Chapter Seventy-Two: The Disappearance in the Sewers

The innermost room on the second floor of the Hairy Bear Tavern was the place where Lancemit, leader of the Ram Gang, often dined and entertained friends.

Tonight, he was having dinner there. Seated across from him was his friend, Victor Corleon. Neither of them were the sort to talk without eating; both had hearty appetites, so their conversation continued as they ate.

“This time I really must apologize. Yesterday, some personal matters delayed the delivery.”

“No problem. The last batch of healing potions hasn’t been used up yet, so there’s no rush.”

Reading the hesitation on Lancemit’s face, Victor lowered his gaze, feigning indifference as he focused on his thick soup. Unfortunately, this tactic failed.

Lancemit paused in reaching for food. “The world is beginning to change.”

Putting down his chicken leg, the young man elegantly wiped his mouth with a napkin, took a small sip of wine, and set the glass down to indicate his attention.

“The shadow of Catriona is fading. The blockades between districts are lifting, and the curfew has ended.”

“That all sounds like good news.”

“But there are downsides. For example, the tacit understanding between us and the Salamander Gang is about to become void. Competition between gangs will soon turn bloody and ruthless. So I can’t help but wonder, Victor—since our cooperation has been so pleasant, why not deepen it?”

Victor was silent for a moment, then shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I am a Witcher apprentice. I maintain neutrality. Besides, if the Salamanders stir up trouble, why not let the city guards deal with them?”

“The Salamander Gang has backing from certain high-level powers. The city guards have been instructed to observe and not intervene. As for neutrality—after selling us so many healing potions, do you truly think you’re neutral?” Lancemit smiled playfully.

“Perhaps you don’t believe it, or find it laughable, but I still try to adhere to the principle of neutrality that’s been ours for centuries. And since it’s a sale, it’s honest business. The Salamander Gang just hasn’t found me yet; if they did, I might do business with them as well.

Of course, I don’t intend to present myself to them.”

Lancemit closed his eyes and said nothing. The silent pressure weighed on Victor’s shoulders, but he had no intention of changing his mind.

After a while, the Ram Gang leader opened his eyes. “I understand. I can accept your neutrality. But what if the Salamander Gang comes after you?”

At this, Victor’s gaze turned dangerous. “Anyone who makes trouble for me, or lets trouble find me, will regret it in the end—directly or indirectly!”

Lancemit smiled. “During negotiations, eyes reveal much. Don’t expose your anger so easily; it only shows your anxiety and unease.

Don’t worry, I have no intention of betraying you. I wouldn’t do such a thing—just as I said a month ago, I like you. I believe our cooperation has been pleasant, and you appreciate my style.

When the tide rises, no one at the shore avoids getting their feet wet. With the Salamanders’ overbearing ways, you’ll end up on my side sooner or later. So, if you need my help, you know how to find me.” With a confident smile, he left the room.

After Lancemit departed, Victor felt an urge to smash his wine glass. His recent lapse had let the other see through his dislike for trouble and his wish to hide his weaknesses.

That bald, scarred boss was still gracious and courteous now, but Victor believed that if the world changed again, people would inevitably change with it.

...

The next day, at the Squirrel Party camp in the swamp forest, little had changed since Victor’s last visit a month before. The place still bore its battered, worn look, though new tools and weapons stood out amid the ruin and age.

Inside the tent, Victor drained his drink and sighed. “Go on then, what does Lord Aiven want with me?”

The dark-haired elf smiled. “Why the sigh, my friend? Can’t I seek you out for good news? I thought seeing a long-lost friend should begin with polite greetings and a hug, not an aggressive question about business.”

Victor replied sullenly, “Precisely because we’re friends—when you solemnly say you wish to see me, I worry you’ll ask something difficult of me. In fact, I’m almost certain.”

Aiven burst out laughing, nearly unable to catch his breath.

Patting his chest, he said, “Relax, it’s nothing difficult. You know the Catriona plague has receded...”

“Yes... I also know the blockades are lifted and the curfew is over. It’s the talk of the town lately,” Victor replied coolly.

“If you know all this, I’ll be direct. Several months ago, we learned there’s a ruin of an elven temple in the sewers beneath Vizima. In a city built atop elven ruins, this is no surprise.

Our investigation suggests an ancient mage once hid there, perhaps leaving something behind. But just as we prepared to explore, the spread of Catriona disrupted everything.”

“District lockdowns, curfew—the whole city on alert.”

“Exactly. Now, with Catriona gone, if you agree to assist and promise secrecy, I’ll tell you the rest. Will you help your friend Aiven?”

“If it doesn’t violate the Witcher’s principle of neutrality, then I am here at your disposal,” Victor said.

The elven commander narrowed his eyes. “Thank you... A few days ago, I sent a squad to investigate the ruin in the sewers. None returned—not one.

I need an expert to find out what happened down there.

You’re young, my friend Victor, but whether it was the Giant Thorn Demon Tree or the graveyard ghoul incident, you’ve shown professionalism...”

...

That same night, in the sewers beneath the Trade District, an outer member of the Squirrel Party led the way, his face pale with fear as he pointed toward the darkness of the winding corridor. “It’s right in there. The whole squad—over ten people—went in, and not one came back.”

Victor looked down at him seriously. “Are you sure you’ve told me every sound you heard?”

The dwarf nodded firmly. “They told me to stand guard here, so I waited here. I’ve told you everything I heard.”

Victor glanced at Angoulême. The girl’s face was pale. “Every nerve in my body is screaming danger, telling me to leave,” she said.

He sniffed the air. The corridor was well-ventilated, with no unusual odor. The Witcher apprentice shook his head. “Let’s head back up.”

They replaced the sewer cover, walked out of the alley, and returned to the bustling Trade District. After letting the anxious dwarf go, Angoulême’s color gradually improved.

Victor closed his eyes in contemplation. There was certainly something inside the sewers, but the information was insufficient, and any investigation would be dangerous.

He opened his eyes. “Aiven’s commission is troublesome this time. I need to consult the archives. We’ll return during the day tomorrow.”