be so moody. Not one for jests, yes? Very well," he said, now looking at Geralt seriously. "Do you remember the silver-haired boy you saved many years ago?"

"One in particular comes to mind."

"Bell Cranel. Only a few know this. The man you met before, his grandfather? He was never his relative." Hermes smiled. At the sight of his smile, which bloomed on his boyish face like a child tasting the fruits of a good harvest in spring, Geralt was reminded of his ward almost a decade ago.

"That boy… the path he walks will change the world."

"Meaning?"

"He is in possession of something very extraordinary. A powerful ability that would bring about the coming of a new age, or bring this one to an end."

'Could it be…?' "A form of magic?"

"Not quite, but something more akin to a miracle."

It sounded too eerily familiar. Like a link to the past, though he doubted they were related, Geralt was reminded of Ithlinne's Prophecy, and the events spiraling afterwards.

"What do you expect me to do? Take it from him?" Geralt quickly narrowed his eyes. Like Ciri, who had no control over these events, this boy would be brought into the same conundrum which plagued his ward for years.

Being seen as a tool, a pawn in a bigger game.

"Of course not. We want you to hone him."

"And that's all? Don't lie to me. You're motives… they're still unclear to me. I'd rather see him dead than used as a pawn, hunted not for who he is, but for what he has. If you think he's just some—"

"Whoa, you misunderstand. Calm down, Wolf," Hermes cut in. "We merely wish to guide him to his potential, but unfortunately there are those who wish to claim Bell for themselves. At his current level of strength, he is unable to properly defend himself. All we require you to do is to teach him how to look past his weakness."

"And that's it?"

"Pretty much."

"Hmm. Something tells me you aren't telling me everything." Geralt folded his arms and glared defiantly at the blonde man. "You know, people have tried to cheat me before, and each time, I don't take very well of it. Us witchers are used to shit bounties, to the cheating, to them begging us for help, then spitting as we pass. It happens every time. Schemers, frauds, and swindlers, to name a few, are the worst among scum. If you're lying, setting me up for something behind my back, you'll wish you never met me. I don't care what you are. God or not, I hear anything against me, then you'll see why a witcher's reputation extends beyond monsters."

The threat hung in the air. A pervading sense of danger emanated from the witcher as he glared at Hermes with absolute severity. To him, political manipulation and the machinations of people were the worst the world had to offer. And he was sick of being caught in a web of deceit and lies. If he were to choose, he'd rather not choose at all. As he made his intentions known, there was silence between them. Not an inch of fear was present within Geralt's being as he stared down a god.

"Pissed you off that much, huh?" Hermes finally asked.

"Experience speaks for itself."

Hermes nods. "Fair enough. I'll respect your wishes and will keep them in mind. I suppose things happened on the road which I am unaware of?"

"You could say that," Geralt confirms.

"Explains your sour disposition on the matter. Very well, you have my word. Not that you need it, anyway. Believe me, our intents are pure. We only wish to see Bell grow to become the fine individual he is destined to be," affirms Hermes. He looked at Geralt sincerely. "It has been a long time since heroes roamed this land, maybe now is the time for them to return."

"As long as you keep your word, you have nothing to worry about."

"Good to hear. Now, cat's out of the bag, I must extend you a warm welcome to our great city. Orario, the city of dreams and adventure! When we're done, I insist on showing you the sights, but first, you up for a pint?"

"Hankerin' for a drink or two," Geralt shrugged. "Sure, I suppose it wouldn't hurt."

"Excellent. I must warn you, however, I am one who enjoys his alcohol," a sly grin slipped his lips. "Bet you can't hold your liquor like me."

"Oh yeah? S'pose you can handle it. Let's see how you go with 'The Gauntlet'."

"What's that?"

"Equal parts spirit and white gull. A friend made it." He could imagine him patting himself on the shoulder.

Lambert always was a prick.

"The 'Gauntlet'? My friend, this will prove to be interesting…"

"I see everything's in order?"

"Yes, my lady, all the pieces are moving into place…"

"Excellent, we may now begin."