Chapter Sixty-Seven: Victor’s Peaceful Life

Once life settled into a routine, Victor no longer measured the passing of time by morning, noon, and night, but rather it leapt forward day by day. Put simply, every other day he would visit the Vegima Cemetery to clear out the ghouls, and afterwards, he would head to “Longing Thighs” for a bath.

On the days he didn’t go to the cemetery, the mercenary ventured into the marshy woods to search for the five missing villagers. He first found three sets of tattered villager clothing near the remains of several monster trees, evidence enough that they’d been devoured by some beast.

As for the other two villagers, after some questioning, the Squirrel Party admitted to having killed them; the bodies had long since been buried. Victor had no choice but to buy two sets of new clothes at his own expense to barter for the old garments the elves had stripped from the dead. With five ragged sets in hand, he completed the village elder’s commission.

Initially, the youth expected a scene filled with heart-wrenching wails, but to his surprise, the “former widows” only reddened their eyes slightly upon identifying the clothes, then quietly left, their composure swiftly restored.

It was only after seeking out his old friend, the bald broker, for an explanation that Victor understood: with so many monsters and so little space for survival in the wilds, the disappearance of common folk was quickly assumed to be death. The widows’ grief had already been spent long before.

In fact, most of these women had remarried just last week. Many “happy lumberjacks” were willing to settle in Marsh Forest Village, and stepping in as fathers was no difficult matter.

Shaking his head at his own naivety, the youth took the ferry the next day to fulfill his wolf-hunting contract. With the Squirrel Party’s help, he easily met the quota of ten wolf pelts, sending the down-on-his-luck nobleman, Mr. Champary, off from the Marsh Forest tavern with joy.

Victor cared little for what use the man had for all those pelts; what mattered to him were the two hundred Orens he received and the good reputation he gained.

...

The wolf pelts were sold, the wolf meat digested by the elves, and the scraped wolf fat—mixed with dandelion—became a vital ingredient for ghoulbane oil, which he used to reinforce bear traps as they advanced their defensive lines.

With ample supplies, the Corlion Line, which blocked the ghouls’ invasion of Vegima’s cemetery, had, by the fourth night of the apprentice’s work, advanced from the outer perimeter of the underground crypts right up to its entrance.

The next day, after repeated assurances and generous rewards, Victor hired a blacksmith and several workers to enter the cemetery during daylight. They sealed the breach with a sturdy iron gate, effectively containing the threat of the ghouls spreading from the cemetery.

As for exploring the interior of the underground crypts, Victor saw no urgent reason to take the risk without absolute certainty and decided to wait at least until Angoulême returned before considering it again.

And as for the Ram Gang, having received his potions, they were obliged to act. Though the supply of incendiary powder was nowhere near what he’d been able to procure in “Ban Ard,” at least the “Dancing Star” stocks were slightly replenished.

Victor’s bomb-making speed had also improved thanks to his sharpened focus: from two bombs every eight hours, he’d now reduced the time to seven hours for the same output.

“Too time-consuming” remained his greatest frustration with his miraculous alchemy; any complex or powerful concoction took at least six hours to complete. Fortunately, when it came to exquisite food or furniture, the deep-rooted images in his mind allowed him to finish within just two hours.

Lastly, regarding the alchemical ingredients for Blizzard and Thunder potions, the Ram Gang promised to notify the witcher apprentice immediately if they ever found traces of “Chichimo” or “Endrega swarms.”

Thus, the youth settled into a more comfortable life: delicious meals, drinks at the Hairy Bear, baths at Longing Thighs, occasionally escorting Shani home, and otherwise devoting himself to his beloved research and experiments.

Time flowed ever faster in this leisurely existence, now leaping forward by weeks, so much so that before Victor realized it, the fifteen-day deadline he’d set with Angoulême had arrived.

...

During curfew, following the instructions on the note Angoulême had left on the table, Victor crossed the silent, empty streets and arrived at the embankment near the city walls. According to her message, this spot was chosen to avoid eavesdroppers.

Beneath the starry sky, the girl stood armored and sword at her side, arms folded, leaning against the crenellations and gazing upward. The hawk, Catherine, stood proudly by her, the two of them looking like figures from a painting.

Unfortunately, Victor found the premise of this dramatic scene rather foolish. “Honestly, are you an idiot? Dragging me out by the lake in the middle of the night to avoid eavesdroppers? We have a basement for that!”

Her composure shattered by his bluntness, Angoulême marched up and glared at him, saying nothing.

Victor couldn’t help but laugh. “So, what did you want to tell me?”

“The fifteen days are up. I’ve finished investigating ‘Mikkel.’ Now I’m reporting to the captain,” she declared loudly.

Her brown eyes, usually so lively, were now steady and intense—a look that spoke of responsibility, forged by firsthand investigation and the weight of what she was about to say.

Truth be told, Victor had already forgotten about Mikkel, what with the man having been transferred to guard another gate and Victor not seeing him at the south gate during his recent comings and goings.

Only now did Victor realize how swiftly the days had passed. He yawned. “Ah, so that’s what this is about. Very well, Miss Angoulême Corlion, the stage is yours—let’s hear the tale of Mr. Mikkel!”

Angoulême ignored his banter. Having grown accustomed to the peculiar phrases Victor used—relics from east of Sarrikania and Belltown—she was now largely immune to his odd sense of humor.

Catherine stood calmly upon her gauntlet, and the girl’s expression was grave. Together, the two stared at Victor.

Feeling a bit embarrassed under their gaze, Victor dropped his flippant demeanor. “Alright, I’m ready for your report,” he said, this time more earnestly.

“I’ll start with the conclusion. My opinion hasn’t changed: I’m prepared to eliminate him.” Her tone was calm and certain.

Victor sniffed. “Understood. Tell me your findings and your final plan.”

Angoulême paused to gather her thoughts. “Mikkel was born in the city’s eastern suburbs. He’s lecherous, a gambler, and lazy, but in the outskirts he’s widely respected—his position as a gate guard gives him power. The townsfolk generally regard him as one of their outstanding citizens.”

Victor recalled how, when he’d first been turned away at the city gate, the priest of the Eternal Fire had demanded he earn the approval of these so-called outstanding citizens. Had he gone then, would he have met Mikkel sooner?

Angoulême continued, “There’s a woman in the suburbs who claims to be a witch—but in truth, she’s an herbalist named Abigail. She reported that a woman named Ilsa had been raped by Mikkel. According to Abigail’s testimony, I found Ilsa’s body in a country crypt; unwilling to bear the shame, she took poison and killed herself.”

“Hold on,” Victor interrupted, frowning. “Who told you to go into the crypt? Don’t you know there have been ghouls about lately?”

The girl covered her mouth in embarrassment. The captain had expressly forbidden anyone from going to dangerous places, and while the ghouls were in the city cemetery, the rural crypts were hardly safe either.

“Uh… There haven’t been many deaths in the countryside lately. I went during the day, made sure there was no danger, and there really weren’t any monsters inside…” she muttered softly.

Victor waved for her to continue; the deed was done, and he could scold her later.

“The next victim was Hera, said to be the daughter of a priest of the Eternal Fire. After being gang-raped by Mikkel and others, she became pregnant. The priest believed the attackers’ version of events—that his daughter had seduced them—and in anger, cast her out, leaving her to wander the streets.”

Victor recalled the priest’s rigid, unyielding face; it was all too likely he’d care more for his reputation than his daughter. He also thought of Tomira, the herbalist from White Orchard, and the pain of being cast out by one’s own parents.

“What became of Hera?” Victor couldn’t help but ask.

Angoulême shook her head. “No one knows. She was driven out while heavily pregnant. There’s no telling where she could have gone. I suspect she’s already died somewhere in the wild…”

“The next victim was…”

“And the one after that…”

Angoulême spoke at length, and Victor listened patiently. The conclusion was clear: Mikkel was heavily suspected of multiple cases of gang rape, but all were merely whispered rumors, never proven. His victims were women who, for the sake of reputation, chose to remain silent.

Angoulême’s plan to eliminate him was tailored to his habits—a gambler returning home drunk late at night, slipping into the water by accident would raise little suspicion. Only then did Victor understand why she’d chosen the riverbank for this report: with his approval, the plan could proceed immediately.

After considering, Victor said, “Angoulême, I don’t have your instincts, so I’ve never believed that ‘strong personal hatred’ should be a motive for action. But I have seen your instincts at work, more than once. That’s why I allowed you to investigate a fortnight ago. And now, with these results, it’s clear—the world won’t be worse for losing Mikkel; perhaps it might even improve. Your plan is sound.”

“So… I agree. You may carry out your plan now.”

Hearing his approval, Angoulême looked stunned; she’d expected to have to argue further before winning the captain’s consent, but he’d agreed after hearing her summary.

“But I must warn you,” Victor said gravely. “The Phantom Brigade are rangers, nothing more. Don’t delude yourself into thinking you represent justice. We’re not much closer to justice than Mikkel himself.”