The King of the Wild Hunt sat upon his skeletal warhorse, but his gaze slowly dropped downward.
Allen followed that gaze and looked down. From the knees down, his body had already become translucent, faintly revealing the textures of this world's ground beneath him.
At this moment, he looked more like a wandering ghost than the Hunt riders clad in bones, even more eerie and spectral.
Allen still had no idea where he was, nor what state he was in.
Vilgefortz's "gift" had first sent him to a vast symbolic sea, and afterward, somehow, Ciri's true name and that strange swallow had anchored him in this world, at Ciri's side.
He couldn't tell whether it was Ciri and the Wild Hunt who had come to his world, or whether he had come to theirs — or perhaps neither.
For a moment, he even wondered if all of this was just a dream.
That sly and treacherous source of magic, Vilgefortz, might be using this dream to spy on his thoughts, to achieve some unspeakable goal.
But…
Even setting aside whether Vilgefortz could craft a dream this lifelike, if he truly had that power, then to so precisely mimic the Wild Hunt would inevitably alert the real King of the Wild Hunt and provoke his counterattack.
And besides…
[Ding! The Witcher's Journal is in dormancy. Do not attempt to open the Witcher's Journal!]
Vilgefortz could not possibly influence the Witcher's Journal.
He did not yet have that qualification.
"Our time is running short."
The King of the Wild Hunt lifted his head and looked toward the sky.
The rift stretching north to south had already split the heavens of this world in two. On either side of the crack, the sky glowed blood-red. Scarlet light washed over the plain, turning it into a sea of blood, the atmosphere heavy and apocalyptic.
"I imagine you did not stand here merely to look at us. Therefore…"
The King of the Wild Hunt lowered his gaze again, gracefully raising his right hand — disguised as a skeletal claw — and extended two fingers.
"Two."
"We have time for two questions. You may ask first."
Allen blinked, taken aback.
The only reason he had resisted that strong pull to depart was partly to give cover for Ciri and Ihuarraquax's escape, and partly to probe the King of the Wild Hunt's strength.
After all, regardless of whether the King of the Wild Hunt before him was the same as the one in his own world, the Hunt was fated to be his future enemy. If there was a chance to learn about them early without harm, why wouldn't he take it?
Even if this King of the Wild Hunt, Eredin, was just a lower-magic version from the original tale and games, the insight would still be invaluable. But he had not expected things to unfold in such a strange way.
The King of the Wild Hunt had truly been captivated by his "Conjunction of the Spheres," buying Ciri the time she needed to escape.
Yet the King of the Wild Hunt showed no signs of hostility at all. He had calmly halted, radiating curiosity, as if eager for a proper conversation.
What was his aim?
If he knew he couldn't catch me, and knew I was just stalling, why give up so readily on Ciri and Ihuarraquax just for two questions?
Even if the barrier's collapse prevented him from seizing Ciri in this world, he shouldn't be wasting time on me…
Could it be… he truly wants to learn about Ard Gaeth from me — from an enemy?
-----------------------------------
Thoughts surged in an instant.
The face of the King of the Wild Hunt, after removing his helmet, was even more unfathomable than the skeletal visage he wore beneath it.
Allen's heart wavered with uncertainty.
"It seems you haven't made up your mind yet. In that case, I can—"
"No, I've decided." Allen gritted his teeth and cut him off.
This was a rare opportunity.
Standing before him was Eredin Bréacc Glas—one of the Ancients, alongside the former Alder King Auberon Muircetach and the elven sage Avallac'h of the Alder folk. His existence could be traced back to the eras of Aen Seidhe, Aen Elle, even Aen Undod—one of the oldest beings still alive in the world.
At least three or four thousand years old, perhaps even ten thousand…
According to the records from his past life, the Gate of Ard Gaeth itself was the joint work of Eredin Bréacc Glas and Avallac'h.
No being—including gods—knew more secrets than they did.
How could Allen let such an opportunity slip by?
He drew in a deep breath, his thoughts shaken.
He had countless questions he longed to ask…
Where were they now?
Why was the King of the Wild Hunt able to recognize that he did not belong to this world or this time?
How could the Gate of Ard Gaeth be used? And where could the fragments, guiding stones, phantasmal crystals, and other components be found?
-----------------------------------
But only one question could be asked.
The countless doubts flashing through his mind were either of little practical value to him at this moment, or were too deeply entangled with the Gate of Ard Gaeth and might bring undesirable consequences, or were questions that the King of the Wild Hunt most likely wouldn't answer…
In the blink of an eye, after filtering them one by one—
Allen looked straight into the King of the Wild Hunt's black pupils, which seemed graceful yet coldly indifferent, and asked softly: "What is the White Frost?"
The moment the words left his mouth, the elegant and composed smile instantly vanished from the King of the Wild Hunt's face. Those deep, abyss-like eyes locked firmly onto Allen.
The surrounding Wild Hunt erupted in an uproar, as though the words "White Frost" were a forbidden taboo that must never be spoken.
A crushing pressure burst forth once again, and Allen's form became even more translucent under its weight, causing the King of the Wild Hunt to narrow his eyes.
He raised his hand—absolute authority. Instantly, the disturbance in the Wild Hunt army ceased.
The pressure faded.
Allen's whole body loosened, and he couldn't help but gasp heavily for breath.
"Every world will eventually face the judgment of the White Frost," the King of the Wild Hunt murmured after a pause, gently tapping the bleached vertebrae of his skeletal steed, producing a ringing metallic clang. "That is a good question. As one of the living, I should not conceal it…"
But… Allen thought inwardly.
So many explanations at the start—there was bound to be a turn that followed.
And sure enough—
"But…" The King of the Wild Hunt shook his head slightly. "I do not know what the White Frost truly is. Perhaps no one does…"
"Not even the Ancients of Aen Undod, who have passed down their knowledge for tens of thousands of years?"
The King of the Wild Hunt narrowed his eyes. His long hooked nose made the gesture look like a hawk that had found its prey.
"Few now even know that the Aen Elle trace their lineage back to Aen Undod. Stranger, you know more than I imagined."
On horseback, the King of the Wild Hunt instinctively straightened, lifting his head high. "But yes."
"Not only the Aen Undod, the source of the Alder folk, but even races more ancient and mightier in wisdom than Aen Undod could not."
"Every civilization that encountered the White Frost was annihilated. None left behind its true form. We can only search for the truth through fragments of prophecy…"
"All of them?" Allen frowned, seizing on the key point.
If he remembered correctly, it was after encountering the White Frost that the Aen Elle became wanderers between worlds.
So the Aen Elle had fled from the White Frost for millions of years, and yet still hadn't figured out what it was?
Could the White Frost truly be that terrifying?
Or was Eredin concealing something, avoiding something, fearing something—just as once happened when the mountain gods perished inexplicably?
"Yes. All of them," the King of the Wild Hunt nodded lightly, regaining his graceful demeanor. "Stranger, that question does not count. You may ask another."
Allen locked eyes with him, and without hesitation asked: "Then do you 'believe' the White Frost is a natural disaster—like a tsunami, an earthquake, a flood—or rather…"
"An evil god, greedy enough to claim everything for itself?"
The words had barely fallen when—
"Boom!"
Blood-red thunder suddenly exploded, a crimson serpent striking down into the grassland.
The storm winds howled, feeding the flames, and in an instant the prairie was ablaze, spreading with terrifying speed.
"Does it matter?" The King of the Wild Hunt cast a deep look at Allen, gently shook his head, and raised his hand toward the thunderbolt that had struck the grassland and ignited the fire. With layered meaning, he asked, "Do you think, to the weeds over there, that bolt of lightning is a natural disaster?"
Without waiting for Allen's reply—perhaps never intending to hear an answer—he placed the helmet tucked beneath his arm back onto his head.
The skull, now crowned with a rust-stained helm, had hollow sockets burning with gray-blue flames. His tattered cloak billowed in the wind.
The King of the Wild Hunt had returned to that terrifying visage.
"Enjoy the sight, stranger!"
He lifted his head toward the rift tearing across the world, metal clashing from within his bones.
His wild, dreadful laughter seemed to fuel the spreading flames.
"This is the Gate of Ard Gaeth—the supreme masterpiece of the Alder folk…"
Before his words even finished, the paused anomaly seemed to restart, as if the lightning bolt that set the grassland ablaze had triggered it.
The fissure stretching north to south trembled, writhed, resisted its tearing—like a great beast awakening from slumber, opening an enormous eye.
"Boom!"
The world cried out with a piercing wail.
At that moment—
The violent fluctuations of space and elements around Allen nearly made it impossible for him to suppress the pull of the overwhelming gravity.
But then, suddenly recalling something, he snapped his gaze toward the King of the Wild Hunt, who stood gripping his sword hilt as if ready for a glorious battle.
Summoning all his remaining strength against the suction, Allen roared: "Ask your question, Eredin Bréacc Glas!!!"
The King of the Wild Hunt burst into booming laughter, his rotten teeth clicking against the rusted gorget, while his hollow sockets blazed with a gray-blue glow.
I already have my answer, stranger!
No need to rush!
Soon! Soon! Very soon—we will meet again!
No time to think. Allen could no longer resist the pull that clawed at his very soul. Darkness swallowed his vision as he was dragged away into the unknown.
But before all sight left him, he saw—
The vast rift split wide open, revealing a star-filled black cosmos.
A gray-white planet loomed closer.
And the Wild Hunt—
Their screeching, metallic laughter pierced the air as their skeletal steeds trampled through the raging inferno, galloping into the heavens.
Charging toward a planet.
Ciri leapt from place to place, world to world, her progress remarkably smooth. Since leaving that strange grassland, she felt her control over the Elder Blood had deepened immensely.
No longer was it like the perilous, arduous struggle when she first left Tir na Lia.
On the third jump, she and Ihuarraquax had nearly plunged headlong into an erupting volcano's lava.
The number of times the Wild Hunt had caught up to her—uncountable.
But now, the surging energy in her blood was more obedient than ever. Through the sparks hotter than molten rock, she could sense not only the space ahead… but even the shifts in time.
And in the unseen beyond, countless "paths" called out to her.
So similar to Allen's Gate—yet entirely different.
A door wholly her own.
She knew all of this change, all of this positive growth, came thanks to that ability called Blink. But at the root of it all, it was because of one man—one Witcher of the Wolf School, perhaps long dead—
Allen.
Starry Eyes, I remember now!
At the edge of the woods, beside the scorching wasteland, Ihuarraquax — who had been running ahead in silence since they left that grassland — suddenly spun back excitedly and cut off her thoughts.
"What did you remember?" Ciri blinked, wiping the thin sweat from her brow on Kelpie's back.
Elder Blood! Starry Eyes! That's the power of the Elder Blood!
"What do you mean?" Ciri was puzzled — she is the Elder Blood and has been using that power all along.
Not you, Starry Eyes! The strange human we just met — the power he used was Elder Blood!
Ihuarraquax slowed, his glossy black eyes bright with excitement.
"You mean… Allen is Elder Blood too?" This time Ciri was genuinely baffled. "Are you sure? Avallac'h told me the Elder Blood only passes through the maternal line — there's never been a male inheritor, never a man who activated the Elder Blood!"
It can't be wrong, Starry Eyes! That wasn't magic — that was Elder Blood's power!
Ihuarraquax, annoyed at Ciri's doubt, spoke in a rapid string of telepathic bursts.
Starry Eyes! Do you remember how we found you? A unicorn doesn't mistake the Elder Blood!
"Then why didn't you recognize him earlier? Why are you saying it now?"
Just now… just now… the unicorn's horn blinked guiltily.
That human had…
"He's called Allen!" Ciri interrupted, annoyed.
That strange human named Allen smelled odd — other things were masking the Elder Blood's scent! Those smells mixed together and I… I didn't react at first, Ihuarraquax protested.
So Allen really is Elder Blood. And since Elder Blood passes only through the maternal line, that would mean Allen is… female?
That neat bit of logic left Ciri dazed.
But she shoved it aside quickly. None of that matters now — Yennefer's still waiting to be rescued, and…
Soon she could verify for herself whether Allen was a man or a woman.
[Will we meet again?]
[Of course. Since I will save the Wolf School, you will definitely see me. Maybe, when you return to your world, the first face you see will be mine — a Witcher older than Geralt.]
"The first face I see when I go back… will be you…"
Starry Eyes — what are you saying?
"Never mind that, Ihuarraquax." Ciri shook off the sapphire-blue catlike eyes from her memory, took a deep breath, and lightly stroked the unicorn's long, pure white neck. "I have a feeling the next jump will take us home…"
Starry Eyes, that's your home, not mine…
"Doesn't matter, Ihuarraquax. Get ready!"
Ciri inhaled deeply and stirred the restless energy in her blood.
In an instant, the black night exploded with star-like light.
....
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