As John continued killing magical creatures during this time, his reputation gradually began to spread.
Renfri fixed her gaze on his black hair, as though it were his calling card.
"The Black Witcher?" John blinked.
So he even had some flashy nickname now.
"It started with a village—you killed that werewolf," Renfri said, clearly intrigued by him. "Then word spread that you took down fifteen man-eating trolls all on your own."
She turned to the tavernkeeper. "Bring our friend here a beer."
The tavernkeeper stood with his hands on his hips, glaring coldly at John. "We don't serve monsters here."
"Trust me," Renfri said, turning back to him, her tone still calm. "You'd better do as I say."
The man's expression soured, but in the end, he complied.
John wasn't surprised at being called a monster. That was just how people were.
When you possessed power far beyond the rest, you were either worshiped as a god—or branded a monster.
And clearly, in this era, witchers didn't have the best reputation.
After sitting down, the blonde beauty leaned closer.
Her fingers brushed over the thick bearskin as she marveled, "How did you even kill it?"
"With a sword. Its eyes are its weak spot."
The tavernkeeper brought over the beer. John had half a mind to say water would've been fine, but remembering this was a tavern, he lifted the mug and took a sip anyway.
"You're very young. Every witcher I've ever known is already well past their prime. And then there's your hair…"
Renfri propped her cheek against her hand, tilting her head as she studied his face.
John was far too handsome, completely unlike the weathered, battle-scarred witchers she was familiar with.
Perhaps feeling Renfri's pressure, the tavernkeeper finally brought out the food John had ordered.
Red wine venison was set on the table.
"If it weren't for that sword, I wouldn't have recognized you as a witcher at all." Renfri plucked up a piece of venison with her fingers and popped it into her mouth, her eyes flashing with a peculiar light.
"Grunt.. Where did you say I could exchange this for a bounty?" John asked.
He quietly nudged the plate toward her, his brow furrowing ever so slightly.
Merlin only knew if she'd washed her hands.
Renfri found his small gesture amusing. A witcher who'd lived out in the wilds—and he was a clean freak?
"At the mayor's," she said. "There's a bounty on the forest demon. If you want to sell it, I could…"
"You killed the forest demon?"
A crisp voice piped up from behind.
A little girl with her hair in two braids ran over, eyes shining.
She stared at the bear hide large enough to serve as a carpet and said to John, "I can take you to claim the reward."
John paused, glanced at the girl, then at Renfri.
He stood, ready to leave.
"You should sell it to her." A few men rose to their feet, loosely surrounding John.
"What do you mean?" John shot Renfri a look.
Renfri looked irritated. She told the men, "You're being rude."
One sharp glance from her, and they backed down.
John shrugged, picked up the bear hide, and headed outside.
The little girl was delighted. Walking alongside him, she said, "My name's Marija."
"I'm Yadani. Pleased to meet you."
Leaving the tavern, John went to the stable and brought out Boro.
John placed the bear hide on top.
Marija asked curiously, "You're a witcher, right? What kind of monsters have you killed? Werewolves? Banshees? Or something else?"
Kids her age all seemed to share the same boundless curiosity.
Since they were in a busy part of town, John didn't ride. He simply led Boro along on foot.
Marija guided the way, and eventually they stopped before a round tower.
John stepped up and knocked on the door while Marija stayed outside with Boro.
But he quickly noticed something off about the door.
"Magic?"
He fixed his gaze on the faint magical ripples and then walked straight through.
His body passed right through the shut door, like stepping onto Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.
"A wizard."
He could be certain now—this wasn't the mayor's house.
Whoever had drawn him here clearly wanted a meeting and had plans of their own.
As soon as he stepped inside, John was greeted with a scene not fit for children.
It was a garden, though it didn't look particularly proper.
But all of it was illusion.
For someone not yet sixteen, John's face remained expressionless as his eyes shifted into vertical pupils.
In an instant, his gaze locked onto the approaching wizard.
The man looked like the textbook image of a wizard—tall and thin, clad in a floor-length robe, holding a long staff topped with a crystal orb.
Sparse hair, a thick beard, and a hooked nose.
The moment John's vertical pupils fixed on him, the wizard waved both hands quickly. "Hello, witcher. My name is Stregobor."
"You may call me Master Stregobor."
He made it clear he meant no harm.
But John, through his mind magic, could sense it—this man harbored ill will toward him.
A deep sense of disdain.
John cast a cool glance around. "Don't tell me—you're a mayor who happens to use magic."
Stregobor smiled. "Of course not. To be precise, I was the one who had Marija bring you here. She works for me from time to time."
With a gesture of invitation, Stregobor welcomed John to walk with him through this restricted garden.
"Rest assured, I'll buy your bear hide."
As they walked along the covered path, Stregobor said, "In a place like this, someone like you is rare."
John replied evenly, "Someone like you is rare, too."
Stregobor's brow twitched, but he quickly smoothed it over. Raising an eyebrow, he remarked, "Though as I recall, witchers don't have emotions."
John said nothing. He found the claim ridiculous.
Witchers had no emotions..? If his Grandpa heard it, he would certainly have something to say about that.
Stregobor continued, "I'm grateful that destiny has brought you to me."
As if destiny had anything to do with it.
Watching the wizard ramble on, John felt exasperated. "Go on then. What is it you want?"
A wizard hiding in the middle of a bustling town, seeking out a witcher—John doubted it was just to admire him.
Stregobor inclined his head slightly. "Very sharp, witcher. Yes, I do have business with you."
"I want you to help me with something," Stregobor said.
"What monster?" John asked.
After all, that was the only reason someone would call on a witcher—to kill monsters.
And since he was here for a trial, killing a few more monsters would only push his progress bar along faster.
But this time, he guessed wrong.
"It's a person," Stregobor said. "A woman named Renfri."
The two of them walked deeper into the garden and stopped by a flowerbed.
"Have you ever heard of the Curse of the Black Sun?" Stregobor asked.
"You should know," John said, fixing him with a cold stare, "whichers don't just kill monsters—they kill… wizards."
The moment those words left his mouth, Stregobor's hair stood on end.
He drew a long breath, forced down his discomfort, and went on. "The dark goddess Lilith of the night is said to be greeted by sixty maidens wearing golden crowns, staining the rivers red with their blood."
"I've studied girls born under the Black Sun. I discovered terrible mutations within them. I tried to heal them, locking them away in towers for their safety."
"But some of them always die."
As he spoke, Stregobor wore an expression of sanctity, as if he were some guardian of mankind.
Pity—nine out of ten words he spoke were lies.
"Terrible mutation?" John mused.
Could the Curse of the Black Sun be a kind of bloodborne curse?
The magical world had no shortage of beings that mutated on their own, but a mutation spreading on such a scale—this was the first he'd heard of it.
"I performed autopsies on those girls," Stregobor said lightly, with a hint of madness beneath his tone. "My analysis confirmed it."
"Eliminating them is the lesser of two evils."
He looked at John with expectation, as though he weren't talking about ending a life, but about planting hope to save the world.
John's expression stayed calm. "So, you want me to kill her? Just one life?"
In John's time, a single life—wizard or Muggle—was enough to have someone locked away for life.
And although this man carried a beard as white as Dumbledore's, compared to Dumbledore, he was nothing but the dregs of the magical world.
Granted, that might have something to do with the era he came from.
But the attitude still grated.
John stepped closer to Stregobor and said meaningfully, "You know, where I come from, what you're doing would get you thrown into Azkaban."
"Azkaban?" Stregobor looked puzzled, though he could tell John had no intention of helping.
So, to persuade him, he pressed on: "Renfri shows clear signs of mutation... Her stepmother told me she tortured a canary, strangled two puppies… To protect her family, I sent people to keep watch on her, and they found a corpse in the woods—stabbed through the chest with a brooch."
"Later I organized a search, but she escaped."
The wizard, trying to sway John, spoke with feigned sincerity: "She isn't human. She's a monster... She's hunted me for years, seeking revenge."
He fixed his gaze on John. "And at this very moment, you appeared. This is destiny."
"The great bear killed for hunger. She kills for pleasure. End her, and I'll pay you anything you want. The fate of the continent hangs by a thread. Killing Renfri is the lesser evil!"
He glared at John with burning intensity. John thought for a moment, then said casually, "I missed the part where that's my problem."
The wizard froze, staring as John walked away without looking back. Eh..?
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