"He's still alive… but it looks like he's unconscious."
Ida Emean leaned closer to Jerome Moreau, who sat cross-legged in meditation. She placed her right hand near his nose to test his breath, paused, then pressed lightly against the thin skin of his neck.
"No… that's not it," she shook her head. "His breathing and heartbeat are both slower than a normal witcher's, yet steady and perfectly coordinated.
His body temperature is low as well. It's less like unconsciousness, and more like a bear in hibernation.
His frame is gaunt, his muscle mass clearly weaker than average.
Most likely, with Tomas Moreau gone for so long, Jerome was forced to sink from meditation into a deeper, low-consumption hibernation state…
No wonder he didn't wake up despite all the commotion just now.
How fascinating… I've never heard of witchers being able to hibernate. Is this a change brought by the secondary mutation?"
She looked up. "Allen, should we wake him?"
"…Allen?"
"Allen!"
After calling several times without response, the elven sorceress turned and reached out, about to tap the witcher's shoulder.
"Ah?" Allen snapped back from his wild and terrifying speculations, hurriedly asking, "Lady Ida Emean, what did you say?"
She glanced around the chamber but saw nothing unusual that could distract a witcher.
"I asked whether we should wake him now."
"Oh—uh… y-yes, of course."
"Are you certain?" Ida Emean didn't turn back, her eyes fixed on Allen's, her words deliberate. "Are you certain you want him awake? Don't forget Jerome Moreau's identity…"
Allen steadied himself.
He drew a deep breath, glancing at the elven sorceress, then at Jerome's skeletal figure, eyes still shut. His gaze shifted further, past the shelves piled with books and clutter, to the shadowed passage where the colossal golem loomed like a mountain.
"I'm certain." Allen nodded lightly.
He knew what Ida Emean implied—Tomas Moreau was currently imprisoned in Kaer Morhen's dungeon.
Allen had never seen him with his own eyes—Vera and Sol had stopped him every time—but their reaction alone had spoken volumes.
Tomas's life in Kaer Morhen was surely harsh.
And no matter what, Jerome was still his child—a Griffin School master witcher. If he learned the truth, it might strain ties between the Wolf and Griffin Schools.
Worse yet, should Jerome take advantage of the Wolf School's current weakness to free his father… the consequences would be unpredictable.
"As long as the spatial seal is lifted, I can send him directly back to Kaer Morhen."
Yet Ida Emean still didn't move.
"It's fine," Allen reassured, casting another glance at the colossus's shadow, recalling the unsettling name from the hunt settlement. He shook his head. "Trust me, Lady Ida Emean."
"…Alright. If you believe it's safe, then it is." She shrugged.
With a wave of her left hand, a crystal vial appeared above her right palm, adorned with carvings of bees and blossoms, filled with golden liquid as thick as honey.
"His body is extremely weak," she explained, touching Jerome's lip lightly with her finger. His mouth opened slightly. "This honey, made by the Esth bear-bees, is far gentler than common honey. It will help him recover faster, without harming his body."
As she spoke, she guided a thread of shimmering honey out of the vial. It spun into a golden filament, floated across the air, and slipped into Jerome's mouth.
"Even so, after half a year without food, it will still take some time before he wakes."
"No matter. We can wait," Allen said with a nod.
He watched her feed Jerome for a while, then began wandering the space enclosed by the shelves.
Dust lay thick across the boards. Most compartments were empty. A few held wooden plates, utensils, empty burlap sacks, and some books.
The books were common knightly romances, their edges slightly curled with age—but clearly well cared for by their owner.
In one corner stood a small distillation still. Nearby were an iron-framed bed, an oak table, a high-backed chair, and some simple alchemical instruments.
Spread across the oak table were several sheets of parchment, drawn upon with sketches of a breastplate. Each part and material was carefully labeled in the margins.
Some notes were old, but fresher handwriting crowded the edges—likely Jerome's own additions:
"Day 3 of the Month of Budding—My strength is still growing, a surging warmth remains and has not faded. Perhaps… I should add more mithril to the breastplate, to enhance magical conductivity…"
"Day 26 of the Month of Blooming—The whispers of the elements have never been so clear. I can feel the delightful sprites around me: the water spirits soothe me, the wind spirits wish to lift me away, the earth spirits hold me back, while the fiery ones taunt me…"
"I was wrong last time. Mithril is not enough. I need rarer, stronger conduits for magic. Wyvern hide is also too poor in quality, unfit for me…
Perhaps I should consider a dragon… if I can ever leave this place…"
Allen's brows rose. These were grandmaster-grade Griffin School gear diagrams, interwoven with Jerome's records of his body's secondary mutation. He scanned a few more parchments—similar combinations of diagrams and notes filled the desk.
He hesitated for a moment. Then he refrained from touching the diagrams, not even with a fingertip.
In the game world of his past life, his collector's instinct would have demanded he seize them all—every diagram, every blueprint, hoarded for the day he might craft them.
But in reality, a witcher only needed one set of gear. No one carried multiple armors just for differing enchantments. A horse's load was limited; nothing could be wasted.
Besides…
Though the Wolf School had no explicit ban against studying Griffin School diagrams, an unspoken code remained. Peeking at another school's work was improper—and, more importantly, unnecessary.
Still, Jerome's notes on his secondary mutation intrigued him. Allen's azure pupils narrowed instinctively, drawing in what little light the dim chamber offered.
"Hm?"
Something odd caught his attention. At the center of the breastplate sketch, the parchment bulged faintly.
…The back of the diagram… a letter… weapon…" Allen muttered under his breath.
It was text written on the reverse side—familiar words.
After a moment's effort, he reordered them into sense:
[The paralyzing spell has faded, but the portal remains shut. I am still trapped here. Most of my belongings remain at Fort Ussar. Without equipment, I cannot escape.
I believe I will die here.
You took my sword, took every weapon I could wield. Even this letter I must scrawl on the back of a diagram.
But before I die, I must tell you one thing: you are a madman—always have been. A cruel, cold-blooded killer. I have long since felt nothing for you but hatred. I want no more ties with you. One day, I hope you pay for your crimes.
—Jerome]
The strokes were firm and powerful, as if each line was carved with blood-soaked hatred.
This was the letter Jerome Moreau wrote to his father in the previous timeline of the game—yet unexpectedly, it had already been written this early.
Jerome Moreau came from the Griffin School, a school of witchers where knights and gentlemen were the norm, prizing etiquette and conduct above all. For a Griffin master to say such words to his own father—one could imagine the depth of his hatred.
Such resolute hatred went far beyond any father-son bond that could ever be reconciled. Or rather, it was precisely because Tomas Moreau was his father that Jerome's hatred burned so terribly.
Take advantage of Kaer Morhen's weakness, break into the stronghold of the very school that had saved his life, and rescue Tomas Moreau? Impossible.
It was far more likely that once Jerome Moreau recovered, eyes blood-red, he would storm into the dungeons of the Ancient Sea Fortress and cut down Tomas Moreau with his own hands…
"But…" Allen frowned again as he reread the raised mirror-letters, "why is there no mention at all of his mother, Lydia, in Jerome's words?"
"What were you just spacing out about?" came Ida Emean's voice from behind, breaking his thoughts.
Allen turned back.
Half the crystal vial of Ester bumblebee honey was gone. The elven sorceress corked the bottle and looked at him with sea-blue eyes.
For a moment Allen was stunned, then realized she was talking about what had just happened when they first saw Jerome Moreau.
He glanced at the Griffin School witcher master, still lying with eyes tightly shut, hesitated a second, and asked: "Lady Ida Emean, is the deity of the Mountain Folk who governs spring called Gwendolyn?"
The elven sorceress froze; even her hand stopped mid-motion with the cork. She asked in surprise: "How do you know the holy name of the Lady of Spring?"
"I don't recall mentioning it earlier."
So it really was one of the elves' deities, Allen thought.
That was very interesting.
Ida Emean had only just said that all the gods of the Mountain Folk had perished in the Great Cataclysm. Yet now, the Lady of Spring Gwendolyn bore the suffix "Rebirth Soul"…
Did "Rebirth" mean that the Lady of Spring Gwendolyn could come back to life?
Or had she never truly died at all, but merely found some way to escape the dreadful White Frost?
This was not Allen's idle speculation—
[Name: Rebirth Soul of Gwendolyn, Maiden of Spring]
[Type: ?]
[Function: ?]
[Note: Neither alive nor dead. You may regard her as a seed.]
Although the Rebirth Soul of the Maiden of Spring Gwendolyn—like all entries related to gods—showed almost no real information on its panel, the annotation left in the Witcher's Journal was unusually ambiguous.
What did it mean to "treat Her as a seed"?
Did it imply that as long as one found the right way to "plant" Her somewhere, She could grow like a tree and be completely revived?
Damn!
Just moments ago, they were sighing, lamenting that "if only the gods of the Mountain Folk had left behind more things…"—but to their shock, the elven gods had indeed left behind something incredible.
They had directly left behind a god!
And not just any deity—according to Ida Emean, the Spring Maiden was second only to the Sun God and the Moon Goddess, one of the oldest of the seasonal deities.
Placed in the context of the Olympian pantheon of Allen's previous world, She would at least rank among the chief gods.
Moreover…
The Witcher's Journal did not only leave an ambiguous remark. Its attitude toward the Rebirth Soul of the Maiden of Spring Gwendolyn was equally vague.
By placing the Rebirth Soul into the item inventory, did that mean the Journal had already imprinted some sort of mark upon it?
Had the Witcher's Journal already gained dominion over a god?
Thoughts churned—countless ideas flashing across Allen's mind in an instant, only to collapse just as quickly.
"Because of certain circumstances, I was able to see the Spring Maiden Gwendolyn. And…"
Allen paused, meeting the doubtful gaze of Ida Emean.
"She seems to still have a chance of rebirth."
Ida Emean froze in place.
For a long while, she just stared blankly into Allen's deep blue eyes, before slowly repeating, word by word: "The Spring Maiden Gwendolyn still has… a chance of rebirth?!!"
Allen gave a slight nod.
A deathly silence fell.
An unexpected stillness that descended into the vast cavern.
He had thought that, as a former priestess of the gods, Ida Emean would be overjoyed—so thrilled by this news that she would lose control, like a little girl asking him again and again if what he said was true.
But instead, she simply stood there dazed, her expression incomparably complicated.
It was not without joy, but that joy was muddled and smeared over by shame, regret, bewilderment, even fear—making it difficult to discern.
After a long while—
"You found what you were seeking." The elven sorceress brushed aside a strand of crimson hair from her forehead, glanced briefly at Jerome Moreau, and said softly, "And it was not this Griffin School witcher."
Allen blinked, then nodded frankly. "I did find it."
Another stretch of silence followed.
"You weren't lying. What you said is true." Ida Emean's tone was weary, almost defeated.
Allen tilted his head curiously. "Hearing this news… you don't seem happy."
"No, I am not unhappy." Ida Emean shook her head slowly. "I just don't know… I don't know if I should feel joy."
Her gaze grew vacant, her eyes unfocused—like a lost child who had forgotten the way home.
She looked at Allen, yet it was as if her eyes were fixed behind him, piercing through him, gazing instead at the past.
"Allen…"
"The Aen Seidhe grew up under the shelter of the gods. To the Mountain Folk, the gods were as close as Melitele is to humans. No—far closer than Melitele is today…"
"And now…"
Ida Emean paused, her voice heavy with sighs.
"Now… it is no longer the era of the Mountain Folk."
-----------------------------------
Allen said nothing. He didn't know what words could be spoken in such a moment. Fortunately, he didn't have to remain in that awkward silence for long.
"Hhhrr…"
A guttural sound rumbled beside the witcher and the elf.
The brilliant researcher who had undergone a second mutation, Tomas Moreau And the child of the elven priestess Lydia, who carried within her the Seed of God's rebirth—The world's first Griffin School master witcher to successfully survive a second mutation, Jerome Moreau…
Had awakened!
.....
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