"Great Deeds?" Danthe turned back, puzzled. "You mean a great career?"
"More or less," Allen nodded. "Did Lebioda ever mention this term to you?"
Seeing Allen's serious expression, Danthe furrowed his brows, lowered his head, and pondered for a long while.
"Lebioda's life's work was certainly worthy of being called great," Danthe said. "He did countless things for the common folk of Kaedwen—from mediating neighborly disputes and teaching shepherding or farming tips, to negotiating tax reductions with nobles on behalf of villagers, and even driving out monsters to expand human settlements…"
"Too many to count."
He glanced at the well-kept and clearly well-read Good Book of Prophet Lebioda's Wisdom that Sam held tightly in his arms.
"Lebioda visited Redania but never set foot in Drakenborg. His wisdom, however, has traveled farther and lasted longer than his footsteps ever did."
"So of course, Lebioda accomplished Great Deeds."
"The Prophet's wisdom is a Great Deed! You can find answers to everything in the holy text!" Sam chimed in, eyes glowing with conviction, nodding fervently.
Answers to everything…? Allen had doubts but didn't see any reason to challenge a believer's devotion at this moment.
"But the term itself—'Great Deed'…" Danthe shook his head. "I've never heard Lebioda use that exact phrase."
"What about other sorcerers?" Allen pressed.
"None of them either," Danthe answered instantly without much thought. "Sorcerers like to spout big ideas no one can really understand. Ronnie Dickinson, for example—it was always about eternal peace, improving the human race, or discovering the creator's secrets…"
"They always claimed to be doing it for humanity, yet wouldn't lift a finger to kill a drowner harassing a village. Instead, they used ordinary people's bodies for their experiments…"
He curled his lip in disdain, then realizing he had gone off-topic, added, "Of course, I've only known a few sorcerers. Why are you asking this all of a sudden? Is it important?"
"Yes." Allen nodded.
Danthe rubbed the beard on his chin and offered, "When we get back to Kaer Morhen, you can ask Aristo. He spent the most time with Lebioda."
Allen nodded slightly and didn't interrupt Danthe and Sam again.
In daylight, Drakenborg was surprisingly less guarded than at night—likely because they were in the northern quarter, not the eastern quarter where the administrators and sorcerers lived. With the city's leadership having vanished just the day before, they were not questioned even once on their way through.
After crossing several drawbridges in the northern district and climbing two slopes, the anguished screams gradually faded. In their place came the sounds of what seemed like a market or artisan's lane.
The stalls displayed everything from tomatoes and iron nails to burlap. A white-haired blacksmith barked orders to an apprentice to stoke the furnace, and at the end of the street, there was even a wooden tavern with a beer sign hanging above it…
It was still early in the morning, so the streets weren't crowded—probably not yet time for the shift change.
"The north quarter is where we soldiers live—blacksmiths, tailors, and even a place to grab a drink if you've got the time. It's rationed though, and expensive…" Sam explained softly after Danthe had finished telling Lebioda's story.
"Usually we only come here during the quarterly pay when we can trade grain or olive oil for a couple of drinks…"
"When I came here eight years ago, there was no tavern—just a blacksmith, a tailor, and an old woman who sold apple pies…" Danthe recalled.
"Yeah," Sam nodded, "the tavern was opened three years ago by one of Evenson's… relatives. As for old Granny Tracey who sold pies, she left with the previous administrator, Viscount Ferdinand. She used to be the viscount's cook…"
"A noble's cook, huh? No wonder those pies were so good." Danthe sighed with appreciation.
After passing the newly opened stalls and rounding two corners, the air started to reek faintly of iron, alcohol, and herbs. The scent grew stronger with each step, along with heated voices and outbursts of emotion.
"Why can't you save them?! You said there was still hope just now!"
A familiar angry voice echoed inside a longhouse lined with all kinds of herbs.
A woman replied gently, "I said there might be hope if there were no complications. But now both of them have a fever, and at this stage—"
"Look at Iron Shield's legs! The bones aren't even shattered! How is he going to die from that?" the angry voice cut her off. "And Furi just has some scrapes—how does that turn into something fatal?"
The woman didn't get angry. Perhaps she was used to this sort of thing. Calmly, she said, "Wyatt, they both have fevers. The wounds are festering, and there are signs of internal bleeding…"
"We're just ordinary doctors. Injuries this severe can't be treated in Drakenborg. Better to give them some safflower and ease the pain…"
"What about the Temple of Melitele? Can they save them?" a voice suddenly called out as the door swung open.
"Who?!!"
The burly man sitting by the bedside suddenly raised his head, bloodshot eyes glaring with fury.
"S-Sam…" Sam was so startled by the killing intent in that glare that he jolted and his legs instinctively went weak. But the man's gaze didn't stay on him—it shifted to the empty space beside him.
His furious eyes blinked in disbelief, then his mouth opened in shock.
"The Temple of Melitele can of course heal them," said a middle-aged woman in plain linen clothing. She didn't recognize the newcomers, but instinctively stepped to shield Sam from the man's line of sight. "But Drakenborg is too far from Ellander. These two patients wouldn't survive the journey, let alone the jolt—"
"You mean to say!"
The big man suddenly stood up from the bed.
"Wyatt, this is a hospital!" the middle-aged woman spread her arms wide to block his way.
"No… no… Why are you back?" Wyatt waved his hands anxiously, stumbling over his words for a few seconds. Then he peeked toward both ends of the longhouse and lowered his voice, "Polina is one of us… Master Danthe, and…"
"Allen. I'm Allen of the School of the Wolf."
Allen dismissed the illusion and nodded to the stunned middle-aged woman, Polina. "We can take the two wounded to the Temple of Melitele. We'll arrive before noon. Will that be in time?"
"Yes… yes, it should…" Polina instinctively answered, but then shook her head. "But how could you possibly cross the Pontar River in just a single morning…"
"They can! They can go through the skies!" Wyatt interrupted her excitedly.
"T-The skies?"
Polina looked completely lost. Ever since the wounded were brought in, she had been focused on treating them and hadn't yet heard about the griffin.
"There's no time to explain! I'll tell you everything when we get back…" Wyatt hurriedly pushed Polina toward the two patients' beds. "Quick! Polina! Quickly bandage up Iron Shield and Furi's wounds!"
Still dazed, Polina obeyed and began changing their dressings, using smooth wooden splints to stabilize their leg bones.
Iron Shield and Furi lay unconscious, faces pale, offering no resistance as the others handled their care.
Master Danthe and Allen actually seemed to get along quite well with Lord Wyatt… Sam stared in shock at the scene before him.
"Not everyone in Drakenborg is a bad person…" Allen patted Sam on the shoulder.
Then he turned and glanced around the empty longhouse. "Where are the other wounded? If there are any that can't be treated here, we can take them with us."
Wyatt's hand paused as he was supporting Iron Shield.
"There are no other wounded," Polina shook her head.
"But…" Allen hesitated, noticing the evasive look in Wyatt's eyes. He swallowed the rest of his words.
Right.
Even Shield Guards—protected by large shields, armed with magical tools, and likely enhanced through body modifications—were seriously injured in the mudslide. How could ordinary guards have survived?
"This has nothing to do with you," said Danthe. "Didn't I tell you before? This was a war—and in war, we have no other choice."
"Master Danthe is right. That was a war, and those people died because of Evenson' selfish ambition. They were killed by Evenson," Wyatt said, standing up and looking Allen straight in the eyes with sincerity. "Allen, before we came to this place, we were already prepared…"
Prepared for what… Allen didn't ask the question aloud. He only looked at the two burly men whose wounds had been bandaged and took a deep breath.
The scent of blood and bitter herbs filled his nostrils.
I've done all I could… he told himself.
The process of packing up the two injured men went unusually fast. After leaving the infirmary, Wyatt called over two Shield Guards named "Big Head" and "Little Head" to help carry the wounded.
They also borrowed a freight cart from the general store.
This time, the path out of Drakenborg was even smoother than before.
No one would stop a few grim-faced Shield Guards hauling "corpses" wrapped in blood-soaked cloth—especially not the guards who knew what had happened the previous night.
They didn't even dare glance over from the corners of their eyes.
"Drop us off here!"
After smoothly making it out of Drakenborg and turning down a small path toward Montecalvo, Allen had them stop by the roadside after a couple of bends.
"Allen."
Wyatt got down from the cart, glanced at the desolate and empty path, then turned toward Allen, who looked back at the sound of his voice.
"Iron Shield and Furi are already this badly injured. If they can't be saved, it's only natural—that's just their fate."
"It means Lady Destiny doesn't permit them to live on. Just like how witchers are chosen by the Law of Surprise."
Allen was silent for a moment before nodding. "Don't worry. They'll be saved."
"You probably don't know, but I'm quite close with Arch-Priestess Ianna of the Temple of Melitele… or rather, Lady Ianna."
Wyatt paused for a second, then let out a loud, hearty laugh. "Alright, alright, that's good to hear. Now I'm at ease."
"If those two brats recover, don't rush them back," he said, pulling a pouch of coins from his pocket and handing it to Allen. "As far as Drakenborg's concerned, they're dead. But since they're orphans anyway, and not married, it doesn't really matter where they stay—let them settle down in Ellander for now."
"In a little while, I'll find a way to arrange some work for them."
Allen replied, "In that case, I could speak with Duke Mason of Ellander. For various reasons, he's currently short-staffed…"
"Or maybe I'll ask the temple priests to help look into it. I'm sure we can find them something suitable."
Wyatt's hand froze mid-air. He was silent for a few seconds, then asked hesitantly, "Duke… Mason?"
"Duke Mason of Ellander," Allen nodded. "Due to some matters, I've built a pretty decent relationship with him too."
Wyatt was a little taken aback by that.
Looking at Allen's youthful face, barely fourteen or fifteen years old, and hearing him casually mention dukes and high priestesses—how could that not sound absurd?
But then he remembered the headless corpse of Ronnie Dickinson in the lab and immediately understood.
Someone capable of killing a member of Conclave of Mages's High Council—no matter how young—was bound to be connected to a few powerful figures. What was so strange about that?
"Why am I starting to feel jealous of Iron Shield and Furi?" Big Head scratched his head and looked at Little Head.
Little Head sighed. "Me too. I was right beside Furi at the time. If I'd just held the shield a bit slower…"
Thud! Thud!
Two heavy punches interrupted their loud whispering.
"What was that?" Wyatt growled through clenched teeth, the veins on his forehead bulging. "Is staying by my side too much for you?"
"Should I go ahead and smash you both into Iron Shield and Furi's condition—save you the extra walking!"
Big Head and Little Head held their heads and repeatedly apologized.
"Take it. It's their compensation," Wyatt tossed the coin pouch toward Allen. "After all, they can't just die for nothing…"
Allen didn't refuse this time.
"And," Wyatt looked at the two pale-faced shield guards, "thank you, Allen. I never thought Iron Shield and Furi would have a chance to live."
Allen opened his mouth, about to say something—
"Screee~"
"Good Girl" descended from the sky.
Vesemir, along with a few young witchers, carefully transferred the two stretchers onto the back of the giant griffin.
"No, Wyatt."
Allen glanced at Wyatt, then turned his head to look at the jagged silhouette of the massive city peeking from the edge of the forest. He said softly,
"The one who should be saying thank you… is me."
——
The journey was silent. Vesemir never lifted the Axii binding spell on Evenson.
Once its duration ended, he simply reapplied it.
Even as they left behind the shimmering expanse of the Pontar River, and the majestic Mahakam mountains drew closer, the binding was never removed.
But dealing with Evenson wasn't difficult. The moment he chose to plot against the School of the Wolf, his fate was already sealed.
The real trouble would come after Evenson' death—inevitably, from Redania and Rissberg Group's Civil Cooperative Organization.
Each of those powers was a colossal force compared to the current state of the School of the Wolf.
No—perhaps it wasn't just those two. If the true force behind Evenson wasn't the Consortium, there might be another faction altogether.
In an instant, the School of the Wolf once again seemed to stand on a precarious edge—just like when Allen first crossed into this world.
"Maybe…"
Danthe looked at Evenson, his expression conflicted for a few seconds, then hesitantly spoke: "Maybe we should let Evenson go?"
...
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