"Ah… yes… the Child of Miracles… the Child of Miracles… how could I not have thought of that?"
"The union of a witcher and a sorceress… of course, that would be a Child of Miracles. It must be a Child of Miracles, inevitably so…"
"No wonder… no wonder in just a few months, he could match what other witchers struggle for their entire lives to achieve…"
Danthe leaned against the back of a wooden chair, murmuring absentmindedly.
Allen's identity as the Child of Miracles — once his lineage was revealed, it could never again be concealed.
With just a little verification, no one who knew the truth could believe that the figure in Ithlinne's prophecy could be anyone else.
A witcher who independently created signs, potions, and oils; who tamed the mighty griffin no one before had ever subdued; who received the oracle of Melitele, silent for a hundred years; who displayed precise foresight, and within two days improved the profound art of secondary mutations…
For Allen, miracles were as common as eating or sleeping.
Of course he was the Child of Miracles — that was beyond all doubt.
But…
The title of "Child of Miracles" had never been wholly positive.
"Filius Miraculi — the Child of Miracles — shall be born in a land of bitter cold."
"Death and rebirth, the not-quite-human shall bring blood and fire."
"When Aen Seidhe — the blood of elves — drowns the earth, ye shall wail, for the destroyer of nations draws near."
"Your lands shall be trampled and divided."
"Your cities shall burn, and your people shall flee."
"Bats, owls, and crows shall haunt your homes, and serpents and vermin shall make them their nests…"
-----------------------------------
The prophecy of Ithlinne—every word, every line, was soaked in blood, carrying with it the pungent stench of rust and iron.
It was a prophecy that had circulated across the Northern Continent for centuries. Every human noble used it to enlighten their heirs.
In Ban Ard, Aretuza, even Oxenfurt, there were scholars devoted to studying it—whether for prophecy itself, elven history, the Elder Speech, or purely for rhetoric and historical purposes.
And because of its obscurity, countless humans, elves, dwarves, and other non-humans—sorcerers, druids, nobles, bards—had given their own interpretations, often wildly different from each other.
But all agreed on one point: the birth of the Child of Destiny would bring great upheaval, shaking the entire world.
At that time…
Rivers of blood would flow, and corpses would cover the land.
And here lay the true question—
Whose blood would flow?
Whose corpses would fill the earth?
Given the patchwork of human kingdoms, duchies, cities, and villages across the Continent, it wasn't hard to imagine. Nor was it hard to guess what madness might unfold once the nobles of the Northern Kingdoms learned the Child of Destiny's identity.
As for Aristo and Danthe, perhaps they feared only the rivers of blood and mountains of corpses foretold in the prophecy.
But Vesemir… Vesemir knew far more.
Now… Aedirn had breached Kaedwen, unleashing a war of annihilation that swept nearly all of the North.
And the cause? None other than Allen.
Allen, who in Ban Ard had "killed" Henselt the Glutton, and in Vengerberg tamed a royal griffin.
Even the legendary Wild Hunt had appeared because of him.
The prophecy was no longer mere words—its cruel "future" was already happening.
"A non-human… bringing blood and fire… the destroyer of nations comes…"
Vesemir bent over, eyes fixed grimly on the blood-red veins of the table's wood grain, his voice low and dreadful as he muttered.
Danthe snapped from his thoughts, startled by Vesemir's tone, but he failed to notice the elder's strange state.
For Vesemir's reaction was the same as his own—and as Aristo's.
Tell me, who could stay calm before such horrifying news?
"You're right, Aristo."
Danthe's grip tightened unconsciously around his goblet, fingers leaving deep dents in the iron rim. Images swirled in his mind as he muttered: "Compared to who sits in the seat of the School of the Wolf's master… Allen's identity is the real problem…"
"Don't take it to such extremes," Vesemir rasped, draining what little wine remained in his cup. "In many interpretations of the prophecy, the Child of Destiny is tied not only to blood and ruin but also to the White Frost's end—and the rebirth of the world."
"The Child of Destiny is the world's savior, its future."
"You don't need to explain to me, Vesemir."
Danthe gave a bitter smile. "Allen saved my life—and spared me from dishonor."
"Whether or not he is the Child of Destiny, I will stand by his side. But…"
He paused, meeting Vesemir's bloodshot eyes that tried to evade his gaze.
"But Vesemir, what I think doesn't matter."
"What matters is how the people of the North—Kaedwen, Aedirn, Temeria, Redania, Hengfors, Kovir and Poviss—what their kings will think."
"Once they learn of Allen's lineage and origin…"
"Those shortsighted, selfish nobles—do you think even one of them will care about your talk of saviors and futures?"
"For a strip of barren land, for an exhausted mine, they greedily launch wars. And what do you think they'll do about a Child of Destiny who could shake their very thrones?"
"Then don't let them know!"
Vesemir slammed the table, roaring like a mother bear shielding her cubs.
Don't let them know…
Danthe froze, then suddenly widened his eyes in realization.
"Ida Emean! Jerome Mor—"
"Don't worry about them." Aristo waved a hand, cutting him off.
Danthe faltered. Vesemir turned his beast-like, bloodshot eyes toward Aristo. "Why?"
Aristo raised his cup, took a slow sip, then said: "Lady Ida Emean heard of Allen's heritage, and from beginning to end, she never once looked surprised. She must have known long before we did."
Vesemir and Danthe were a little surprised when they heard this, but only a little.
After all, if there was anyone in this world who most wished to see the Child of Prophecy appear, it would be none other than the aen seidhe who had been driven to the wilderness by humans.
Moreover, Ida Emean, Sol, and Vera were all old acquaintances whose years of knowing one another far surpassed the age of any of the witchers present.
"As for Jerome—you might not have noticed, but before leaving the laboratory, Lady Vera exchanged a glance with Ida Emean."
"Not long after they came out, Jerome was called back by Ida Emean. That should have been to deal with this matter—most likely some contract or seal."
He paused for a moment, then added: "Sorcerers always have their ways, don't they?"
Vesemir and Danthe didn't answer that.
But hearing that Vera had already arranged everything, both of them couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief. They sat back down, chewing on hard, cold bread and drinking in silence.
"Jerome's character—the Griffin School can actually be trusted with that," Danthe suddenly said.
Aristo didn't even raise his head. "So you're going to gamble Allen's life—and the future of the Wolf School—on that?"
Danthe fell silent.
"At least the Chief, Vera, and Allen believe in us…" Vesemir said, trying to smooth things over. Then he hesitated, glanced at Aristo and Danthe, and added cautiously, "Still, perhaps we should seek out Lady Vera again later, just to be sure?"
Aristo and Danthe both froze for a moment, then nodded in agreement.
After a while, Danthe spoke again, worried: "But how long can this be hidden?"
Allen's talent, his speed of growth, the feats he had already accomplished—these were all far too extraordinary. There were too many clever people in this world, and very few fools. It wouldn't be long before someone guessed his true identity.
And when that time came, what then? Could Allen bear the weight of all that hatred from the whole of humankind?
"The Chief and Lady Vera have been frank about it; they must already have a plan," Vesemir said softly, patting Danthe's shoulder.
Danthe shook his head with a sigh.
Aristo also said nothing, his tightly knitted brows refusing to relax since earlier.
The three master witchers of the Wolf School—especially Vesemir—were, perhaps intentionally, overlooking one point.
The founding of the Wolf School, indeed the very existence of witchers, had always been for the sake of protecting humanity.
But the prophecy, which all but declared that the Child of Prophecy would stand against mankind—did that not conflict with the purpose of the witchers, with the ideals upon which the Wolf School was founded, with the very oaths they themselves had once sworn?
Neutrality was, in the end, just a fine-sounding excuse and slogan. To exist in this world was to be born with a side to take.
After a long silence, only the faint crackle of the fireplace filled the air, devouring the last bits of firewood.
Aristo forced down the final mouthful of dry bread, then drained the blood-red wine from his cup in one gulp.
Bang!
Setting down the glass, Aristo raised his head.
His gaze passed through the window.
Outside, the night hung heavy and oppressive beneath the shroud of thick clouds.
Then Aristo parted lips almost hidden beneath his dense beard, and with a hoarse, weathered voice, he carried on the grim song of fate: "Those far away shall perish of plague, those nearby shall fall to the sword;
Those who flee and hide shall be struck down by hunger, those who endure shall be lost to frost and snow…"
"For Tedd Deireádh is coming—the Time of Ending, the Age of Sword and Axe, the Age of Scorn."
"The Time of White Frost and White Light, the Era of the Howling Winter Wolf…"
-----------------------------------
Two days later, in Old Speartip's cavern.
For all the Wolf School's witcher apprentices, it had once been a nightmare. In just over three months, the anniversary of Old Speartip's death would arrive.
Although Old Speartip was infamous among the Wolves—and was even one of the few cyclopes in witcher history known by name—most likely not a single witcher from Kaer Morhen would come to pay respects.
After all…
Nearly every witcher of the Wolf School had lost one or two friends to Old Speartip's hand. Some had lost even more.
Perhaps certain unpleasant memories might, over time, mellow into something worth reminiscing about, like fine wine.
But memories filled only with pain and loss would never change. Each recollection cut just as sharply as the first, and only grew more vivid with time.
Rumors had long circulated that the Wolf School would choose a new challenger for Old Speartip's cavern.
But in the end, because of opposition from Vesemir, Allen, and many other ordinary witchers—and, more importantly, because the Chief tacitly disapproved—the matter was left to die out.
Thus, Old Speartip's cavern would forever remain "Old Speartip's cavern," with no chance of being renamed.
And so—
Each time Allen came here, and thought of it, he felt an accomplishment greater than slaying Henselt, taming the royal griffin, or banishing an evil god.
For after coming to this world, he had truly done something unambiguously good, something that had changed the world for the better.
That meant a great deal to Allen.
Tap tap tap…
Clear footsteps echoed in the cavern's emptiness.
The figure carrying twin swords stopped, out of habit, in a dark corner. He drew some materials from his leather pouch and began arranging them on the ground.
"In the end, I've delayed it by two more days," Allen sighed, drawing ritual circles with practiced strokes of chalk.
Originally, right after Sol's second Mutation ended, he should have used the two Conjunctions of the Spheres the very next day, to get them cooling down as quickly as possible.
If he could trigger several more Conjunctions before rescuing Hen Gedymdeith, all his attributes would reach their limits, making him ready for a second Mutation.
But plans never kept up with changes. Even with Jerome Moreau's help repairing the instruments, there had been a mountain of lessons and improvements to record after the first successful second Mutation. He had to take advantage of the fresh memory to write it all down.
Recording, discussing, adjusting—the instruments they had already modified still had room for improvement.
Compress the schedule however he might, another day was gone.
And on the following day, just as everything was ready for a Conjunction, Fred had a breakthrough with his "Battle Roar: Wild Speech."
He had discovered a method of controlling plants, like a Leshen, and even devised a way to guide other young witchers into awakening "Battle Roar: Wild Speech."
Half the morning was consumed by this.
Fortunately, Mary seemed fascinated by Battle Roars. After guiding her to awaken "Battle Roar: Berserk," he was able, with Fred's method, to help her awaken "Battle Roar: Wild Speech" as well.
And Lady Mary, with her astonishing LV7 "Magical Training" skill, was training the younger witchers to awaken Wild Speech even faster than Fred himself.
Allen didn't know why Battle Roars benefited from Magical Training—but in any case, it saved a great deal of time.
Then, just as he tried once more to leave Kaer Morhen, Philippa Eilhart came to him.
Something had happened with Vilgefortz, serious enough that Tissaia de Vries herself intended to come to Kaer Morhen.
This wasn't entirely bad.
For Tissaia had promised to bring all the materials needed to enchant the Wolf School grandmaster armor, and after her meeting with Vilgefortz, she would enchant it for him.
But still—the Dean of Aretuza coming to the Wolf School was no small matter. Especially after last year, when sorcerers had spied upon Kaer Morhen, there were endless preparations to make and discussions to have with Sol, Vera, Vesemir, Danthe, and Aristo.
Another half day gone.
And that evening, Philippa Eilhart still hung about the rafters…
"There's never enough time…"
Allen sighed softly. He drew materials from his pouch: quicksilver for the Maiden, infused dust for the Mother, sulfur for the Crone.
With painstaking care, he placed everything according to the ritual's demands. Then he rose, circling the formation four times clockwise, before stopping before the circle representing the Maiden.
"Finish this Conjunction quickly, slay those two Rotting Lord, and get back—there's so much still to do…"
After carefully checking the ritual once more, Allen drew a deep breath and began a solemn prayer:
"Praise to the Great Mother of All, goddess of fertility, harvest, and birth, eternal guardian of the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone…"
The long prayer echoed through the cavern's darkness, again and again.
From the second recitation onward, an ethereal chorus rose to join his voice. His words and their echoes overlapped, striking the jagged stone walls, breaking apart into countless voices of praise.
By the ninth repetition, it was as though thousands were chanting together. The dark cavern felt suddenly like a golden, resplendent cathedral.
In the corner, before the ritual circle, Allen almost felt as if countless figures were kneeling in prayer beside him.
Their voices pierced through stone, reaching toward the sacred realm.
Of course, this was his fifth time performing Melitele's hidden rite.
After the familiar haze of trance passed, Allen didn't even wait for the circle to flare like a burning fuse. He stood, searching for the right place to anchor the Gate of Ard Gaeth.
Ideally, it would trap whatever great beast came through the Conjunction.
"Yes… there!" Allen chose a spot, focusing his will.
Ding!
[Use Conjunction of the Spheres — Alghoul (Cooldown: 30 days)?]
Just as the cold system prompt appeared in his vision—
Unexpectedly, the lingering echoes of sacred prayer were cut off.
"Heh~"
From the void, a playful female voice sighed: "My future Holy Son…"
"You've been a little lazy lately, haven't you…?"
....
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