Chapter 140: The Chronicles of Passiflora's Observations

The next morning, in a soundproofed, black-painted empty room in the remote district, the subject of the Grass Trial breathed heavily, each breath as labored as if it were his last.

Sweat and waste excreted from his body left Ruf’s skin damp, sticky, and emitting a foul odor. Only the occasional twitch of his limbs indicated he was still alive.

Curious, a young girl picked up a straw hat resting beside the bed. It was an ordinary round-crown straw hat, encircled by a red ribbon, without any other adornments.

Anguaran wiped the blood from Ruf’s nose with a towel, then rose and left. As Victor had said, speaking to him was met with no response, and there was nothing to be done—it was his personal war.

“I hope you succeed. Though I never liked you, if you fail, the captain will be upset. He’s just that troublesome.”

...

At the same time, the Phantom Troupe’s leader, Victor, heeding the candid advice of his comrades from the day before, arrived at the Passiflora Club in the Gildorf district north of Novigrad.

From the outside, it was a grand four-story building with soaring ceilings, standing alone amidst a garden. Even the Nilfgaardian ambassador’s mansion paled in comparison. Situated in a prime location where every inch of land was precious, its elegance and grandeur were unmistakable.

Since today was for gathering impressions, Victor had donned a rare outfit: a tight-fitting shirt with a high ruffled collar, a feathered cap, loose breeches, and a silver half-mask.

By his own sarcastic comparison to Dandelion, he now looked like a vividly colored courting dove.

He hadn’t wanted to dress this way, but once it was confirmed he would visit Passiflora, Yuna and Anguaran had eagerly gone to the Grandmaster Plaza to buy this ensemble, insisting he wear it or else they would feel slighted.

Though in the game, Geralt often complained about such ornate attire being uncomfortable, Victor found it tolerable. There was no reason everyone else would willingly wear such painful clothing, so the witcher’s discomfort was likely psychological.

Feeling the bulging pouch at his waist, Victor lifted his chin and walked toward the entrance with restrained confidence, only to be stopped by the guards at the front.

“Sorry, sir, Passiflora is an invite-only club. I don’t know your name, and without a member escort, I can’t let you in.”

The guard spoke politely, likely influenced by Victor’s attire—such dress marked one as either wealthy or noble.

Victor remained calm and patted his plump money pouch, signaling, “I’m not a member, but Radovid V is my sponsor!”

“Apologies, sir, but you must understand, the club is a place of refinement. Wealth is but a minor part of membership qualifications. We value your status, position, reputation, and friendships.

“Not every nouveau riche has the privilege to enjoy Passiflora alongside the distinguished elite in such an open, comfortable environment.”

Victor felt a bit embarrassed, rubbing his nose. Despite his ease in navigating the city’s political intrigues and facing the Four Giants with poise, here he was, humbled by a minor guard’s pointed words.

He understood. Some clubs or societies, after reaching a certain financial threshold, seek more than money—they seek prestige. It was surprising such a concept existed in the Middle Ages. Novigrad truly was the Northern Jewel.

Victor smiled and nodded, “Apologies. I’ll find a friend and be back soon.”

As he turned to leave, the guard called out again: “Sir, you seem a respectable gentleman. May I offer some advice? Presenting crowns directly to elegant courtesans is unwelcome; it can feel insulting.

“Perhaps bring some jewelry or accessories—dressing well is part of their flirtation game! I trust you understand.

“If you need, Morlinton’s Jewelry Shop nearby has popular and reasonably priced pieces.”

Victor found this amusing. The club had progressed to the point of accepting gifts rather than cash. Indeed, after an industry upgrade, it was all about ambiance and atmosphere.

He wondered how much the Morlinton shop paid this guard in commissions for such enthusiastic promotion.

A call from behind interrupted the young man’s thoughts.

“Oh, my friend! To see you here is truly astonishing!”

The warm, joyous voice belonged to a familiar white-haired elf.

Turning, Victor saw Ciprian Willy II and Boslair, both dressed impeccably, clearly patrons.

A month had passed since he last saw Hawthorne II. The king was still as before, but Victor was no longer a poet to be scorned. His exploits slaying the shapeshifter had earned him a rising reputation among the well-informed.

Moreover, any educated adult would avoid provoking a witcher, especially one carrying a sword at his side.

Hawthorne II nodded casually to the youth, and Victor returned the gesture. There was no friendship between them, especially after the king’s prior attempt to humiliate him.

Boslair tapped twice on Victor’s silver mask. “Very fine, very exquisite. Are you here to enjoy yourself? Why stand outside and not enter?”

“I had planned to, but not knowing the rules, I was barred at the door. Now I’m going to find friends to introduce me.”

Victor noticed the guard’s face flush deeply after this. He stepped forward with a deep bow. “My apologies, Lord Ciprian, Lord Boslair. I was unaware this gentleman was your friend.”

Hawthorne’s expression remained neutral, as if he heard nothing.

The white-haired elf ignored the guard and smiled warmly, “Mr. Victor, may I have the honor of introducing you as a member of Passiflora?”

Victor glanced at the guard, who hung his head, sweat dripping onto the lawn. “Of course, my friends. No need to trouble him; he was not discourteous to me.”

“Ah, merciful Victor, when will you shed that foolish kindness? Didn’t that runaway slave cool your heart?

“Regardless, I like that about you. Come in!” Boslair gestured, and the three passed the guard into the garden.

Inside the hall, after a nod from Ciprian, he went upstairs, apparently having reserved rooms and services. Victor and Boslair remained chatting.

The high-ceilinged hall glittered with golden chandeliers, adorned with exquisite furnishings and vibrant tapestries.

The temperate room allowed gentlemen to dress elegantly and ladies to display a variety of styles—from evening gowns to rustic fisherfolk attire, even lingerie and undergarments.

On both sides were delicately prepared dishes and drinks, served exclusively by women. It reminded Victor of a banquet once held in the White Hall of Vizima, hosted by Yadda, led by female sorceresses.

At the table, Victor casually poured himself a glass of mixed fruit juice.

“Is this Mr. Alphonse’s establishment? You seemed familiar reprimanding the guard. Are you his direct superior?”

The elf shook his head. “No, this belongs to Mr. Luven. I must say, Luven’s management techniques are worth emulating—setting up a membership club like this is no small feat.

“Especially in etiquette training. Failing to recognize a distinguished guest is a serious error, with no excuses. If you had lost your temper, the only outcome would be a broken leg and being tossed out.

“Of course, if you were just a country bumpkin, that would be the result anyway.”

He downed his champagne in one gulp and continued, “Come, I’ll introduce you to ‘Madam Zunning.’ Have her sketch your portrait. Then the guard will never block your way again.”

Following Boslair, Victor soon found the graceful woman in a corner of the hall—the club’s hostess. She wore a bear fur shawl and a pleated lotus-petal skirt, her silver-gray hair meticulously pinned into a bun.

Though time had carved deep marks on her face, traces of her youthful charm remained.

The white-haired elf embraced her warmly. “Long time no see, Madam Zunning. Let me introduce a friend—Mr. Alphonse’s friend.”

“Oh, Boslair, my young and handsome dove, seeing you always makes me regret retiring early.”

She then looked at the stranger’s silver mask. “Alphonse’s friend? Who is this honorable gentleman?”

Victor smiled silently and removed the mask. “Victor Coriolan, operating a blacksmith and alchemy workshop on Glory Alley.”

Boslair added, “Don’t listen to his nonsense. He’s the Dragonborn poet who brought us immortal legends from beyond Cerikania. But you might be more interested in his other identity—the masked poet king who stunned the recent recitation with ‘Alongside You.’”

Madam Zunning’s eyes sparkled. “Ah, what a distinguished guest! Thank you for bringing him.”

“He wasn’t brought by me. He came on his own and was nearly barred at the door.”

“I wasn’t angry. I didn’t understand the club’s rules. He showed no disrespect.”

Ignoring the youth’s interjection, the elf continued, “All his expenses here will be charged to Mr. Alphonse.”

Victor noticed Madam Zunning’s right hand sketching as she spoke. In just a few minutes, a charcoal portrait emerged—simple lines but vivid likeness—that would surely make the guard remember not to block him next time.

Her voice was gentle, almost impossible to refuse. “At least today, let us treat the poet, the young dove, to Passiflora’s finest. I will be your hostess, Mr. Victor.”

The white-haired elf shrugged and promptly left, clearly with prior arrangements.

After the portrait was finished, to avoid unnecessary trouble, Victor put on his silver mask again.

Looking at his smooth, unwrinkled forehead, Madam Zunning smiled knowingly. “Tell me, handsome young man, what kind of service do you desire? What sort of person should attend to you?”

Victor had always known what he wanted.

“The lady who serves me should be about my height—not necessarily stunning, but skilled. She must have a broad heart—the broader, the better—and be free of racial prejudice. Elves, humans, half-elves are all acceptable… but dwarves are not.”

Hearing the last, Madam Zunning laughed brightly. “Of course not. Any club with female dwarves would soon have male dwarves banging down the doors with axes and clubs. Who knows where their mysterious confidence comes from, always thinking the world covets their womenfolk?

“Your bathing needs require a large tub, soothing massages, hot milk to drink, sliced baguettes with Brandur butter for snacks, woolen sheets instead of cotton, and chamomile incense.”

She raised an eyebrow, initially thinking Victor was an amateur needing guidance, but found instead a connoisseur. A smile of mutual respect graced her face.

“Your room will be ready soon. Someone will come to escort you.

“In the meantime, you may stroll the hall or meet new acquaintances. The adjoining parlor offers all manner of gambling—dice, leaf cards, chess—you name it.”

Victor smiled slightly and nodded, letting the hostess depart to make arrangements.

Observing the refined atmosphere and the wealthy, distinguished guests, he knew that since ancient times, high society venues had been vital hubs of intelligence gathering.

Sigis Luven—no, Sigismund Dikoscher—the head spy managing Passiflora was clearly after more than profit alone.