In Winterfell's great hall, no one had noticed that Clay, heir to White Harbor, had been gone for quite some time. His loyal head of security had taken off his iron gauntlet, placing it on the table, and was now red-faced and roaring with laughter as he drank with a guard he knew from Winterfell.
He had seen his young master leave, but hadn't given it a second thought. After all, on Duke Eddard's land, nobody would dare harm Clay.
The king, a guest, was now embracing a dancer and wildly gyrating his obese body, his face oily and sweaty, his joyful laughter echoing through Winterfell's hall.
As for Duke Eddard, the host, he sat expressionless in his seat, chewing on the food the kitchen had carefully prepared with no pleasure.
Eddard Stark had never liked such lively environments, not even as a child.
Beside him, the beautiful queen sat with perfect, dignified posture, smiling at her husband. However, there wasn't a hint of warmth in her emerald eyes.
While the king and his future Hand celebrated or wore icy expressions in Winterfell's hall, Clay was lying in the damp soil.
The joy of leaving the Weirwood Tree had barely faded when Clay realized a serious problem:
Too much magic!
He couldn't see inside his body, but Clay knew he couldn't even lift a finger. His swollen body was overflowing with chaotic magic.
He had already pushed himself to the limit just exiting the Weirwood Tree, and now he couldn't do anything.
He breathed heavily, his mind racing to find a solution.
His first thought was to immediately return to his room. Only under the protection of the Manderly Family guards would he feel safe enough to make further plans.
But after only two seconds of consideration, he abandoned the idea.
Clay knew the root of his current immobility; the problem of too much magic couldn't be solved by him lying here for three or four hours, even if he risked it.
His magic pool wasn't a real pool where he could simply release some excess.
The urgent matter was to consume the excess magic within his body and reduce his magic pool to a safe level. The magic wasn't just in his blood, so letting some blood wouldn't solve the problem.
Sighing inwardly, he decided to implement the most risky, but also the most effective, method: mutation!
Right in the Stark family's sacred grounds, beneath the branches of the Weirwood Tree in the Godswood, under the gaze of the Old Gods, he would mutate!
The thought flashed through his mind. The system opened. Clay quickly selected the three small bottles lying quietly in his inventory.
Gritting his teeth, Clay used all his strength to take out the bottles. He didn't have time to judge the order, so he bit them open directly.
"This Herbal Decoction is version 1.0 and has a high degree of risk, with the following side effects... Do you wish to use magic to counteract them?"
Why hesitate? Clay didn't even look, pushing the success rate to the limit, canceling all side effects.
The next second, the magic in his body, quick as lightning, surged towards the potion that instantly turned Clay's face pale.
Immense pain came first from his stomach, then spread throughout his body at an incredible speed.
Clay became restless, his limbs twisting unnaturally. His body arched, tearing up the grass on the ground.
His pupils dilated, his gaze vacant, his eyes mirroring the empty, starless night sky hidden by the canopy.
About ten minutes passed. Clay, still curled up, suddenly began to writhe violently. His hands flailed erratically in the air, as if trying to catch a rapidly drifting snowflake.
After a moment, his hands came to rest on his chest, tearing at his already tattered black cloak and the opulent robes beneath, which were embroidered with the Merman Sigil.
Heavy breathing echoed through the deathly silent Godswood, like a monstrous beast lurking in the darkness.
Clay began to sweat profusely, soaking his clothes in a short amount of time. His skin was covered in dirt and sweat, becoming slick and foul-smelling.
Clay's body convulsed uncontrollably, battling the immense, all-encompassing pain that permeated his every pore.
He had been focusing on the success rate of the Herbal Decoction trial and how to mitigate its side effects, neglecting the sheer agony of the trial itself.
He finally understood why the Witcher trials were a near-death experience. He wondered how many Witcher apprentices had died from the pain alone!
The potion was constantly eroding his nervous system, while the magic within his body was constantly providing protection.
From his face down to the most important parts, every part of his body was screaming in protest, but the presence of magic kept Clay conscious, allowing him to experience every change in his bones, muscles, glands, and so on.
Finding joy in suffering, Clay thought. I absolutely cannot enjoy this experience alone. Only by letting those who come after me experience it as well will my heart find some balance.
He felt the warmth on his face. It was the scalding blood flowing from his nose. His body temperature was shockingly high. Though it hadn't reached the point of boiling water, anyone else would have long been holding their memorial service in a cathedral or under a Weirwood Tree…
He didn't know how much time had passed. Clay had successively lost his vision, taste, smell, and hearing. Then, these lost senses returned one by one, and the swelling in his body gradually disappeared.
Clay could finally feel his stomach. The moment he drank the potion, he felt as if he had swallowed a bomb about to explode, instantly blowing his stomach to pieces.
The pain in his stomach disappeared, followed by a violent urge to vomit that pressed against his throat.
His mind was clearer, and Clay kept telling himself: Don't throw up, don't throw up!
However…
"Wow…"
The world went silent.
Maybe an hour, maybe two? Who knew? Anyway, it was the longest night of Clay's sixteen years.
After the last trace of pain vanished, Clay's half-closed eyes suddenly snapped open!
An unprecedented power flowed through his body. Without any external force, he launched himself out of the mud pit using only his legs.
In the bright moonlight, a tall and burly figure appeared in the reflection on the lake.
In Clay's eerie smile, he raised his left hand, making a strange gesture:
His pinky was curled, his ring finger and middle finger were together, his index finger was separated, and his palm slowly moved forward.
Magic surged, and a pale yellow spherical shield suddenly appeared beside him.
Clay released his fingers. The shield shattered, and he knelt on the ground, burying his head in his arms to conceal his almost uncontrollable, maniacal laughter.
Because, he was a Witcher!
The protagonist has completed a mutation, but don't worry, his combat power won't collapse, and the social environment also doesn't allow him, a noble, to perform acrobatics in public.