Bear School Astartes

Ignoring whatever Lincoln was doing outside the tower to find the Embers Knight Order yet another Swordsmanship Coach, Lann and Geralt had already arrived at the Knight Order’s herb storage room.

Because of the storage requirements for herbs, the room wasn’t well lit, and at the same time it was well ventilated. Quicklime had been scattered in all four corners of the room as a desiccant.

The two Demon Hunters had just pushed open the door and walked in when they saw a lazy yet graceful back, already sorting through the herbs.

Triss was sitting on a chair. She wasn’t wearing that dress from yesterday—actually, that dress no longer met the minimum standards of ”wearable”... Lann had to clarify, she was the one who went crazy last night and tore it off herself.

The Female Warlock right now was like a plump, wine-red rose bathed in morning dew.

She was wearing one of Lann’s shirts, and it was big enough that the hanging hem, draped over the Female Warlock’s full, slender thighs, made it look like she was wearing a short skirt.

Which left Lann genuinely unsure whether, in this early autumn morning, that getup was cold or not.

The school badges on the two Demon Hunters’ chests were trembling slightly, while in the room various herbs were flying through the air of their own accord, being categorized and put away.

Triss was handling the Floating Spell well, and although she herself had an allergic constitution when it came to Magic Potions, she was nonetheless a somewhat famous Magic Potion producer.

Her position as Temerian Royal Family’s Royal Advisor gave her power, but if we’re talking pure money... if she didn’t have some big Royal Family projects requiring budget allocations in her hands, her fixed salary really might not match what she earned on her own.

”The quality of these herbs is excellent.” Triss said without looking back. ”If you ask me, at least a quarter of the Knight Order’s monthly funds are being set aside just to stockpile ingredients, right?”

”That’s about right. Looks like you’re very clear on market prices for herbs.”

Lann spoke as he walked to stand behind the chair Triss was sitting in.

He naturally bent down, and Triss just as naturally lifted her hand.

The Female Warlock hooked the Demon Hunter’s neck and pulled him down, tilting her own head up. The two of them shared a sticky, lingering kiss.

”Oh~ for plague’s sake!” a choked, exasperated complaint came from the doorway.

Before Lann could say anything, Triss rolled her eyes and shot back without ceremony.

”What are you ’oh’-ing about over there, Geralt?”

The Female Warlock savored the taste, licking her lips before turning her head with a cold little laugh.

”Back when you and Yennefer were putting on a show right in front of me, did I ever say anything?”

The White Wolf raised both his hands in front of his chest, palms vertical, indicating he didn’t dare provoke her and wouldn’t talk back—please, just spare him.

The line Triss had used when she shoved Lann into the room last night had been thoroughly on point.

The Ember Knights had been planning for this day for a long time. Every month they skimmed off a portion of the Knight Order’s funds issued by the Temerian Sanctuary Council to buy a large amount of herbs.

And the raw materials for the Cyan Grass Trial were mixed into that mountain of ingredients, pieced together one complete set after another.

Last night, the Ember Knights who hadn’t been chosen for the ten spots had voluntarily come to help process all those herbs.

With two Demon Hunters and a Female Warlock present, crafting the first batch of Cyan Grass Trial Potion was a simple matter.

It took half an hour from start to finish, and Mother’s Tears, Wild Rye Juice, and Thatch Sap were all completed in one full set.

But as each step in the brewing process was ticked off, the relaxed expressions on the two Demon Hunters’ faces gradually faded.

By the time the full Cyan Grass Trial Potion set was finally finished, only grim seriousness remained on Lann and Geralt’s faces.

Nobody understands the pain and despair of this mutation better than a Demon Hunter who has personally undergone the Cyan Grass Trial.

Even though Lann had already created the supporting Big Appetite Energy that could keep the mutant alive,

that agony wouldn’t be weakened in the slightest.

Halfway through brewing, Triss had already felt the shift in atmosphere.

She turned and left, and by the time she reappeared after the potions were done, she was dressed in a practical, mobile hunting outfit. Her wine-red hair had been efficiently tied back into a bun at the back of her head.

By now, neither of the two Demon Hunters was in the mood to talk. Lann silently picked up three round-bottom flasks containing red, blue, and colorless potions and walked out the door.

The three of them took several turns through the tower before entering a large room that was obviously freshly emptied.

On the thick brick-laid floor, you could still see abrupt blank patches where furniture had sat for a long time and then been dragged away.

Belengar had long since arrived as well. The Old Demon Hunter’s expression was grave, the black circles under his eyes dark as he carefully inspected the restraining bed he had just finished.

Solid timber, iron handcuffs and shackles, and fixtures to hold them all in place.

Stuart stood calmly beside the restraining bed, wearing a surgical gown that was nothing more than a single piece of coarse linen draped over the front of his body.

Surgery, medicine... whenever you get to talking about these things, there’s no room left for considerations like ”dignified” or ”undignified.”

In the end, after giving the restraint bed a few complicated little pats, Belengar let out a quiet laugh.

The feelings in that laugh were far too tangled; after it faded it dragged a sigh along with it. Regret, fear, sorrow, understanding... so much that one couldn’t tell which emotion truly held sway.

Only the words the Old Demon Hunter spoke after the sigh had nothing to do with any of that.

He merely said: ”Ordinary folk care about hygiene to avoid infection. But since you’re set on becoming a Demon Hunter, you’d best first get used to the taste of blood being far more poisonous than any germs in the air.”

Whether the Demon Hunter’s mutation gets infected or not is irrelevant.

Because the very first step of their mutation is to use a virus to punch through the mutatee’s entire immune system, shutting that native system down so the Potions can freely tear the body apart for later transformation.

Once the remaking is complete, the extraordinary resistance that belongs to Demon Hunters will be rebuilt under the influence of the Potions.

After that, common bacteria and viruses in the environment are beneath concern.

Stuart knew all this perfectly well; he had long since memorized the Demon Hunter mutation process to the last detail.

He had once been a rising star in the Sintra army, only to be dragged down over these two years by a crippled body.

In these two years he had devoured Demon Hunter lore like a starving man, studying Alchemy, studying... that mutation which could give him a new life.

So now, in this precise moment, his hand too was stroking the restraint bed Belengar had hastily put together.

His touch was gentle, nothing like someone caressing the ”instrument of torture” that was about to bind him; it was more like he was stroking... a kind of hope.

Yes, in the eyes of Demon Hunters, nothing is more deserving of being called ”punishment” than the Cyan Grass Trial.

But Stuart himself, once he saw Lann walk in carrying three round-bottom flasks, fell completely quiet inside.

He said nothing more, merely reached up with trembling fingers and removed his iron jaw.

At once, a visage that, compared to its earlier viciousness, now could only be called ”ugly” and ”disgusting” was laid bare before Lann and the others.

Back then Adal Epp Darcy had, right in front of Lann, executed his cruelty on Stuart and his father, just to enrage the Demon Hunter—and to please himself in passing.

Stuart had survived, but half his face had been smashed to pulp by that steel scepter.

In Airetusa, the crystal cultivation project led by Lann, together with the Female Warlocks’ Magic, had saved his life—but he refused to let them save his face.

Unless he gained a complete rebirth, he would not allow himself to forget this face.

The once-handsome, slightly aloof Sintra features now had a huge concavity where the lower jawbone should have been.

Overgrown scar tissue knotted around it, making that gaping split all the more terrifying.

The iron jaw he’d taken off was slick with saliva, and because of the collapse of his lower jawbone, part of Stuart’s tongue was directly exposed.

The root of the tongue was far thicker than its tip, the blood vessels standing out, flexing inside the damp, ravaged mouth.

Yet no one present showed any reaction to Stuart’s face.

As if this face were still the same as before.

”I... am... already... ready.”

With the iron jaw gone, Stuart’s speech was labored and slurred.

His crippled legs struggled as he crawled up onto the restraint bed.

”Damn it.” Standing at the back, Geralt suddenly swore under his breath in the silence; no one knew what he was cursing, or whom.

He turned and walked out of the room, as if trying to flee.

Belengar almost showed the same impulse, but in the end he stayed.

The experience of the Cyan Grass Trial is such excruciating torment that the Old Demon Hunter nearly feels phantom pains in his own body whenever he watches an apprentice undergo mutation.

And the phantom pain in the flesh is the lesser part; the worst is... standing there and watching the apprentice being tortured, and the self-flagellation of conscience and morality that follows.

If it were a veteran like Vesemir, his mindset would likely hold steady.

But Belengar did not possess Vesemir’s wealth of experience.

Triss looked taut with nerves. This was her first time—or rather, the first time in over a hundred years—that any Warlock had been able to take part in a Demon Hunter’s mutation.

After Ker Morhan was overrun, the alliance between Demon Hunters and Warlocks had likewise collapsed, the trust between them shattered.

Only Lann’s expression remained unchanged.

He nudged the infusion stand he’d prepared long ago with his foot to the side of the restraint bed. The three round-bottom flasks were hung upside down upon it, their special stoppers directly fitted to the injection tubes.