Chapter 117: The Minstrel's Journey of Discovery

“Archbishop’s Square” stood as the principal landmark at the heart of Novigrad, surrounded by splendid architectural clusters where many nobles and mages dwelled. This vast and orderly plaza occasionally served as the venue for the “Temple Guards” to carry out executions by fire. The condemned would be bound to wooden stakes, surrounded by kindling, and burned alive—a spectacle that always stirred great commotion, drawing countless citizens who gathered to watch and cheer.

In recent years, however, such executions had become rarer. The square now teemed with trading posts and market stalls, much like the bustling trade district of Vizima. A kaleidoscope of visitors and an array of dazzling merchandise overwhelmed the senses.

Casting a glance toward a distant shop sign that read “Books and Scrolls,” the youth quickened his pace, immersed in the cacophony of merchants hawking their wares.

“Come take a look! Limited quantities! Amulets straight from Ban Ard and Gors Velen—guaranteed to keep you safe on your travels!”

“Respected lady, all the herbs you seek are right here!”

“Sir, pause a moment! The Eternal Flame awaits you here, ever at your side.”

“Gather ’round, everyone! Rare miracle potions to restore thinning hair—just for you!”

“Pears, fresh pears, fragrant and sweet, freshly picked with dew still glistening!”

“Stop debating and buy! No one north of the Pontar River offers a better price!”

Undoubtedly, this was the grand stage of a lifetime for the future legendary monster hunter, Geralt of Rivia. Much like after witnessing the Qin Empire, one might find oneself standing atop the Great Wall, lost in contemplative nostalgia. With a similar pilgrim’s reverence, the youth strolled along the cobbled streets.

As he passed a fruit vendor’s stall, a middle-aged woman with a kindly countenance tending to her neat wooden shelves caught his eye. He casually picked up a ripe apple—at least it looked like one—and weighed it in his hand.

He hesitated, about to return it to its place, but was softly stopped by Vesemir beside him. “Master, in Novigrad, once you touch an item, it’s yours. You must buy it.”

“Is that so?” With a nonchalant shrug, the youth withdrew his hand, inhaled the apple’s fragrance, lightly wiped it with his sleeve, and bit into it. The skin was thin, the flesh crisp, and the juice sweet.

The white-haired elf observed Geralt’s satisfied smile and quietly placed five crowns on the vendor’s counter. The woman, seeing the coins, instinctively selected a few of the finest apples and wrapped them in a clean cloth.

A burly bodyguard standing nearby took the bundle and placed it into a shopping basket.

…

After a restful night, Geralt, accompanied by Vesemir and six members of their group, set out today to explore Novigrad’s most bustling district.

Alphonso had insisted that art must spring from life itself. He was eager to introduce the “Dragonborn Poet” to the city’s present and its history, believing that true masterpieces arose from genuine experience—and urged him not to spare any expense.

One could say that Alphonso, this patron of the arts, was willing to foot the bill for true talent, not just poets but painters as well, boasting considerable expertise in art appreciation.

As Vesemir recounted this, he chuckled and added that in order to acquire the murals for their parlor, they had sacrificed at least a hundred lives, including some owners unwilling to part with their works.

Amid their conversation, the group crossed Archbishop’s Square from east to west.

Geralt casually asked, “One thing still puzzles me. Even though Dandelion introduced me, how did you recognize me?”

No sooner had he spoken than four or five dwarves approached, clad in bear-fur vests with strange tattoos, their demeanor fierce as they cracked their knuckles menacingly.

“Hold on a moment. From here on begins Silvertown—Butcher Cleaver’s territory. I’ll go negotiate first,” the white-haired elf said, signaling two of his men to follow as he swiftly stepped forward to intercept the dwarves.

Ignoring the negotiations, Geralt moved to the roadside and examined a bulletin board, each region’s notices serving as vital sources of intelligence.

“Notice!”

“Do not touch the merchandise! Any item touched must be purchased immediately!”

— City Council of Novigrad, the Free City

Geralt shook his head—such a rule truly existed.

“Portrait Painter Wanted”

“I seek a portrait painter to capture the likeness of my beloved daughter. The painting is essential to secure a betrothal with a young man from ‘Kovir.’ The likeness must not be overly realistic but must convey my precious daughter’s character.”

— Martin Ehrhart

This notice held no meaning for the youth; evidently, the lady’s character was quite “abstract.”

“Warning to Newcomers”

“Be warned: In Novigrad, only the Eternal Flame is to be worshipped. Practices of other faiths are considered heretical and will be severely punished by law (public burning). Wearing symbols of other deities or conducting foreign rites or proselytism is strictly forbidden.”

— His Excellency Cyrus Engkay Heimfa, Grandmaster of the Eternal Flame

A warning of utmost importance from Heimfa, the city’s highest ruler.

“Words from the Armorers’ Guild”

“The Armorers’ Guild reminds all:

· Membership and proof of skill are required before forging or selling armor or helmets in Novigrad.

· Guild members must contribute two crowns to the public fund for every hundred crowns earned.

· Members who poach apprentices from others must surrender half their profits to the guild.

· Misleading customers by claiming helmets or breastplates are steel when they are not will result in expulsion.

· Carrying weapons to guild meetings requires surrendering a day’s earnings as penalty.”

Geralt read this with mild fascination—true to a commercial metropolis, the city was well organized.

“Don’t worry about guild matters. Mr. Alphonso will ensure your shop opens smoothly.”

At some point, Vesemir returned after finishing talks with the dwarves, joining the Dragonborn Poet and naturally explaining the Phantom Brigade’s plans to establish a business in Novigrad.

Geralt smiled, unsurprised that Dandelion had gathered such intelligence, and not at all astonished that he could help clear obstacles to entrepreneurship.

“As for your question earlier, we recognized you thanks to this.” The white-haired elf handed over a small drawing, which instantly ignited the youth’s passion—a symbol of unyielding strength, this time, his fist.

It was surely drawn by Dandelion: a clear sketch of Geralt’s face. With dozens of copies made, they could promptly spot him at the city gates.

With this matter firmly etched in his mind, Geralt followed Vesemir onward, turning left through the Fish Market. The Dragonborn Poet was finally led to the famed Perfumer’s Lane, a renowned street near the guild district.

Looking around, most women walking by bore neither headscarves nor hats; their hair flowed freely, marking their status as courtesans.

“All the ladies on this street are approachable, and if the conversation goes well, they’re open to more,” Vesemir said with a playful smile. “Master Dandelion is particularly fond of this place, calling it his fountain of inspiration, where countless muses dance gracefully.

Mr. Alphonso specifically instructed me not to miss this spot during the exploration.”

Geralt blinked, recalling he had indeed neglected to bathe properly for some time.

He nodded. “Perhaps you’d be willing to give me a proper introduction.”