Bras of Ban Ard had two deep nasolabial folds etched into his face. He always wore a red, wide-brimmed hat with a feathered plume, and a tight, lace-trimmed doublet cinched at the waist—every inch the image of a respectable gentleman.
But anyone who actually knew him understood the truth: he was just a shopkeeper running a modest little magic shop in the city, "Raffard's Decoction," built around the promise of "cheap, decent quality." Business was so-so, just enough to scrape by.
Even if he wasn't doing too well these days, he had once been full of ambition, full of swagger. After all, he was a graduate of the Ban Ard academy.
As for why a graduate mage of Ban Ard ended up running a tiny storefront? It was as simple as why some Harvard graduates end up on the streets while some Harvard dropouts become the richest people in the world.
Still, lately, he felt like his luck had finally turned. Ten days ago, a young man arrived with a letter of recommendation from the academy's rector, asking to consign goods through the shop, and to buy a few things on the side.
The letter was, of course, genuine. In Ban Ard, nobody dared to joke about that. What truly shocked Bras was this: the alchemist—barely more than a boy—was skilled to an almost absurd degree.
The potions he produced didn't just meet the "cheap, decent quality" standard. The real miracle was volume. He came once a day, every day—each time carrying at least a dozen virility tonics, plus two dozen hangover cures.
For an alchemist, potency and output usually don't come together. Yet his quality was remarkably consistent. You could practically call him a specialist in virility tonics and hangover cures.
And in a city with over thirty thousand active residents—half of them travelers from everywhere—those two concoctions didn't merely sell. They vanished off the shelves. Demand outstripped supply.
Just acting as distributor for those two flagship products alone sent the profits and reputation of "Raffard's Decoction" soaring. And that boy seemed genuinely interested in magical curios—he often insisted on offsetting part of the payment by taking odd merchandise from the shop. Bras was even happier about that.
…
Getting to know Bras was good for one's inner balance.
That day, inside Dorregaray's mage tower, after enduring an awkward afternoon, the apprentice alchemist and the witcher hurried out of the grounds.
Before leaving, Victor still asked the archmage for a letter—one addressed to the local alchemists' guild.
With that letter, the boy could purchase special materials through guild channels: venom extracts, anesthetics, or Zerrikanian powder—also known as blasting powder—and so on. More importantly, it let him sell alchemical potions openly in the city.
As for everyday consumables like hangover cures and virility tonics… he'd already succeeded in brewing them with his unbelievable alchemy when he was ten.
The day those products hit the shelf, he earned the universally agreed-upon title of "master" from the town's married couples over forty. In a peaceful little backwater like Bell Town, aside from pesticides and nutritional tonics, there wasn't much else you could sell—so people bought that sort of thing.
And with only those two new products, his sales share surpassed what his grandmother had managed in an entire year—within two months.
"I'm not making that kind of vulgar medicine!" was his grandmother's stance. So Victor had no choice but to become the household breadwinner…
In any case, Victor was absurdly practiced at making money off those two things. Even if the herbs in this world were completely different from his old one, it didn't matter to him at all. His unbelievable alchemy didn't care about logic—it went straight for results.
All he had to do was pick ingredients at the herb shop that produced the effect he wanted. Harmful properties, side effects, or all that apothecary talk about "primary, secondary, and supporting" ingredients—he ignored it all. One batch took an hour: one boil, a whole big cauldron, and he could even read while stirring with half his attention. The only thing he had to watch was this: the results couldn't be too good, and he absolutely couldn't forget to add impurities.
Cheap, good stuff like that—Victor had reasons for choosing "Raffard's Decoction" as his distributor.
For one thing, Bras was a graduate of a mage academy. And Bras's situation proved that getting into a mage academy didn't automatically make you powerful. Victor would never admit it aloud, not even to himself, but in some dark little corner of his heart… that fact was oddly comforting.
All in all, city life suited Victor like water suits a fish. His daily routine became a four-point circuit: a single room at the inn, the grand market, Raffard's Decoction, and the library.
…
Tonight, Lambert felt restless.
Ten days ago, after they left Dorregaray's mage tower, Victor stopped talking about dreams entirely. Instead, with that letter of recommendation, he threw himself into the apothecary trade—and even rented his own single room, separating himself from Lambert.
Sure, their morning and evening sword practice never wavered. But beyond that, Victor's life had become so orderly it was unsettling. It almost felt like the boy intended to settle down and grow old right here. And in a city under a mage's protection, there was rarely anything that needed a witcher. At this rate, Lambert felt like he was going to rust.
So he kicked Victor's door open and barked, "Come on—tell old Lambert what you're planning! What's the plan, then? You going to live here forever selling potency tonics?"
The scene inside was normal enough. Victor was boiling something. But as Lambert stepped closer, he realized what was in the pot—
Ducats.
The witcher blinked, baffled. "Why are you boiling money?"
The boy replied calmly, "It got filthy. Disinfecting it."
Lambert twisted his mouth in disgust. "Tch. Clumsy." Then he dragged up a chair and sat.
Victor unhurriedly put the pot away, pulled up his own chair, and lifted a cup of milk with a steady hand.
"Tell me your plan from here," Lambert asked again, recovering from the interruption.
"I'm going to become a witcher…" Victor said, absolute and unshakable, even with a white milk-moustache clinging to his upper lip.
Lambert's heart jolted. He nearly sprang out of his chair.
Because they got along—and because Victor truly was gifted—Lambert did, in some part of him, want the boy to become a witcher. But he didn't want Victor to undergo the Trial of the Grasses. The children Lambert had trained with, back then, had all died on the table—every last one of them. He had been the only success.
"…But not now," the boy continued.
Now Lambert wanted to leap up for an entirely different reason—mostly to hit someone. Was it fun to talk like that and leave someone hanging?
"I'll do it after I improve the Trial of the Grasses until it's safer," Victor said, wiping the white trace from the corner of his mouth. His expression was serious. "A seventy percent death rate? Not a chance."
Lambert rubbed his chin stubble, chewing over the new information. If mortality really could be reduced, that would change everything. "Then what are you doing right now? I don't understand whatever you're digging up in the library, but I'm not an outsider to alchemy. Just making medicine to sell every day—do you realize how much time that eats?
"And all that magical junk you've been bringing back—music boxes, glowing tubes, creepy doll skeletons, weird charms… amulets for warding off thieves, fleas, indigestion, diarrhea. What's the point of any of that?
"And finally—why spend hours every day wandering the grand market?"
After listening to the whole tirade, Victor looked at Lambert with a kind of royal disdain. "You don't get it. I go to the market to gather intelligence. If you don't care about the world, the world abandons you. The things you can learn at a market go far beyond the deepest imagination in your skull.
"Like this, for example: did you know mages are gradually losing the authority they used to have?"
Lambert shook his head.
"A year and a half ago, the Thanedd Island coup proved that some mages were secretly loyal to Nilfgaard. The fallout didn't just shatter the Brotherhood of Sorcerers—it also made the Northern kings lose trust in mages as a whole.
"And half a year ago, at the Second Battle of Upper Aedirn, King Henselt had his longtime advisor—Sabrina Glevissig, arrogant beyond belief—bound to a wagon wheel and burned alive right on the battlefield."
Lambert blinked. "I've heard Eskel mention her. Geralt's been with her."
"And that's the sort of thing you remember with crystal clarity.
"Anyway, that sorceress's violent temper sealed her death sentence—it was never a question of whether, only when.
"You know what? While she served as the king's advisor, she actually dared to slam her hand on the table and tell King Henselt to shut up and let her finish speaking first. Bold—sure. And unbelievably stupid, too."