Chapter Seventy-Four: Life Is More Than Poetry and Distant Horizons

The principle behind the creation of "Moon Dust" was quite simple: just add silver threads to the "honeycomb." For ordinary Witchers of the Wolf School, the challenge lay in the expense of silver threads; for Victor, the difficulty was his ambition to refine the silver into silver flakes or even silver dust on a microscopic level.

In theory, it was possible, though he was uncertain whether his mental strength could bear the toll. Nevertheless, once Moon Dust became a standard weapon, most monsters capable of shape-shifting would fall prey to the young Witcher—including those elusive spectral entities he had never dared to hunt before. Both daytime spirits and nocturnal phantoms would cower and tremble before the power of Moon Dust.

Furthermore, the Wolf School’s "Green Herb Potion" required a crucial ingredient: the tongue of an albino vampire banshee. These banshees could turn invisible, and Victor had a premonition that sooner or later, he would use Moon Dust to ambush one.

...

He drifted awake from sleep, having spent the entire day in the alchemy chamber—combining work hours with a nap. The good news was his first attempt at making silver dust had been successful. The bad news? The final stage drained his mental energy so much that he nearly lost consciousness several times, relying on Kalkstein’s "Mental Stimulant" just to stay upright.

Transforming silver granules into threads was easy enough, but reducing them to dust was extremely arduous. After completing his first batch of silver granule dust, Victor was so exhausted he collapsed in the alchemy chamber, unable to tidy up.

The entire process was overly taxing, with blending time far too long.

Upon awakening and reflecting, the apprentice decided to create a standard version of Moon Dust containing silver granules until his mental strength grew. The "Shivering Moon Dust" was simply too demanding.

Storing the semi-finished silver dust in his herb pouch, the youth alternated punching his shoulders as he climbed the stairs. To his surprise, Dandelion was sitting in the living room, brow furrowed in contemplation, a half-glass of red wine beside him—a clear sign of inspiration lacking.

Upon seeing the apprentice, the bard cheerfully raised his glass, inviting him to join.

Given the extraordinary fatigue and mental depletion alchemy caused, Victor gladly accepted. A pleasant chat over drinks seemed the perfect remedy, so he proposed they head to the tavern for a proper celebration.

...

At the Hairy Bear Inn, the afternoon was as pure as ever—or perhaps now tinged with a hint of experience, somewhere between innocence and familiarity. Business was brisk but not yet boisterous; more patrons were out drinking since restrictions had eased.

Victor ordered milk for himself and a Vizima Champion for Dandelion. Noticing the bard’s surprise, the youth explained offhandedly, "I’m still growing—more milk means I’ll get taller."

Though the waitresses were present, Griffelin, the proprietor, personally delivered Victor’s drink, gesturing at Dandelion, "Ah, so he’s truly your friend. Sorry about the other day—I thought he was dining and dashing, was about to stop Angoulême from covering him."

Victor smiled, "Next time he can’t pay, just put it on my tab."

"Understood," Griffelin nodded and departed.

The bard lifted his beer in a toast, downed half the glass in one go, and burped softly, "You seem to be doing quite well here."

Sipping his milk slowly, Victor acknowledged, "Yes, Angoulême probably mentioned it. The Phantom Brigade is a successful mercenary band; we have no enemies in the Temple District. But Griffelin’s courtesy is mostly thanks to Shani."

Soon, with good company and plentiful drinks, Victor and Dandelion moved from beer to red wine, then to white, quickly entering a pleasantly tipsy state.

"Hey… I’ve got a question I can’t wrap my head around, so I’ll ask you directly," Dandelion began. "You could be performing your lute at banquets, your music praised by northern poets,"—here he confidently thumped his chest—"or you could pursue alchemy, earning respect; Angoulême says you’re an outstanding apprentice, and the local guilds do steady business with you.

Yet you’re unwavering in your desire to be a Witcher, which I simply can’t understand. For a young man, it makes no sense—who would willingly choose a life like Geralt’s, rolling amid monster corpses, caked in mud and reeking like a vagrant?"

"Because I seek power, power beyond the ordinary. Sadly, I can’t become a mage, so I chose the Witcher’s path," Victor replied, as if it were obvious.

"What I mean is, why chase personal power at all? We live in a city protected by kings and governed by law. If you wish, you could stay in Vizima forever. You’re not short of money, your lodgings are comfortable—what’s lacking?"

This time, Victor pondered before answering slowly, "Perhaps… it’s also because I want to say no. No matter who I face, even the most powerful in this world, I want to be able to refuse—loudly, if I choose."

"Sounds like a lack of security, fueling your hunger for power. But what makes you feel so unsafe, as if danger lurked around every corner?"

"Angoulême probably mentioned Thalys? He taught me a lesson: even in a world of kings and laws, you must always keep an extra layer of insurance," Victor tapped his waist, "namely, this steel sword."

Dandelion nodded, then shook his head, "I know that Thalys. Ten years ago, Geralt put him in his place—I was there, saw him trip himself, scar his own face, and cry like a child. Who would’ve thought he’d become like this? But he’s only a reinforcing factor. You decided to become a Witcher long before you met him, didn’t you?"

Prompted by memories, the apprentice Witcher said nothing, raising his glass, his gaze distant. "Perhaps… it’s the voice inside me. From leaving Bell Town to arriving at Kaer Morhen, I felt a compulsion—to practice swordsmanship, to strengthen myself…"

Seeing Victor lost in thought, Dandelion nudged him, jolting him back. "Never mind, don’t overthink it. People have many reasons for what they do, sometimes even they don’t understand why. But since you’ve chosen, stick to it!"

Victor agreed, gulped another mouthful of wine, and felt his worries dissipate, only to hear Dandelion sigh deeply.

"What’s wrong? Why the sudden sigh?"

"I just realized it’s been a while since I had a proper bath," Dandelion said, grinning with the knowing look of a seasoned rogue.

Victor retorted loudly, "How can you even think that! If Shani finds out, she’ll thrash you. After plying the kid with drink, you even want to drag him to such places!"

The bard scoffed at the rebuke, "Are you really still a kid? Don’t think I don’t know—your lute playing is much admired, so your nights must be busy… You barely drag yourself out of bed the next morning, right? Maybe you’d like Shani to know about that?"

It was obvious such blunt, clumsy threats had no effect on Victor Corleone, the Phantom Brigade’s chief and ever-cool strategist!

The youth acted as if he hadn’t heard a word, leisurely stood, and clapped Dandelion’s shoulder with gusto. "Come on, let’s head across to 'Thighs Desired' for a bath—my treat!"