When Francesca was still here, the cabin was just an ordinary cabin.
Though Sol looked deathly pale and sickly, he hadn't been shackled—he simply appeared weak. But now, the space around him had become warped.
The crude stone cave and the artificial wooden cabin trembled, shifting between illusion and reality.
A faint floral scent was quickly overpowered by the stench of blood. The foul stench of blood slowly dyed the pitted ground red.
In the end, the brutal image of the stone cave overtook everything.
Sol's eyes were tightly shut, and his breathing was barely detectable.
Not only were his limbs now bound in shackles, but his coarse linen robe was also in tatters, with only a few rags barely covering his body.
His exposed flesh resembled cracked porcelain—his entire body was covered in bleeding fissures, the sight of which sent chills down Allen's spine.
Allen didn't understand.
How could someone still be alive in such a state?
And just moments ago, how had he managed to negotiate so calmly with Francesca Findabair in this condition?
What exactly was keeping him going?
But one thing was beyond any doubt—Sol's condition had worsened.
The spatial distortions around him were a sign that his power was becoming uncontrollable.
His state was terrible—far worse than Allen had imagined. It looked as if he might drop dead at any moment.
"Allen, have you ever thought about your origins?"
Vera's voice snapped him out of his thoughts about the chief's horrifying condition.
His origins?
What kind of question was that?
Allen turned his head in confusion.
Sol was on the verge of death right in front of them, and you're asking a witcher about his past?
Shouldn't we be talking about legacy vessels, secondary mutations, dark arts—throwing everything at him, useful or not?
"No," Allen shook his head. "Witchers don't need an origin. Even less a background."
"Not even a little?"
Allen nodded honestly. "At least, not since the Trial of Grasses. After that, never again."
After all, from that moment on, this body had belonged to someone else.
Upon hearing that, Vera fell silent for a long time. She bit her lower lip, her expression conflicted as she looked toward Sol, who remained silent with closed eyes.
No matter how firm her resolve had been, when the moment finally came, even a single sentence felt heavier than the towering Blue Mountains.
It weighed deep in her chest, sinking like a stone in the sea, impossible to dislodge.
She knew she was running away—clinging to the present.
Now, she could unabashedly gaze upon the most perfect creation she had ever brought into this world. She could pretend to carelessly gift him with rare potions, teach him obscure knowledge, watch him grow, secretly bask in the reverence, gratitude, and dependence of a bloodline connection—and even the admiration from others…
But once the hidden truth was revealed, all of it would collapse, the very foundation crumbling to nothing…
"Huu…"
Vera took a deep breath. The inevitable future felt suffocating, as though her throat were being gripped by an invisible hand.
"Miss Vera, are you alright?"
Allen supported the suddenly pale-faced sorceress, thinking Francesca Findabair's arrival and Sol's worsening condition had thrown her into despair.
He asked with concern, "Is it that the legacy vessel isn't working?"
"It's alright, we still have the secondary mutation," he reassured her. "In this world, there are always more solutions than problems."
Vera clutched her chest with her right hand, her eyes tracing Allen's features as if memorizing them—like she was preparing to say goodbye at any moment.
"The legacy vessel… it's too late," she whispered, struggling to suppress her emotions. "Sol's body can't hold on until Ronnie Dickinson's legacy vessel is fully deciphered."
"As for the secondary mutation… Ida Emean told me she's close to extracting the answer from Tomas Moreau's mind."
"But I don't know if it'll work—whether it can even be applied to Sol. Allen, I really don't know."
"Neither I nor Ida Emean—nor even all of Aretuza—are known for expertise in genetic mutation. We're better at traditional alchemy, transmutation, spatial and elemental magic."
"Genetic mutation is the traditional domain of the Rissberg Group's Civil Cooperative Organization. Only Ban Ard Academy has some roots that allow involvement."
"Ever since the last chief sorcerer of the School of the Wolf left Kaer Morhen and returned to the Rissberg Group, the school's research on genetic mutation, mutant biology, and witcher modification has completely stalled."
"My joining could only rely on alchemical branches to create the Trial of Grasses concoction, to stabilize mutations through spellwork…"
Vera's words poured out rapidly, blindly, flooding Allen with everything she knew about genetic mutation—as if she feared there would be no chance to speak again.
It was more like she was pouring out some deep emotion—hidden in her words, present everywhere, yet painfully subtle. Until, at some point, all sound abruptly ceased.
The entire world seemed to fall into sudden silence.
"Allen…"
She called out softly in anguish, tears streaming uncontrollably from the corners of her eyes: "Sol's name is already written in the Death's List."
Allen felt a deep chill sink into his heart.
This wasn't the first time Vera had broken down in front of him.
He had only been back for a little over a day, yet the woman who once stood high above—who could wave her hand and wipe out swarms of Drowners, a sorceress versed in alchemy, rituals, and spells, seemingly capable of anything—now appeared as fragile as an ordinary woman, helplessly watching someone she loved dying.
He couldn't help but think bleakly—
Was the Chief truly beyond saving?
Without Sol to serve as their bond, was the collapse of the Wolf School just around the corner?
Just like in the game, after Vesemir's death, the castle hall never again lit up with the warmth of a yearly reunion.
Then… where should he go?
Should he center everything around the Witcher Corps and forcibly hold the Wolf School together?
Could the weakened Wolf School truly resist the looming threat from Ban Ard and the Rissberg Civil Cooperative?
"Allen."
Vera's voice pulled him back from his drifting thoughts.
"Yes, Lady Vera?"
Allen's feline pupils constricted sharply, fixing on the teary, delicate face of the sorceress.
And in that very instant, a sigh soaked with the scent of blood echoed faintly through the cabin. But Allen had no time to tell—
Was that sigh from the Chief of the Wolf School?
Was it just an illusion—or real?
"Allen, you are the descendant of the Henrietta and Treance bloodlines, the miracle born of a witcher and a sorceress, you are…"
"Our child!"
In that moment, the sorceress's long-suppressed emotions burst forth—
She cried out hoarsely, the secret buried deep in her heart finally breaking free.
In a flash—
It felt like a Wild Hunt fireball had exploded in Allen's mind, scorching his thoughts in a blaze.
He instinctively turned his head.
The Grandmaster of the Wolf School, seated cross-legged on the cold stone slab, looked back at him with a gaze full of conflicted emotion.
Helplessness.
Pity.
But above all—regret.
And in that moment, countless images flooded Allen's mind.
Everything…
Suddenly made sense.
Why had he, just after passing the Trial of Grasses, run into Sol during a routine combat drill and received from him a rare magical item—what seemed like an enchanted trinket but was actually a genuine Mirage Pearl?
Other apprentices rarely saw the Chief at all, let alone received rewards, no matter how well they performed.
Why was Vera always so warm and selfless toward him?
When he wanted to learn alchemy, she taught him alchemy.
When he wanted ritual magic, she taught that too—asking nothing in return.
She even introduced him to one of the greatest ritualists alive: Archpriestess Ianna of the Melitele Temple.
Bottle after bottle of Verdant Sighs.
The prestigious post of Witcher Corps Commander.
The "magic staff" he used in the apprentice dueling competition...
All these privileges weren't because of the "miracle" in the title "Miracle Child," but simply because he was a child.
The child of the Grandmaster of the Wolf School and the Scarlet Red Fox.
Parents always give their children everything they can.
But how could it be possible?
How could a Witcher and a sorceress have a child?
How could that ever happen?
That… that had never once appeared in the novels or the games!
"Allen…" Vera moved closer with concern.
Allen instinctively took a step back. The sorceress's hand froze in midair.
"Sorry," he composed himself, though he couldn't hide the shock on his face. "Are you sure it's me? I mean…"
"I cut your umbilical cord myself. And I personally brought you to Kaer Morhen," Sol said quietly from her place on the stone bed.
Vera quickly added, wiping away tears, "Allen, we've been watching over you all this time…"
"As a Witcher?" Allen countered.
Sol and Vera fell silent. Guilt flooded their eyes, and their faces grew dim. They opened their mouths but couldn't speak.
Allen couldn't help but feel the situation was just too dramatic. A man who had been an orphan in two lives… suddenly had both a father and mother?
Who would ever imagine something like this would happen to him?
So it turns out "Miracle Child" had nothing to do with his identity as a transmigrator.
A child born of a Witcher and a sorceress—who could deny that was a miracle?
To be honest, Sol and Vera had always treated him well. In terms of both personal gain and emotional bond, he really should just acknowledge them as his parents. And he wasn't someone with strict principles.
As someone who had grown up an orphan and managed to live to adulthood—doing quite well, at that—Allen's bottom line was highly flexible.
But at this moment, he just instinctively felt uncomfortable.
The way someone might flinch from spiders, pythons, centipedes, or scorpions—without needing to be taught.
Rage surged to his head, and searing emotion burned through every vein.
He had to force himself not to lose control.
Allen knew—it was the influence of his former self.
Memory is personality.
After crossing over, he had absorbed all the memories of his predecessor. Of course, that came with its own side effects.
In fact, it had taken him several days at the start just to come to terms with his new identity and avoid the risk of personality dissociation.
Thankfully, his predecessor had lived a simple life.
But in some sense, Allen—now bearing the memories of both—was simultaneously the middle manager poisoned by his boss and the nameless Wolf School apprentice who had died during the Trial of Grasses.
Usually, the thirteen-year-old boy—whose entire life revolved around training—posed no threat to the mental stability of an experienced adult with three decades of memories.
But clearly… extreme emotions were an exception.
His former self had hated his birth parents—and he had every reason to.
After all…
His own mother and father had abandoned him. After letting him endure trials that could only be described as torture, they had ultimately killed him—within a torment so severe it could have shattered any mind.
So at this moment, Allen's tone was sharp, unable to contain his anger.
"Now you tell me this—what is it you want?"
Suppressing the storm in his heart, Allen tried to keep his voice calm and spoke softly: "To beg for my forgiveness?"
"No," Sol's throat moved slightly, his mouth filled with the taste of rusted iron.
He let out a light sigh. "Forgiveness… is something we never dared to hope for."
"I and your mo—" He paused, then changed his wording. "I and Vera… we just didn't want to shamelessly make use of your precious item."
"And we wanted to say one final goodbye."
Sol cracked a rust-scented smile, then looked calmly at Allen's stormy, iron-gray expression as he added, "Don't blame your mother. The decision to send you to Kaer Morhen was mine."
"She always objected. Always tried to pull you away from this path. We fought over it for years."
"Even before the Trial of the Mountains, she repeatedly tried to take you away from Kaer Morhen."
"She has always loved you."
Sol didn't offer excuses or justifications—he simply took all the blame onto himself.
Vera opened her mouth, unable to bear it. "Allen, we were never fit to be your parents, but we had our reasons for raising you to be a Witcher…"
"Vera, enough…" Sol gently shook his head. "In the end, it was me, clinging to a meaningless path, forcing my desires onto the two of you."
"And this so-called road to glory… it never existed. It harmed others—and ourselves. Harmed others, and harmed ourselves…"
"Only now am I finally confessing—but it's too late," Sol said, looking at the wounds covering his body with regret. "If I'd done this sooner, maybe you could've beaten me up a few times to vent some anger, but now…"
"I don't even need your hand to end me—I'm almost dead already."
"You shouldn't be burdened with the label of patricide. That would be yet another wrong I've forced onto you."
"You've always been a rational person. In the next few days, I'll tell you everything about the Wolf School… though you won't be able to hold the position of Chief just yet."
"But I'll have Vesemir—"
"Wait!" Allen interrupted Sol.
He took a deep breath. "I need some time to cool off. We'll talk about the rest later…"
Still maintaining basic courtesy, Allen nodded in acknowledgment and turned to leave the wooden cabin. But Vera called out, handing him Ronnie Dickinson's Legacy Vessel.
"No need," Allen glanced at Vera's tear-filled eyes, then at Sol. "It's not time to give up yet."
"You two keep studying the Legacy Vessel. Keep pushing Ida Emean to uncover the secret of the second mutation and locate the laboratory in Toussaint. Also…"
He paused, face devoid of emotion.
"Don't worry about no one understanding genetic mutation theory. I'll find a way."
With that—
Allen walked out of the cabin without looking back.
Inside, silence lingered for a moment before a long sigh echoed.
"With a child this good… how could we ever be worthy?"
.....
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