Bear School Astartes

”Relax, Carrot. Relax, shh~”

His face was weathered yet not devoid of handsomeness and profundity. His neck-length ivory-white hair gave him a somewhat sickly appearance, with cat-like eyes, and a silver roaring wolf head necklace hanging on his chest.

Geralt of Livia, a Wolf Demon Hunter. At this moment, he was comforting his horse.

”Miss Eliza, could you ask your servants to put down their pitchforks? They aren’t safe when pointed at living creatures, and it might scare the horses.”

He made the request with his mouth, but like most in his profession, the expression of this Wolf Demon Hunter was unchanging.

This was the origin of the rumors circulating among the people, that ’Demon Hunters are a bunch of emotionless, cold-blooded killers’.

Farmers, driven to desperation by monsters, were simple-hearted, but once the monster was dead, that temporary simplicity would likely disappear along with it.

Faced with an emotional Demon Hunter, the farmers wouldn’t be stingy with a pitiful look or a few words of moral coercion, just to escape the final payment of the Demon Hunter’s fee.

Most Demon Hunters learn the indifferent expression Geralt wore now within a year of completing their training and truly entering the profession.

This expression can keep Demon Hunters out of quite a bit of trouble.

Of course, the above career difficulties and heartaches are limited to ordinary demon hunters, and have little to do with a young cub who stays at the Airetusa Academy.

”Put down your pitchforks, everyone, all of you, put them down!”

In the largest manor in the village, a pretty-faced lady clutched the handkerchief in her hand, stammering as she tried to calm the servants.

Once these servants temporarily drew back, she cautiously approached the Demon Hunter atop the horse.

”Respected... sir? Are you the one who...”

Geralt showed no trace of emotion on his face, nor was there any upheaval inside.

He was very aware of how much fear his sickly white hair and cat eyes would cause unsophisticated farmers.

So he straightforwardly pulled a parchment scroll from his saddlebag and handed it to Eliza.

”This bears King Aivelle’s seal and commands. Please verify it yourself. I’m just here to work as per King Aivelle’s commission. There’s no need for such defensiveness.”

His voice was slightly hoarse but carried a mature male’s deep allure.

With a rustle of leather, Geralt deftly swung himself off Carrot’s back.

The Wolf School is a balanced and comprehensive school. He was wearing a medium armor of mixed leather and chainmail.

It couldn’t compare to the Bear School’s heavy armor weighing dozens of kilograms, but his swift action still made the servants who had earlier pointed pitchforks at him widen their eyes in surprise.

Two longswords were strapped to the sides of his horse, revealing only their unadorned hilts.

He reached out and patted the restless mare again, calming her.

”Let’s keep it brief. I don’t think lifting this curse will be particularly dangerous, at least not enough to warrant drawing my sword. The only essential thing is that you must provide me with information.”

”Information?”

The pretty noble lady, puzzled, clutched her handkerchief and repeated.

”Yes, information. Also known as intelligence. Anything will do, but you must tell me everything about this cursed individual...

”Sir Fist, my brother is Sir Fist.”

”Alright. You must tell me everything about Sir Fist’s curse: the cause, his behavior in between, without leaving anything out. That way, I can find a solution.”

Geralt patiently explained to the noble lady who had clearly never dealt with a Demon Hunter before.

Despite Demon Hunters often having cold expressions, the truth was this profession was essentially a service industry. Patience towards clients was as important as professional skills.

”Who cursed him, what curse was used, why the curse was cast, where he frequently flew to after becoming a cormorant... All this, I need to know.”

”And this information must be accurate. Otherwise I have to say...”

Here, Geralt paused, seemingly giving the cursed person’s relative a moment to comprehend.

”Otherwise, I have to say, you might find turning into a cormorant isn’t the worst option.”

He made a dry joke, but aside from one servant who had held a pitchfork earlier bursting out laughing, no one else found it amusing.

Instead, they became tense and anxious.

Seeing this, Geralt scratched his cheek.

”Alright,” he muttered. ”That joke was a bit cold.”

But the cold joke had an excellent effect.

Miss Eliza gathered many idle people in Ham, just to piece together the events’ circumstances so that the Demon Hunter’s curse-lifting method could be implemented.

So in this cold winter wind, quite a crowd gathered outside the manor, wanting to watch the spectacle.

Although Geralt still appeared outwardly as a grim, emotionless scarred face, he was inwardly almost whistling with delight.

In the past, when investigating task conditions, he’d have to hoof it to different places, stepping around cowpats and dog dung in the villages, to finally find someone not yet fully drunk in some dilapidated wooden house or drafty tavern.

Then endure the person’s bad breath and stuttering, along with uninformed speculations, to extract the information he needed from scattered clues.

Now, people were lining up for his questions.

One must say, the last time he had such treatment was when he helped Veltrest resolve the curse on his daughter.

Working for kings required being careful to not fall into some invisible political whirlpool. Yet at the same time, it truly made things convenient.

”...Alright, you’re sure you saw Sir Fist continuously meeting up with a lady for a long period of time?”

”Tui, of course I’m sure!” The farmer turned sideways to spit a thick glob, then confidently shouted.

”I could hear Sir Fist loudly when he ** the witch! They’d always do it near the haystack by my house! Trust me, I’m definitely right!”

The crude shout elicited a gasp from the farmers’ wives, mixed with curiosity and the desire to know more.

It was also met with loud laughter from the farmers.

These reactions only made the person being questioned even prouder.

Geralt remained neutral about this confidence.

”I’m still not sure it’s a witch.”

His voice was as calm as ever.

Yet the questioned person scoffed repeatedly.

”If it ain’t a witch, then what is it? Could it be some honest and good woman? Sir’s already turned into a bird! I’m asking you, do you understand or not?”

”Perhaps, but I’m merely a Demon Hunter.”

Perfect.

Geralt thought calmly.

Things quickly reached the ’outsiders questioning insiders’ phase.

This was a commonplace occurrence for Demon Hunters as it was a world where even nobles had faith that a Turtle-shaped Stone could negate magic.

The more rigid one’s worldview, the harder it was to accept realities beyond their understanding.

Farmers had simple worldviews, and hence, were particularly rigid.

Geralt was already accustomed to ’sifting gold from the mire’ of information.

But after basically vetting the crowd’s testimonies, he sighed under the anxious gaze of Miss Eliza.

”Damn it...”

The Demon Hunter pressed his lips together helplessly, looking at the noble lady.

”Didn’t you try to stop the spread of rumors? With all this mix of truth and lies, I can’t figure it out at all!”