The Witcher: Wolf School's Hunting Notes

What's he in such a hurry for?

He's in a hurry for everything—

The sorcerers, the nobles, the Wild Hunt, the White Frost...

Which of these doesn't require strength?

Time waits for no one!

If he had really traveled to Geralt's time—when the School of the Wolf had just a handful of members left, utterly unable to stand up to the powers that be, let alone compete—then yes, slacking off might have been an acceptable option.

After all, as just an ordinary Witcher, with monsters becoming scarcer by the day, what could even Witcher Journal accomplish? Could it defeat armies? Could it stand up to the sorcerers? Could it handle the Wild Hunt?

Of course not, let alone the White Frost.

Might as well stick to hunting the odd monster to make a living, pounding in a few posts here and there, maybe even riding a unicorn now and then, and enjoying the long lifespan of an immortal.

But now? Thanks to his influence and efforts, the king was dead, the nobles were embroiled in frontline wars, the sorcerers had been devastated by the Wild Hunt, and the Hunt itself had shifted its hatred firmly onto the sorcerers.

The situation was nothing short of excellent.

The School of the Wolf had gained some precious breathing room—a rare chance to recover and grow.

There was hope for a revival of the Witchers!

As long as the School's strength could be bolstered during this time, facing off against not just the sorcerers and the nobles but even the Wild Hunt itself was no longer an impossible dream.

With hope came urgency.

Walking on thin ice, treading carefully—every second of this hard-won reprieve was priceless.

But looking at the tears welling up in the young priestess's eyes, Allen opened his mouth yet couldn't think of what to say.

Helpless, he shot Vesemir a pleading look.

Vesemir shrugged, indicating he couldn't help.

"Fine, I get it." Allen could only nod, agreeing reluctantly. "I'll stay in bed and recover."

"That's better! I'm a priestess of Melitele; I wouldn't lie to you." The young priestess beamed.

"An apprentice priestess," Allen corrected, "you're not a full priestess of Melitele yet…"

Her face fell instantly, and she glared at him. "Apprentice or not, I'm still a priestess! And I will be a full one very soon!"

Seeing the cloud of emotions in her pretty face brought on by his words, Allen could only sigh inwardly.

Fine, a few days of rest it is.

Aside from the boredom and irritation, spending the time activating Memories of a Sorcerer and attending lessons wasn't the worst thing in the world… was it?

"Ahem~"

Vesemir cleared his throat, reminding the two of the room's other occupants.

Both the priestess and Allen turned toward the sound.

Besides Vesemir, a group of twelve- or thirteen-year-old Witcher trainees had stacked themselves up in human pyramids in the doorway, craning their necks like curious kittens, observing the scene.

The young priestess's face turned beet red.

"I'll deliver the food basket."

She muttered so softly that even Allen, with his sharp Witcher senses, nearly didn't catch it. Then she turned and fled the room at a brisk pace.

Just as she opened the door, she turned back to remind him, "Don't forget your promise to rest properly! And no decoctions!"

"I know, I know." Allen sighed in resignation and nodded.

"Bang~"

The wooden door closed softly.

"Don't give me that look," Vesemir said, sitting at the bedside as he ruffled Allen's hair. "You never want to provoke a woman overcome with emotion—especially when she's in the right. Take it from me, I know."

"Want to elaborate?"

"Nope," Vesemir shook his head, smirking. "You're too young for that kind of story."

"Too young? What secrets could an old Witcher possibly have?"

"You wouldn't understand," Vesemir said with a cryptic smile. "Autumn's nearing, and winter won't be far behind. Becoming a leech during the cold months isn't exactly fun."

Allen: What?

Vera, was known for her signature spell, the Leech Transformation Hex.

Allen felt like he'd stumbled upon a dangerous secret.

"Alright, enough about irrelevant nonsense," Vesemir said, his tone growing serious. "What happened last night? Didn't you say you were just going to scout things out?"

Allen didn't answer immediately but glanced behind Vesemir.

Seven young Witcher trainees were holding their breath, eyes glued to him.

"You lot, back to your quarters," Vesemir commanded with a glance. "No dawdling—get some rest."

The trainees groaned in protest.

"But we want to hear too, Commander!"

"Yeah, we're family, aren't we? Family shouldn't keep secrets from each other!"

"Exactly! Exactly!"

Allen wasn't annoyed. Instead, he smiled slyly and asked, "Oh, you want to know?"

"Of course!" The young Witchers' eyes lit up with curiosity.

Allen chuckled. "When you stop getting turned to stone in your sleep, I'll tell you everything."

The trainees groaned, faces crestfallen, casting him pitiful glances.

"Hahaha~" Vesemir laughed heartily. "Allen's right. Who'd trust kids who oversleep and fool around? No more whining. Since you're here, start training. Now!"

"Clay, spar with Ajax and work on your footwork. You're letting even ghouls slip past your blades—can you even call yourself a Witcher?"

"Erni, practice Quen. Claral, focus on Aard—you both have talent with these signs…"

"And you two, Hughes and Specer…"

In a matter of seconds, Vesemir had assigned tasks to all of them, leaving no one idle.

"Bang~"

The door shut firmly, and the sounds of sparring and magical training quickly filled the air outside.

Vesemir turned back toward Allen.

Allen hesitated for a moment, then spoke softly, "Last night… I killed a Wild Hunt warrior."

"You killed what?" Vesemir blinked, as if he hadn't heard correctly. "Say that again."

"A Wild Hunt warrior…"

The words left Vesemir stunned. His gaze locked onto Allen's face, as though searching for any hint of a joke.

The Wild Hunt was a name Vesemir had heard many times throughout his life.

Mostly in the drunken tales of third-rate bards at taverns, where it was little more than an accessory to wine and a passing entertainment—not something that lingered in his mind.

He was a Witcher, after all. His targets were real, tangible monsters—not myths and legends.

Legends distracted Witchers from real threats, clouding judgment and leading to deadly mistakes.

Until Flotsam Port.

That legend became real.

A shadow he'd never seen loomed so close to death—just five steps away.

He remembered it clearly. Not four steps, not six—five.

If not for his apprentice's explanation, he might have believed it to be divine punishment, even if from an evil god.

Then there was Ellander—half the city consumed in flames. Even though he'd found many records and heard his apprentice's detailed recounting…

Did he ever truly dethrone the Wild Hunt from godhood in his heart?

No.

Never.

They were simply too powerful. Cities burned to ash under their might. Even Alzur, the creator of the Witchers, had never achieved such devastation. He may have destroyed half of Maribor with a spell, but it had cost him his life.

But the Wild Hunt?

The Hunt rained down cataclysmic destruction effortlessly.

If that wasn't godlike, what was?

"You're sure… I mean, are you absolutely certain…" Vesemir stammered, his pupils dilating.

"I'm certain," Allen replied solemnly. "But it was because the two Wild Hunt warriors I encountered were already heavily injured before I found them."

"And the sorcerers of Ban Ard helped me a great deal."

Looking back, Allen couldn't help but feel a chill.

Truthfully, considering how the first Wild Hunt warrior—Parnoys—had not only blocked his surprise attack but also demonstrated immense strength afterward…

Even after killing Serra with Monster Hunt, could Allen have taken down Parnoys in his berserk state without it?

Allen didn't know.

This would probably come down to sheer luck.

Would Parnoys enter a "self-immolation" state first, or would the progress of Monster Hunt fill up in time?

In that sense, the sorcerers of Ban Ard had indeed done him a great favor with their lives.

"Huh?" Vesemir scratched his head. "The sorcerers of Ban Ard helped you?"

It was all in Common Speech, yet every word Allen uttered felt more alien to Vesemir than the last.

"Was it that Vilgefortz we ran into before?" Vesemir guessed.

"Vilgefortz was there, yes, but it wasn't him… uh… wasn't any sorcerer, really," Allen replied. "You know what, let me just start from the beginning."

Lowering his head in thought for a few seconds, Allen softly recounted everything. From riding a royal griffin to Ban Ard, to seeing the city ablaze and deciding to land to gather information…

Save for omitting his supposed 'guidance by fate' for reasons of his own, he described almost every step in detail.

Allen and Vesemir shared a bond close enough now that, unless it related deeply to the Witcher's Journal, there was little Allen wouldn't share.

As Allen spoke, Vesemir's expressions shifted rapidly.

When Allen mentioned the entire city of Ban Ard being on fire, Vesemir's face reflected shock and a somber sorrow for the tragedy.

When Allen described deciding to land, Vesemir frowned deeply.

Hearing that Allen infiltrated Ban Ard to follow the trail of the Wild Hunt, Vesemir's brows knitted tighter, and he opened his mouth to speak—only to remain silent and let Allen continue.

But when Allen mentioned finding two members of the Wild Hunt and deciding to pursue them, Vesemir finally broke his silence with a shocked reprimand: "You've got guts, I'll give you that."

When Allen finished recounting how he lured Parnoys into a trap, leading to the death of ten out of twelve sorcerers who had chased after the Hunt, Vesemir leaned back instinctively, his gaze turning complicated.

Ten out of twelve. That was nearly total annihilation.

The sorcerers sent to pursue the Wild Hunt—and to stand alongside someone like Vilgefortz—must have been among the elite of Ban Ard.

First, the Hunt. Then Allen…

Vesemir couldn't help but wonder—was there anyone left in Ban Ard at this point?

Even with the high regard he held for Allen, he hadn't expected him to achieve something like this.

Thinking back to Allen's earlier words, Vesemir smacked his lips.

Weren't the sorcerers of Ban Ard truly a great help to Allen?

Even if not willingly…

"What's wrong?" Allen asked, puzzled by Vesemir's mix of emotions.

"No wonder you said last night that 'Ban Ard will no longer be a threat'…" Vesemir muttered.

Did I really say that last night? Allen blinked in surprise.

Then Vesemir let out a long sigh, commenting with a meaningful tone, "The nickname Blue Death… whoever came up with it, they sure knew what they were doing."

"Vesemir!" Allen's expression darkened.

"Ha! Ha! Ha!" Vesemir roared with laughter.

When his laughter subsided, Vesemir's demeanor turned serious. He placed a firm hand on Allen's shoulder and said solemnly, "Don't take such risks again. You told me you were just going to take a look, which is why I let you go. And now, look at you—gravely injured and barely making it back alive."

"Don't do this again. If you do, I won't allow you to take part in your Path trial."

"I understand, Vesemir," Allen replied with a good-natured tone of contrition.

"I'm serious." Vesemir's sharp eyes caught the insincerity hidden in Allen's easy agreement. "You say you understand, but you don't mean it."

His tone turned cold, a rarity for Vesemir, as he admonished, "Think about it—what did you gain from all this? The sorcerers are dead, the Wild Hunt is dead. But what did you truly achieve?"

"You gained nothing!" Vesemir's voice suddenly rose. "Allen, nothing!"

The sounds of sparring and practice outside abruptly grew quieter.

Vesemir cast a glance toward the window, took a deep breath, and continued in a softer voice, "No number of dead Ban Ard sorcerers or Wild Hunt members could ever be more important to the School than your life."

"And even if not for the School, think about Hughes, Bond, Fred. Think about Lady Vera. Think about Mary, and… Lysa."

"If you were to die, do you know how much it would hurt them?"

"When you're dead, Allen, there's nothing left. Nothing."

The flickering candlelight cast shadows that danced across the walls of the cramped room, painting layers of light and dark over its occupants.

Allen remained silent for a few moments before he nodded gravely, breaking the tense silence in the room.

"I understand, Vesemir."

Satisfied, Vesemir didn't press further. After all, with someone who could manipulate elite sorcerers and the near-mythical Wild Hunt like chess pieces, could Vesemir really impose his will?

Perhaps Vesemir's emotions still churned beneath the surface, but silence returned to the small room.

Until Allen suddenly remembered something. He asked, "Before the Wild Hunt leader, Eredin Bréacc Glas, departed, he said something…"

"…'The Red Riders greatly 'appreciate' your hospitality. We shall return in due course, bearing our 'gifts,' after two cycles of soul rebirth, to reclaim what is rightfully ours.'"

"Vesemir, do you know what he meant by 'two cycles of soul rebirth'?"

"two cycles of soul rebirth…" Vesemir frowned, deep in thought.

At that moment—

"Good evening, Archpriestess Ianna."

"Good evening, Priestess Nenneke."

The sparring and practice outside abruptly ceased, replaced by a series of respectful greetings.

"Good evening, little ones," came Ianna's response.

Creak~

The door opened.

Ianna stepped inside, her eyes immediately drawn to the somber expressions of the two witchers.

"What's the matter?" she asked curiously.

.....

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383. The Guiding Stone of Ard Gaeth's Gate.

384. Hen Gedymdeith is Dead.

385. Allen's Influence.

386. The Gambler's Table of Fate.

387. The Anomaly at Moën Village.