Dravograd pulsed with a nervous energy, a constant hum of commerce overlaid with the growing anxiety of impending war. Yet, within its bustling streets and dusty halls, Alaric remained an unruffled point of stillness, his influence spreading like an unseen miasma. Torvin's fortunes continued to climb, his once-modest enterprise now a dominant force in local trade. Captain Roric, emboldened by his perceived successes, extended his influence within the city guard, subtly steering patrols and investigations towards areas Alaric wished to remain either open for passage or under heightened scrutiny.
Aizen found these immediate, tangible results satisfying. They were the smallest gears, meticulously oiled, ensuring the larger machinery of the city turned precisely as he desired. He had also begun to subtly touch the minds of a few other key figures: a minor mage attached to the city's council, his intellect easily swayed by phantom inspirations; and the ambitious head of the local merchant's guild, whose dreams became fertile ground for Alaric's suggestions of expansion and consolidation. The city was becoming a self-operating extension of his will, its inhabitants moving on trajectories he had subtly defined.
His true focus, however, remained the Scriptorium. Master Elgan, now almost entirely convinced of Alaric's brilliance, granted him access to the archives' most secluded and heavily warded sections. These were not merely dusty ledgers; they contained fragmented accounts of ancient cataclysms, records of forgotten magical orders, and disturbing anatomical studies of creatures that defied known classification. Aizen spent hours absorbing these texts, his mind a steel trap, cross-referencing, deducing, and categorizing. He devoured chilling tales of entities from other spheres, their forms and powers far beyond the crude monster classifications he had initially encountered. These beings hinted at a boundless power, a true potential for transcendence that resonated with his deepest desires.
His Kyōka Suigetsu, nourished by constant practice, was developing into a truly formidable weapon. He pushed its limits, attempting more complex, multi-sensory illusions. He could now, with focused effort, cause a small group of individuals to believe they were hearing a conversation that never occurred, or seeing an object move when it lay still. He meticulously recorded the subtle signs of fatigue or mental resistance, understanding the nuances of how minds here could be broken or bent. He found that magically inclined individuals, while initially more resistant, were ironically more susceptible to profound psychological disorientation once their defenses were bypassed, their minds reliant on structured perception.
One crisp afternoon, a Witcher, a gaunt man with a scarred face and eyes like a cat's, rode into Dravograd. Rumors of his arrival spread quickly, bringing a mix of fear and relief. Geralt of Rivia, Alaric quickly learned from hushed whispers, was his name. He was famed for his neutrality, his peculiar mutations, and his unsettling effectiveness against monsters. A valuable variable had just entered his equation.
Aizen observed Geralt from a distance, watching him negotiate a contract for a grave hag. He noted the Witcher's precise movements, the efficiency of his Signs, and the subtle, almost imperceptible aura of his mutations – a cold, distinct energy that pulsed within him. He was a creature designed for his purpose, honed by suffering. A tool, Aizen registered, potentially useful, if sufficiently motivated.
Later, as Geralt sat in a bustling tavern, attempting to drown out the city's din, Alaric quietly approached, a book clutched in his small hands. He didn't speak, merely allowed his presence to be noted. Geralt, accustomed to children avoiding him, felt an unusual prickle of awareness. He looked down at the boy, his gaze sharp. Those amber eyes, startlingly calm, held an unnerving depth. Geralt felt a brief, almost imperceptible shiver run down his spine, as if a cold draft had passed through his soul. It was gone as quickly as it came, a sensation he immediately dismissed as exhaustion.
Alaric merely offered a faint, almost imperceptible smile. He had projected a momentary, complex illusion—a fleeting sense of profound unease, a whisper of something ancient and terrible, directly into the Witcher's enhanced senses. Geralt had registered it, even if he couldn't comprehend its source. Excellent. The enhanced senses of a Witcher offered a more precise canvas for his Kyōka Suigetsu.
The arrival of the Witcher, coupled with the ever-present hum of geopolitical tension, confirmed Aizen's calculations. The Continent was a simmering cauldron, ready to boil over. He had laid the groundwork. He had secured his knowledge base. His tools were sharpening. And now, he had begun to directly test his influence on the very beings who considered themselves masters of this chaotic world. The next phase of his grand design was truly beginning to unfurl.