Before the dawn broke over the vibrant hills of White Orchard, Geralt sat on a weathered bench, the Blue Vial and the herbal mixtures lined up before him. He drank the blue liquid first. Usually, a Witcher's potion hit like a horse, turning his veins black and his heart into a frantic drum. This was different; it felt like a cool mountain stream washing away the jagged, grey fog of a hundred years of killing.
"Vesemir," Geralt muttered, looking at his hands. "I can feel the wind. Not just track it. I actually feel it."
Sebastian stepped out from the tavern's shadow, his ink-stained robes trailing in the dew. He looked at the two swords strapped to Geralt's back and held out a steady, pale hand.
"Give me your both swords, I will strengthen them," Sebastian commanded.
Geralt paused, his yellow eyes narrowing. He looked at the boy, then at the pulsating Soul Stone on the table. Slowly, he unbuckled the harnesses and handed both weapons over, his voice low and warning. "Be careful with the blade, do not break it. They've seen more years than ten of your lifetimes."
"I am not a blacksmith, Witcher. I am a conduit," Sebastian replied.
He took the blades into the dim light of the common room. Using his knowledge of the Hexen, he didn't just sharpen the edges; he carved invisible, pulsing sigils of the Old Gods into the very molecular structure of the metal. He placed a Curse on both—not to harm the wielder, but to grant the blades an otherworldly hunger. When he returned, the swords looked the same, yet they hummed with a low, predatory vibration that made Geralt's medallion shiver.
"They are stronger now," Sebastian said, handing them back. "They will cut through Griffin hide like wet parchment. But there is a price. Like Chaos, the divine power of these blades also drains sanity. But unlike in the case of Chaos, its backlash can be reversed."
Sebastian reached into his robes and produced a small leather pouch and a carved wooden Pipe.
"Inside is blessed Tobacco and Opium," Sebastian explained. "When the job is finished using the cursed blade and your mind feels heavy, smoke these. Do not worry about lung rot; these are sanctified and completely safe. They will ground your soul back to the earth."
Geralt took the pipe, looking at it with a mix of skepticism and intrigue. He was used to the toxic trade-off of his craft, but the idea of a safe vice that restored the mind was a foreign concept.
"Tobacco and a cursed blade," Geralt grunted, sliding the Cursed Silver Sword into its scabbard. It felt heavier, as if it were alive. "Starting to think your 'Right Track' is just a different kind of dangerous, Priest."
With a final nod to the Dark Priest, the two Witchers turned their horses toward the Griffin's nest. They rode out of the village not just as hunters, but as the first test subjects of a new, divine era.
The Griffin didn't stand a chance. When Geralt drew the Cursed Silver Sword, the air seemed to thicken around him. The beast lunged, but the blade moved with a predatory speed that defied the laws of physics. Each strike tore through the creature's tough hide as if it were air, the divine curse on the steel drinking the monster's life force with every pass. Within minutes, the beast lay dead, and for once, the Witcher wasn't panting or poisoned.
The two Witchers rode back into White Orchard with the beast's head as a trophy, but the village's attention was fixed on Geralt's weapons. The blades pulsed with a dull, rhythmic violet light.
"It's done," Geralt said, dismounting before the tavern where Sebastian sat. He unsheathed the steel blade, looking at it with a mix of respect and wariness. "And your 'sanity drain'? I didn't feel it. My head is as clear as the day I walked in here."
Sebastian didn't look surprised. He looked at the Witcher through the eyes of the Reveal Aura, seeing the iron-clad structure of Geralt's mind—forged by decades of mutation and trauma.
"Your mind is strong, Witcher," Sebastian said, his voice calm. "Most men would have been weeping or screaming by the third strike. Your mutations have made you a vessel capable of holding a certain amount of divine power without cracking. But do not be arrogant."
The Dark Priest gestured toward the Pipe and the pouch of Opium. "Keep the sanity-restoring items. Today you fought a beast; tomorrow you might face a truth that even your iron mind cannot bear. Ensure you do not face sanity loss when the weight finally becomes too much."
Geralt looked at the pouch, then at the Dark Priest. He gave a sharp, appreciative nod. "Fair enough. Better to have a cure and not need it."
As the Witchers turned their horses to leave, a wave of excitement swept through the gathered mob of villagers and Nilfgaardian soldiers. They had seen Geralt dispatch a monster that usually required a week of preparation in a matter of seconds.
"Priest!" the village headman shouted, his eyes wide with awe. "What did you do to his steel? What holy art can turn a simple blade into something that slays such a devil with a single breath?"
The crowd pressed closer, their faces illuminated by the eerie glow of the Soul Stone on Sebastian's table. They didn't see a boy anymore; they saw the architect of their new reality.