Chapter 115: The Northern Pearl, Novigrad

Sometimes I wonder, if back when we first met, I had followed the desire in my heart and drawn my sword to strike that man… But no, that would be too cruel. Perhaps just breaking his leg would have sufficed. Would many things that happened afterward—whether good or bad—have been avoided?

No matter what, on that autumn afternoon bathed in warm slanting sunlight, I once again indulged in an unrealistic daydream: how much better it would have been if I had broken that man’s leg back then…

…

To enter Novigrad, one must first pass through the city gates. Before reaching the gates, there is the fan-shaped “Outer District”—a satellite township outside the walls, much like the towns surrounding Vizima. The lower classes who must work inside the city but cannot afford to live within its walls gather there.

From afar, I saw a bearded dwarf sitting by the roadside, crying. Victor urged his horse closer to the wagon driver’s seat and whispered, “Give him some space, don’t get too close.”

Fergus understood and steered the carriage slightly aside, away from the sobbing dwarf. Inwardly, he scoffed: if it had been a crying woman there, regardless of race, the boss would have probably approached to help without hesitation.

He bore almost no prejudice against non-human races, but when it came to men or women, adults or children, his standards were undeniably double.

Catching the gaze of Yuna, who sat beside the driver, Fergus saw she shared the same thought. They exchanged a knowing smile—Angolan’s example had taught them well. Long journeys had quickly taught them how to get along with the boss.

He was an enlightened tyrant. Usually, he was happy to hear your opinions—you could offer any suggestion, even mock him or joke around. But when he gave a command, you had to obey immediately, no matter how foolish it sounded.

The horses’ hooves clattered swiftly past the dwarf who might have needed help. After a long journey, the Phantom Troupe finally arrived at the world capital—the Northern Pearl, Novigrad.

…

The city gate was managed by the city guards, who also belonged to the Eternal Fire. They used simple magical detectors to scan faces, confirming that no one wore magical disguises or was a wanted criminal.

During the check, Victor noticed a ragged youth staring blankly at his face. When Victor returned the gaze with curiosity, the boy suddenly snapped out of his trance and bolted, vanishing in an instant.

Puzzled, the witcher apprentice paid no mind to the incident.

As for the weapons they carried, they had paid enough fees to legally bring in even crossbows. The tools loaded on the wagon granted them substantial discounts on entrance fees. Novigrad welcomed talents with special skills to settle within.

After passing the gates, Victor noticed another small beggar staring intently at him from the roadside. Upon meeting Victor’s gaze, the boy likewise sprang up and hurried away.

Such a strange occurrence twice in a row. If even a witcher apprentice remained oblivious, it would be a great disservice to the earnest teachings of Knight Thales.

Victor quickly donned his sunglasses and made a series of hand signals, indicating something was amiss and instructing the others to temporarily separate. Angolan would protect Yuna and Fergus.

Mounting his lean horse, he let the steed trot briskly down Glory Alley—until suddenly a group of six or seven men blocked the path ahead. Behind him, five more barred the way, trapping him in the middle.

Forced to halt, the young man began assessing the foes surrounding him.

The leader was an elf with a low white ponytail and gray eyes sharp as a hawk’s, clad in high-collared leather armor with twin swords at his waist. He was clearly no friend.

Yet, he did not draw his weapon. Instead, he forced a crooked smile.

He bowed slightly, his manners impeccable. “Good day. Are you Master Victor Corion?”

The respectful address gave the youth ample hint. He kicked down from his horse and returned the bow. “Victor Corion of Bell Town, east of Serykania. May I ask who seeks me?”

“Boseley, representing my master, Mr. Alphonse Willy. He sincerely welcomes ‘The Dragonborn Poet’ Master Victor to Novigrad. He eagerly wishes to meet you soon. Please do us the honor.”

With that, the ponytailed elf produced an official invitation from his pocket. This was no spur-of-the-moment act—Hawthorne had truly sent them to receive him.

“Rest assured, your three companions traveling with you are also being met by our people,” he added quietly.

Victor glanced around at the stiff smiles of the gang’s enforcers surrounding him.

He shook his head. “It is an honor to accept the invitation.”

…

Not long after separating, the Phantom Troupe of four soon reunited. Under the escort of the gang members, they passed through the “Biz District,” home to the lower and middle classes, heading toward “Gildorf”—the city’s affluent quarter.

Victor rode side by side with Boseley, chatting lightly. Angolan lingered behind with a leisurely attitude, while Yuna and Fergus, seated in the two-horse wagon, appeared somewhat unsettled. Being invited by a criminal gang so soon after entering the city was a shock to these law-abiding citizens.

Ahead, the white-haired elf enthusiastically described the city as if recounting treasured knowledge: “This free city sits at the mouth of the Pontar River. It is the most important port in the north and indeed the entire continent. The resident population nears forty thousand, not counting merchants and visitors.”

“All main roads are paved with stone. There is a bustling harbor, countless warehouses, four watermills, abattoirs, sawmills, and a massive shoemaking factory.”

“Besides these, every conceivable trade exists: a mint, eight banks, nineteen pawnshops; twelve licensed guilds and thirty-five inns.”

“That’s quite a detailed introduction. But why tell me all this?” Victor asked gently.

“Because I’m no good at poetry and don’t know what to say to you, but I want to show goodwill as best I can,” the elf replied candidly.

“Then tell me about your master, Mr. Willy. How does he know of my reputation, and why did he send people to wait here for me?”

“Not a problem. About twenty days ago, the north’s greatest poet, Dandrian, came to Novigrad…”

At the mention of the name, Victor’s fist clenched involuntarily.

“Mr. Alphonse has long been Dandrian’s patron and, of course, invited him to the salon this time as well. But this visit was special—not only did he perform several exquisite new pieces, but he also recited an unprecedented and unimaginably beautiful poem.”

Boseley smiled warmly at Victor. “Even someone as indifferent as me was deeply moved by ‘The Return of the Dragonborn.’ You are the original author—can you tell me if the story is true?”

Feeling apologetic, the witcher apprentice decided to dispel unrealistic hopes. “Poetry always involves artistic embellishment.”

The white-haired elf scratched his neck in mild disappointment. “Fair enough! But there must be some truth, right? Like the ‘Dragon’s Roar’?”

“Is Dandrian still in Novigrad?”

“Unfortunately not. Five days ago, after his final performance, the master left without saying where he was headed.”

The warm afternoon sun cast a gentle glow on the youth’s profile.

“I see… What a pity. I was eager to meet him again. To have missed him by mere moments is truly regrettable,” Victor said quietly.