"Who are you?"
When Allen and Ida Emean turned their heads, they saw a face that was weak, yet unnervingly calm. A face lined with claw marks across the bridge of the nose and the cheeks—dangerous, cold, and merciless.
It fit perfectly with the stereotype common folk held of witchers: feelings stripped away by the Trial of Grasses.
Though, that was mostly the aftereffect of the Bear School's trials.
Of course, many witchers from other schools didn't bother correcting the misconception, and even enjoyed the façade—it saved them trouble. The Wolf School in particular had plenty of antisocial witchers who preferred that mask.
But the Griffin School was different. Their usual image was that of noble knights—helpful, chivalric, fastidious in spirit, and at ease mingling between nobles and commoners alike.
Perhaps it was the torment of years that had changed him, Allen thought.
After enduring decades of his father's twisted experiments—not only keeping his sanity, but carrying himself with such composure… truth be told, it was remarkable.
Then again, Jerome Moreau had always been remarkable.
In 1087, when his father Tomas Moreau was saved by a Griffin School witcher, Jerome was accidentally bound by fate to Kaer Seren.
By 1121, he had come to Toussaint in search of a master smith for the Griffin grandmaster gear, only to fall into one of Tomas Moreau's elaborate traps—an ambush disguised as a lucrative contract. That was thirty-four years later.
Considering Jerome was chosen by accident in 1087, his Trial of Grasses and formal initiation as a Griffin witcher could not have been earlier than 1090.
Which meant: from novice to master witcher, Jerome Moreau had risen in just over twenty years—nearly matching Vesemir's record as the youngest witcher master at forty.
A rare genius, beyond doubt.
Back to the present.
Besides his expression, Jerome's most striking feature was his eyes—eyes unlike any other witcher's.
Not only did they carry the wild, beast-like pupils characteristic of all witchers, but his were streaked with inky black, sea-green, and ghostly violet, glowing faintly with magical light. They were unforgettable.
To be stared at by those eyes felt like being stripped bare in an instant, every weakness laid open, leaving no sense of safety.
Allen's spine tingled, hair bristling, his instincts nearly forcing him to draw his sword in defense.
"My apologies, witcher brother," Jerome said before either of them could speak. He had already sensed Allen's unease, and so he deliberately shut his eyes. "I'm weak right now. It's hard to control them."
Yet when he opened his eyes again—
Not only had the glow that made Allen's wolf medallion hum vanished, but even the witcher's beast pupils were gone, leaving him with the eyes of an ordinary man.
Ordinary—except they still carried that uncanny tricolored pattern.
Allen frowned slightly, linking with his Mirage Pearl to confirm.
Not an illusion!
"Indeed, not an illusion, brother witcher." Jerome inclined his head lightly. "A gift from fate, tempered through suffering."
"You can read minds?!" Allen blurted out in shock.
"I cannot read minds," Jerome shook his head, tapping his temple with a finger. "You told me yourself—right here."
Allen froze.
I told him? What does that mean? I didn't use telepathy…
"You can hear my thoughts too?" Ida Emean suddenly asked curiously.
Jerome shook his head, tone calm. "No. Only his. And even then, not always—just fragments, scattered."
At that, Allen and Ida Emean exchanged a glance.
Jerome, however, after finishing his statement, looked at Allen—then at Ida Emean. His gaze lingered noticeably on her pointed, elven ears.
"So… you were sent by Lydia to rescue me?"
"Lydia? Who is that?" Ida Emean arched a brow. "We were… brought here by accident, through certain circumstances."
"The guard watching you—he's the one who dealt with him. And after seeing you, it was his decision to help."
"My jailer…" Jerome muttered faintly.
His eyes slid past Allen and Ida Emean to the cavern strewn with wreckage, and to the massive golem blocking its entrance.
For the first time, Jerome's expression shifted.
"Tomas Moreau's golem—you destroyed it?" His eyes snapped back to Allen in disbelief.
No one understood golems better than Jerome.
Even stripped of all his weapons by Tomas, left weakened, that golem could have forced even Jerome at his peak into despair.
Whatever material Tomas had forged it from, whatever core he had given it—the thing's regeneration exceeded any monster Jerome had ever seen or heard of.
Practically undying, godlike.
And now, that nearly immortal golem had been destroyed by someone who looked like he'd only just descended the mountain—or perhaps not even survived the Trial yet.
How… how could that be possible?
"Ida exaggerates," Allen waved it off. "Without her, I could never have defeated the golem alone."
Ida Emean only smiled faintly, lips pressed together, and shook her head. So it was true. Jerome was truly astonished this time.
Because of his mother, he understood elves.
The young witcher might downplay his role, but the elven sorceress's attitude spoke louder than words.
When she spoke to him, she did so as an equal.
Never mind that elves had been driven into a corner by humans, never mind their decline.
The more desperate their plight, the more fiercely the elves clung to pride.
For their dignity was all they had left.
Among the proud Aen Seidhe, sorceresses were the most arrogant of them all.
"Wait, Ida…" Jerome Moreau's eyes suddenly lit up. Staring thoughtfully at the elven sorceress's crimson hair, he exclaimed in surprise, "You are Ida Emean… Ida Emean aep Sivney, the priestess?"
"Priestess…" Ida Emean caught the keyword, raising her brows slightly. "You know me?"
"I heard…" Jerome Moreau's face shifted unnaturally. "I once heard of you—you're the last priestess of the Mountain Folk…"
"That's not information ordinary people would know." Ida Emean's gaze grew meaningful.
Avoiding her stare, Jerome Moreau turned to Allen, forcing a change of subject. "Although you both seem to already know who I am, allow me to introduce myself properly…"
With weak hands pressing against the ground, he struggled to stand. Allen quickly extended his left arm to steady him.
"Thank you…" Jerome murmured, straightening himself. "I am Jerome Moreau of the Griffin School. I came to Toussaint in search of a master smith to forge equipment, but instead I was… ambushed."
Allen acted as though he hadn't heard the last part. "Wolf School, witcher Allen."
"He's the youngest witcher master in the world…" Ida Emean added. "As for me, since you already know, there's no need to introduce myself."
She glanced at the golem's body, then turned her gaze back on Jerome.
"In a moment, we'll leave. For now, I intend to extract the core from that strange golem. You…"
"This is your spoils of war, do as you please." Jerome Moreau clearly caught her implication. "I can hardly move. I'll tidy up my things and wait here for you…"
"Lady Ida, go ahead," Allen suddenly interjected, cutting him off. "I'll help Master Jerome gather his things, then together we'll head to the golem. After that, we'll teleport away."
Ida Emean found it odd that Allen had interrupted Jerome, but she didn't care enough to press the matter.
She simply gave Jerome a nod, opened a short-range portal, and in a few steps reached the golem's remains.
The spatial barrier had vanished with the golem's death.
"Master Jerome, what do you need to gather?" Allen asked as he supported him.
"Oh… only a few schematics, on that table," Jerome Moreau said, recovering from the interruption. "Thank you, Allen… er, Master Allen."
"Just call me Allen," Allen shook his head, guiding him toward the oak table. "And there's no need to thank me."
"The Wolf School and the Griffin School share the same origin. They're among the few schools on the Continent that still uphold the witcher's original creed."
"When most schools now take contracts purely for profit, the Griffin School's noble conduct deserves the respect of every witcher…"
Allen's words might have sounded a little flattering.
But the truth was that witchers of the Griffin School were indeed considered to hold themselves to higher moral standards than those of the Wolf School.
As mentioned before, the griffin was their emblem. According to legend, the Griffin School earned its name after nearly exterminating every griffin in the Kovir Mountains.
In fact, the school was founded by Erland of Larvik, who named it the Griffin School in honor of his teacher—a wandering knight known by the nickname "Gryphon."
Just as his teacher had taught, the founding members of the school were deeply inspired by the ideals of knighthood, believing that the work of witchers carried a noble significance.
Because of this, its members always emphasized personal virtue and discipline, dedicating themselves to practicing the knightly way by helping and saving those harmed by monsters.
And it was not merely hypocritical slogans or superficial posturing, but something acknowledged by everyone—even by many fellow witchers.
In fact, at the beginning, the founder Erland even envisioned that the Griffin School's monster-hunting services would be completely free of charge.
He traveled tirelessly between courts, lobbying rulers for support. Although the plan was never adopted due to its lack of financial return, Erland's efforts still won the Griffin School some powerful political backing.
This made the Griffin School the one most closely aligned with the Witcher Order's ideals.
While the Wolf School had produced witchers of questionable character, since its founding, every witcher of the Griffin School had upheld high moral standards, earning them the reputation of moral exemplars of the Northern Continent.
If the Cat School's existence was the root cause of the witchers' sullied reputation, then the Griffin School was the very reason that reputation had not entirely rotted away.
One negative, one positive—if not for interference from other forces, the two might even have balanced each other out.
Given the Cat School's behavior, the great respect and welcome shown to the Griffin School by many of the Northern Continent's powers is easy to understand.
This was also why Allen chose not to heed Ida Emean's hint, choosing instead to conceal the truth.
The Griffin School was an ivory tower of naïve idealists—the best allies one could ask for, for as long as they walked the righteous path, there was no fear of betrayal.
Allen, and the Wolf School, both needed such allies.
Of course—
In the original timeline, the Griffin School's fate was the same as that of all idealists: tragic. They declined completely after being crushed by an avalanche of deliberate conspiracy.
But since Allen had arrived, everything would surely turn out very differently.
"Th-thank you…"
Jerome Moreau was stunned by Allen's praise.
What's more, the special abilities he had gained through his second mutation allowed him to sense that every word Allen spoke came from the heart.
For a moment, his pale face flushed red, and the corners of his lips curled upward slightly.
If Jerome Moreau were a member of the Witcher Corps, then above his head there would surely be a cascade of messages appearing—
Affinity +1
Affinity +1
Affinity +1
-----------------------------------
"The Wolf School is the true heir of the Witcher Order," he replied. "Chief Erland himself once said that Master Sol of the Wolf School was a true knight who inherited the very spirit of the Witcher Order…"
Walking to the desk, Jerome Moreau glanced at the untouched schematics. His tone paused slightly, and his impression of Allen deepened.
Especially when he considered Allen's age.
At his own age back then, Jerome Moreau would never have resisted the temptation of a grandmaster-level equipment blueprint. Not even flipping through it out of curiosity was something he could have done.
After asking Allen to put away the schematics for him, Jerome Moreau regained some strength and let go of Allen's support.
"There are no ungrateful men in the Griffin School," he said solemnly, placing his frail right hand shakily over his chest in a simple knight's salute. "Brother Allen of the Wolf School, I owe you my life."
Allen stepped aside to avoid the salute. "With the bond between the Wolf School and the Griffin School, there's no need to repay with your life."
"However, Master Jerome, I do need your help. But before that, I must be honest about one thing…"
"What is it?" Jerome was stunned by the seriousness in the young witcher's expression.
Allen took a deep breath, reorganized his words in his heart, and spoke softly: "It wasn't as Lady Ida said just now—that we were transported here by accident…"
"We came here for the second mutation," he said quietly. "And Tomas Moreau—your father—is now imprisoned in the dungeons of Kaer Morhen…"
"The news about the second mutation was extracted from his mouth under torture."
Jerome Moreau, upon hearing this, fell silent, staring straight into Allen's eyes.
Allen did not avoid his gaze either.
The candlelight at the side flickered, making the shadows of the two witchers tremble.
"So what?"
At some moment, Jerome Moreau's hoarse voice suddenly broke the silence.
"So that madman… Tomas Moreau… is he dead?"
.......
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