In dreams, there is no pain.
In the dream, soft golden sunlight poured in through the window.
It was the color unique to Toussaint's summer—warm and lazy, as if one could lie on sun-warmed hay, breathe in the intoxicating fragrance of ripened grapes, and nap the entire afternoon away.
"…Allen… Sol… mutation… Drowners…"
The murmuring that reached his ears pulled him, in that half-dream, half-wakeful state, to notice the graceful figure outside the window, her head lowered.
Vera…
"It's not a dream after all…" He let out a soft sigh.
As a child, Vera had also been beautiful, though not so tall, nor so… cold.
Her round face had been dotted with faint freckles; she was cheerful, kind, a girl loved by every adult around her.
"When… when did she become like this?"
His thoughts drifted endlessly…
Was it when he fled the castle with the wandering Witcher who upheld justice? Or when he drank the mutagenic potions, abandoning his noble responsibilities? Or when he convinced her to take the child chosen by fate—their miracle son—back to cold Kaer Morhen, deep in the Blue Mountains?
Perhaps it was all of them. No—indeed, it was all of them. All of those past choices shaped her, and shaped me.
"I'm going to deliver the materials to Ida. If you feel unwell, press the rune immediately—I'll rush back."
At some point, Vera had returned. She stood at his bedside, giving her instructions.
His lips moved; he wasn't even sure what words left his mouth. She paused for a moment, then only said the words "at noon," before hurrying away.
The little wooden cabin fell into silence.
Though still groggy, her departure brought him a touch of clarity.
Once clear, the sunlight spilling through the window no longer seemed so real.
It was still golden, still warm, still carrying the fermented fragrance of ripened grapes—
But false is false. Like stagnant water—deceptive at a distance, but impossible to mistake up close.
"Noon…" His lips parted gently, and at once, the sharp tang of iron flooded his mouth. "The time is nearly here…"
He felt the weakness inside him, so profound that even pain had become feeble.
Never before had the departure of life been so vivid—like grains of white sand sliding through an hourglass. Once toppled, they fell swiftly, and there was no way back.
He was dying…
And like all those who stand at death's edge, he began to remember—to look back on his long life.
His name was Sol. Sol Henrietta, ruler of Toussaint, eldest son of House Henrietta, the destined future Grand Duke.
Only, that destined future never arrived.
Because of a black-haired Witcher who, in the royal city, decapitated a vampire that had drained four families, leaving more than twenty desiccated corpses and spreading terror.
To sacrifice oneself, endure torment and pain, to gain extraordinary power, and to slay evil for the sake of mankind…
Every element of the Witchers was irresistible to a boy who both dreamed of becoming a true knight and longed to run away from home.
So, to step onto that imagined road of glory, he abandoned his name, pursued the path in secret, endured merciless trials and agonizing suffering, and became a Witcher—one of the so-called glorious Witcher Order.
At least, that's what he had thought back then.
He met friends in the Order. Some parted ways with him later. Some walked with him to the end—some, even now, remained by his side.
But such friends were few.
More often, people exited the stage of fate early, far too early. And he learned: not all had become Witchers willingly, sacrificing themselves for what he thought was a noble cause.
The Witcher Order was nowhere near as noble as he once believed. From its founders to his peers, the sins they committed were not few—and in the shadows, they were countless.
But by then, his pupils had already taken the shape of beasts. There was no path of return.
Once a Witcher, always a Witcher.
All he could do was repeat to himself, every day, every hour, every breath—
"The path I walk is the right one."
"I am walking the road of glory, recognized by the world."
"I must restrain my thoughts, desires, and strength."
"I will always be able to find…"
-----------------------------------
Year after year, he drowned himself in battles against monsters, and his reputation grew ever larger.
Within the Witcher Order, his standing rose as well, gathering around him many companions who recognized and agreed with his ideals.
Then, who knew how much later, during one commission, he encountered Vera—who had been taken in as a sorcerer's apprentice and was also rising to fame. Years after becoming a witcher himself, he finally heard news from Toussaint…
His mother, stricken with grief over his disappearance, had cried herself blind with sorrow and passed away years earlier.
His father, who had loved his mother deeply, now wore a head of white hair. Using service to the God of Knight as an excuse, he had relinquished his seat to the second child of House Henrietta.
Was he a hero?
He did not know—but he was certain he was a coward.
For years since leaving his homeland, while wandering the Continent and taking on commissions, he had deliberately avoided Toussaint. Even on harsh winter nights by the campfire at Morgraig Castle, when comrades shared news of it, he would find excuses to leave.
And so, he missed his mother's funeral, never even seeing her one last time.
Afterwards, more years of hesitation passed. Only after his father, too, had died, did he summon the courage—or perhaps it was Vera's threats and force—that finally brought him back to his homeland, where he stood before his parents' graves.
He was, without a doubt, a coward.
That same year, Alzur and Cosimo betrayed them.
Afterwards, the long-suppressed conflicts within the Witcher Order erupted fully, triggered by Arnaghad's vile actions.
He tried his utmost to mend the rifts, but in the end, all came to nothing.
When Arnaghad left, Erland once invited him to join as well, but he refused.
The Griffons were too close to nobles and sorcerers.
Since childhood, he had seen all too clearly the sins that lurked beneath their glittering surfaces. Thus, though he respected the Griffons' integrity, he rejected their ideals and chose to remain.
Erland left him many things, yet he was still unable to restore the Witcher Order. In the end, he could only lead those who believed in his vision far away to Kaedwen.
And because of this, all came to call him the rightful heir of the Witcher Order.
But… was he truly?
No!
He was merely a man with great power but no choices, no true ability, and no clear goal.
He was lost.
After leaving for Kaedwen, he tried to learn from the Order's downfall—holding fast to neutrality, shunning worldly disputes, and devoting himself solely to hunting monsters and saving people.
But before long, his compassion betrayed him. Cloaked in secrecy and pretense, it was this weakness that nearly raised him to a throne—only to see the very man he aided destroy the school he built with his own hands, and slaughter his brothers and children.
Looking back, across more than two hundred years since leaving Toussaint, aside from killing countless monsters, he had achieved nothing. Worse still, he nearly doomed the entire School of the Wolf.
The only things he could claim pride in… were Vera and Allen.
As he gazed up at the decorative paintings on the ceiling, his expression softened—but soon sorrow and regret swept across his face again.
He remembered the promise he had made to Vera, just over two months ago…
[Your child has great ambition—just like you once did. The hunger in his eyes all but bursts forth, impossible to hide…
He wants my place. But not yet—he still needs help…
Wipe the seat clean, add armrests, reinforce the legs, perhaps embroider some patterns and carve designs to proclaim glory and majesty…
Only then will he be able to sit securely, and sit for long.]
"If I hadn't willfully left Toussaint, Allen could have become the Grand Duke of Toussaint, married a beautiful wife, and had lovely children…"
"But now, here in the School of the Wolf, I can't even manage to wipe the dust from his seat…"
His eyes dimmed as he once again recalled the future he had once dreamed of.
In spring, we could plant grapevines. In summer, prune them, pinch off the side shoots. In autumn, harvest them, and come winter, sit by the crackling fireplace, drinking wine we made ourselves…
"I'm sorry, Vera… I won't live to see that day…"
Before the words even fell, Vera's questioning face suddenly flashed before his eyes like a lantern slide.
She was asking—
Now that you've taken this path, do you regret it?
He fell silent.
In an instant, Vera's face turned into Allen's, then into Henselt's, then into the comrades from the School of the Wolf and the Witcher Order who had all left the stage of fate before him…
Finally, it became the stern, gray-templed visage of his father, Moreno Henrietta, which flickered and vanished—replaced by the loving yet reproachful face of his mother, Greta Enris.
He could no longer hold back the sting in his nose; warmth traced down from the corner of his eyes.
"Yes… I regret it."
"I regret it, Mother…"
"Regret what?" Vera suddenly pushed open the door and came to his side.
"Regret walking this path," Sol turned his head, not hiding his feelings, looking at her with deep reluctance.
Vera froze for a moment.
Then her nose twitched uncontrollably, and she closed her eyes, tilting her head back, as if trying to force her tears back down with gravity.
After a long time, she drew a deep breath, lowered her head, and comforted softly: "There's still a chance. Our miracle child has already found a way."
"When all of this is over, we can still go back to Toussaint together, plant grapes, make wine, join the competitions…"
"Do you still remember the White Unicorn Vineyard?"
"The place where our two families often spent summer holidays together? I've already asked someone to buy it."
"When you're well again, we'll go back… we'll… we'll…"
As Vera spoke, her voice caught. When she instinctively raised her hands, wanting to embrace him, the tears she had been holding back finally spilled over, falling to the ground with soft splashes.
Sol looked like a piece of cracked porcelain barely held together—his whole body covered in wounds.
Her hands, suspended in midair, couldn't find a single place where they could rest.
"You… you look even more beautiful when you cry."
Sol suddenly blurted out.
Vera froze, then let out a small laugh through her tears.
"Of course, you look even better when you smile," Sol corrected himself, his face now carrying a gentle smile. "Since our miracle child has already thought of a way, then there's nothing to worry about."
"So…"
He paused, then asked, "Is it noon yet?"
"Yes, it is." Vera wiped her tears and nodded. "Everything is ready."
"Then take me away." Sol's eyes never blinked, tracing over and over, greedily and tenderly memorizing the face of the woman he loved.
"I… can't wait any longer."
-----------------------------------
Kaer Morhen, underground first level — Witcher laboratory.
The corpse of the Drowner had already been cleared away. The crystal jars connected to the "Iron Maiden" by its iron tubes were once again filled with liquids, some clear, some murky.
Jerome Moreau and Allen were busy around the "Iron Maiden." All the preparations for the secondary mutation had already been completed, and they had checked everything five times over.
Now, this was the sixth.
Vesemir, Danthe, Aristo, and Ida Emean were also present. None of them spoke.
Their heads hung low — no one knew what they were thinking, or if they were thinking anything at all. Perhaps they just hoped time would slip quickly by in silence… or stop altogether.
Until—
Clang!
An orange portal shimmered open, and Vera and Sol stepped through.
At least, Vera walked through. Sol floated out in a standing posture, his feet never touching the ground.
Allen hadn't seen Sol for nearly half a month, and the sight of him shocked him.
He looked like a prisoner who had endured death by a thousand cuts, with every sliver of flesh crudely pasted back onto his body, yet never secured.
His skin was loose, his flesh raw and crimson, his whole body terrifying to behold.
"Frightening, isn't it?" Sol's aged gray eyes turned toward him, the corners of his lips tugging faintly, as though in a smile.
"Chief…" Allen hadn't yet spoken before Aristo, the bearded one, choked up.
That brought Allen back to his senses. He quickly opened the metal plate on the Iron Maiden's chest, revealing rows of leather straps. "Chief… please, get in, everything is ready."
"No need to rush." Sol signaled Vera with his eyes to halt.
She faltered mid-step. She was about to ignore him and continue, but his eyes changed — no longer commanding, but pleading.
She glanced at Allen, sighed softly, and stopped.
Allen hurried to say, "This can wait until afterward—"
"It can't," Sol shook his head, struggling to turn it slightly. "Aristo. The question I asked before — only you haven't given me an answer."
Question… answer… Allen blinked, then glanced toward Sol's back.
Vesemir and Danthe avoided his gaze in tacit silence.
Aristo looked at Allen, paused only a moment, then said, "Mentor Sol… that isn't a good position. Without the bindings of a school, whether he relies on swordsmanship, alchemy, or genetics, he'll live better. But if he takes it up… then… You shouldn't raise this now—"
"I only want your answer." Sol's burning gaze cut him off.
Aristo looked again at Allen, thoughtful. After exchanging a glance with Vesemir and Danthe, he finally nodded and sighed.
"Then I agree. I'll persuade Whitelock and Valerius."
"That's enough." Relief softened Sol's body.
No longer resisting, he allowed Vera to carefully place him into the Iron Maiden, fastening the straps. With a grinding clatter, the iron plates folded inward, slowly closing over Sol's body.
"Wait!"
Just as the plates were about to seal over his face, Sol suddenly spoke.
Jerome Moreau froze, hand on the next valve.
Sol's eyes lingered on Vera one last time before fixing on Allen's stoic face. "Aristo, Vesemir, Danthe…"
"Chief?" The three looked up, answering at once.
"Aristo wasn't wrong. Without the School of the Wolf, Allen could live a better life. But this is his duty, Aristo…"
He paused, his voice growing solemn.
"Allen… is my child. He is of the Henrietta and Triennes bloodline… cou—cough—cough…"
Before he could finish, a violent cough wracked him. Crimson blood spilled from his lips.
"Hurry! Start it now!" Vera's face turned pale. "He won't last!"
But Jerome Moreau had already pulled the valve before she spoke.
The final iron plate of the Iron Maiden sealed Sol's face from view. At the same instant, Allen leapt behind it, his hands moving like phantoms as he threw open every valve on the back.
Hissss—
In the Witcher's laboratory, the hiss of a serpent filled the air.
....
📢Advanced chapters on p@treaon📢
For advance chapters: [email protected]/Uchiha_Itachi007 (replace @ with a)
1. 20 advanced chapters of The Witcher: Wolf School's Hunting Notes.
2. 30 advanced chapters of What year is this? You're still writing a traditional diary?.