Chapter 56: Taking Proper Rest to Soothe Body and Mind

It was not until the moon climbed high that the Phantom Brigade finally returned to the alchemy chamber at home.

Reclining in his armchair, the boy reflected on the day’s tumultuous events, still haunted by the lingering anxiety of it all—most of all, his final encounter with the sorceress, which had been fraught with peril at every turn.

Had it been another of those transmigrators, they might have instantly switched into flirtation mode, performed some miraculous feats, and perhaps not even returned home that night.

Unfortunately, such opportunities were not meant for him.

He was Victor of Bell Town, not Geralt of Livia; a mere apprentice just starting out, not a master of unmatched skill.

He had neither the reputation built over a century’s career nor the kind of power that demands attention. To expect the sorceress to look at him with any seriousness, perhaps to spark some unspoken story? Better to sleep early—there, anything was possible.

“At this moment, Victor could never have imagined that today was only the prelude, and that his endless entanglements with Keira Metz were just beginning.”

“…!?”

The boy in the armchair slowly tilted his head, casting a sidelong glare at the girl. She rolled her eyes about, putting on an air of feigned innocence. “Angoulême, I’m warning you again—while I’m thinking, do not randomly add narration!”

A fire blazed in the center of the alchemy chamber, lavender-scented steam rising from the cauldron. The sweet fragrance relaxed the body, soothed mental fatigue, and fostered a comforting sense of safety.

She giggled mischievously—a description perhaps unkind for a young girl, but in this case, all too apt. “Vic! Are you really going to claim you never thought about it? Good heavens, such a beautiful woman—and as far as I know, it’s practically a tradition for sorceresses and witchers to end up in bed together. That old man, when he was in Toussaint, got involved with a woman named Fringilla!”

“Angoulême, let’s not spread nonsense about witcher traditions, shall we? The only witcher you know is Geralt, and he’s hardly a representative sample.

Listen, the vast majority of witchers—like me, my senior Eskel, or Master Vesemir—hunt monsters with the diligence of old farm hands. We don’t hobnob with kings, nor do we sleep with sorceresses.

Strictly speaking, to my knowledge, over the past century there’s only been one witcher who ever got pulled into a sorceress’s bed.”

“But during your conversation today, I saw you staring at her feet the whole time. Do you have some strange fondness for feet?”

“I do not.”

“But you never dared look up, not even at her chest. Doesn’t that mean you fancy her, but are too shy to admit it?”

“…………”

“I bet you—” Angoulême abruptly clamped her mouth shut, for she noticed the captain’s glare was becoming dangerous.

She knew that look well—it was the no-nonsense expression he wore when ordering her to study, to swim, or to drag herself out for a morning run.

His tone was adamant. “I have no intention of anything happening with her! At least not now. I simply want to collect materials and study diligently. People like us, small fry, must remember our place!” His stance brooked no argument.

Angoulême drooped her head, crestfallen.

…

Half an hour later, having roughly mapped out his monster-hunting plan for the next day, the boy rose from his armchair to prepare “Dancing Star”—the so-called “incendiary bomb,” a bane to plants—only to discover, to his surprise, that the girl was still sitting nearby, visibly hesitant to speak.

Emerging from his reverie, Victor realized that his earlier reaction may have been too harsh; after all, she had only been joking with him.

So, he forced a crooked, awkward smile. “Alright, don’t look so wronged. If you have something to say, just say it!”

But the girl only bowed her head, trembling slightly, as if truly wounded.

“Her acting’s getting better…” Victor thought. “Too bad it doesn’t work on me.” He promptly got up and gave her a gentle kick.

Angoulême sprang away like a startled rabbit, about to protest—

“Out with it—I have a lot to make tonight!” he cut her off.

With a resigned sigh, the girl returned to her chair, adopting a grave air as if ready for a serious talk.

This made Victor raise an eyebrow; he dragged his chair back beside her, curious what wild idea she might have.

After a moment’s thought, she began, “Well… alright… I’m sorry about earlier, those jokes about sorceresses. I guess I was just tired, wanted to talk but didn’t know what to say.

Maybe… it’s just that today was too overwhelming… Chased down twice, seeing twelve people die right before my eyes.

I met the leader of the Scoia’tael, a whole group of elves, then got taken to the Order for questioning—all of them armed to the teeth.

I saw a beautiful sorceress, and the Order’s master, talking about kings and nobles as if it was nothing.

I know I’m a fool, I don’t understand any of it, but that doesn’t mean I’m not troubled…”

Her voice trailed off into a mumble, but the boy understood well enough. Her low spirits were the result of too much pressure.

Unlike Victor, who always knew what was happening, Angoulême had simply followed him through a day of frantic chases and ambushes, thrown again and again before so-called “great figures.” Small wonder she felt lost.

Truth be told, their journey from Vergen to Vizima had been fraught with disaster—giant squids, the Scoia’tael, Thales, the Ram Gang, Falwick… She’d truly stuck by him through it all.

Thinking this, Victor reached out to ruffle her straw-like golden hair. “Alright, alright, it’s fine. Trust your captain—he always has a plan.

In fact, I’ve just decided on our new plan: tomorrow, we take a day off. You don’t have to study—just go out and have fun. I’ll even sponsor you with a whole pouch of Orens—take Catherine and go wherever you want, eat whatever you like.

We’ve worked hard for so long; we deserve a break, don’t you think?”

“Really?” The gloom vanished instantly from Angoulême’s face, replaced by a radiant smile. “That’s wonderful! Then, may I ask where Captain plans to go?”

By Melitele above, single-celled creatures are truly indestructible—Angoulême was living proof.

Victor spread his hands with a smile. “I’ll be relaxing at the ‘Longing Thigh’ in the afternoon.”

…

The next morning, while the girl took her sponsorship and her piggy bank off to Vizima’s bustling Trade District, the boy made his way to the former hideout of the Falwick Mercenaries.

Though they had now mostly relocated to the mortuary, Victor still handed five Orens to one of the crew to lead him to the two-story building.

He was hoping to find information on the “wandering mage,” for the man’s expression and gestures as he escaped had made it clear he was not one to give up easily.

Unfortunately, by noon, Victor had found nothing of value—only an unsent letter:

“My dearest Branny,

We have arrived safely in Vizima. The goods from Aelrand are very popular; in two or three days, everything should be sold out.

Dearest Branny, soon I’ll bring home bags full of Orens—enough for you to count for days!

Tell the little ones that Daddy will be home soon. I’ll bring toys and treats so they can eat honey cakes until their bellies burst!

And for you, Branny, I’ll bring a silver necklace and a brooch. You can be fierce sometimes, but I still love you, my little imp.

—Yours, Justin

P.S. Remember to wear the nightgown with the lace and red beads when I return, and put on some lipstick.”