Setting aside the impressions carried over from his past life, Allen could not deny Vilgefortz's brilliance.
He was elegant, humble, and erudite, like a learned scholar. With long brown hair, deep black eyes, and strikingly handsome features, he was the very model of what a distinguished male sorcerer should be in the eyes of the enchantresses.
In terms of professional skill, Vilgefortz had not wasted the gift of his magical source. He was recognized by all as the heir of Hen Gedymdeith.
To put it in plainer words—
Vilgefortz was the crown prince of the Brotherhood of Sorcerers, destined to ascend its throne one day.
"Please, have some."
A glass of clear, fragrant white wine was offered. The pale, slender fingers holding the tray bore faint smudges of paint along the thumb and pinky.
"Thank you." Allen pulled himself from his thoughts, took the glass, and returned his gaze to the magnificent painting before him.
Lydia van Bredevoort smiled faintly, carrying the kind of poised elegance no woman could surpass.
Allen hadn't expected things to unfold this way.
When he had knocked on Vilgefortz's door, the young and dashing mage had greeted him with extraordinary warmth, bringing him into the room, leading him to the balcony before a painting, and lavishly praising the grandeur of Kaer Morhen's scenery.
He had not mentioned the days of imprisonment, nor the Elder Blood, nor the so-called Child of Miracles.
For a moment, Allen was left somewhat bewildered, seated before the painting before he even realized it.
A solitary gray castle standing amidst towering mountains, clouds winding around its peaks, the half-hidden morning sun, and hawks soaring in the sky…
The cold, hard palette gave the castle in the painting the air of a citadel gazing down on the world with icy detachment.
This had to be the work of Lydia van Bredevoort.
In his past life, the original text had described her astonishing skill in painting—despite her disfigurement, many of her works hung in the halls of Aretuza.
And considering what Mary had just said—that Aretuza also taught painting, etiquette, and poetry—it was no surprise that Lydia's future skill as an artist was already beginning to show.
"I don't really understand art," Allen admitted, "but even without any sense of it, I can see this is beautiful. It's a true masterpiece."
Lydia lowered her head slightly, her cool voice carrying a hint of a smile. "Thank you. It's just that the view from Kaer Morhen's heights is so beautiful. What I've captured here is not even a tenth of it."
"You're far too modest." Allen shook his head gently but did not continue to flatter her.
Still, he had to admit—after looking at the oil painting for a while, he could feel the stiff atmosphere of the room softening somewhat. Yet the thought that this was precisely Vilgefortz's intention made him silently raise his guard once again.
For though Vilgefortz was not yet at his full strength, a beast of prey does not suddenly begin eating grass.
It was all just a façade.
"Lydia really is too modest," Vilgefortz said with a smile, shaking his head. "But you're right, Allen—beauty is universal. Even a farmer buried in the soil all day will often marvel at the glow of sunset or the morning dew…"
Allen sensed the mage was about to cut to the point and listened intently without betraying it.
Yet Vilgefortz only smiled at him, then nodded toward Lydia. "Lydia, would you be so kind as to deliver what's on the table to Tissaia de Vries?"
The soft rustle of silk accompanied Lydia's graceful nod.
Standing on the balcony, Allen watched her turn, take up a tightly sealed leather pouch from the table, and leave.
Bang~
The gold-and-crimson candle flames flickered endlessly.
Only Allen and Vilgefortz remained in the room.
"You are very wary of me," Vilgefortz was the first to break the silence. "But aside from that one attack you suffered at the command of Ban Ard, we have never truly met. Why, then, are you so guarded against me?"
"Why would you think that?" Allen narrowed his eyes, deliberately avoiding giving Vilgefortz a direct answer.
"Of course, it's not because of mind-reading. Your mental defenses are excellent—so much so that I sometimes wonder if you're not really a witcher at all, but a sorcerer deeply versed in psychic defense." Vilgefortz joked, though no one laughed.
Allen only stared at him coldly.
Vilgefortz didn't mind. He chuckled twice to himself, then leaned against the pale stone balustrade, turning to look at the snowcapped peaks in the distance.
"Uncontrolled primal magic, so easily swayed by emotion, always ends up exposing the very parts of the soul one most wishes to hide."
"So perhaps others may not know—but you should, Allen. I was not born a noble sorcerer. Before my gift for the Source was discovered, I too was abandoned by my parents, an orphan scraping by in the slums…"
His words instantly dragged Allen's mind back to that time in Vengerberg, when the outburst of primal magic had struck him.
It had forced seven or eight visions into his head: the filth of the slums thick with sewage, the iron bars of a heavily guarded prison, the dense and wild forests… Each memory invaded him compulsively, immersing him completely—sight, sound, smell, touch, taste, even the raw emotions—until he was forced to feel it all.
In other words, he had truly experienced those moments, everything Vilgefortz had once felt—more vivid than the memories of sorcerers, even sharper than the recollections of witchers.
Still, Allen remained silent, only watching Vilgefortz without a word.
"After my gift for the Source was discovered, things did not get much better. For it was not a sorcerer who found me, but the druids of the Circle of Kovir."
"The druids of Kovir cast spells, yes—but they saw magic as chaos, a lure that corrupts this world. To them, the Source was not a gift, but a curse."
"My time with them was no easier than in the slums of Loc Muinne."
"And in both places, the most important skill was reading people."
"In the slums, I had to seek out the kind-hearted old woman, the generous noble in good spirits, the gambler flush with winnings. In the Circle of Kovir, I had to disguise myself as someone who despised magic—otherwise I'd be subjected to harsh training or have my rations cut short…"
"It was then I learned—you must never mistake a reflection on the lake for the stars in the night sky."
"So…"
"Your eyes," Vilgefortz turned his head, pointing to his own, fixing Allen with his gaze, "without mind-reading, your eyes already tell me—you're wary of me. Deeply wary. Just like I was in the winter, when I'd suddenly see some richly dressed man handing out bread on the street…"
"Perhaps it was nothing more than the idle kindness of the bored upper class—but more likely, it was the lure of some orphanage that bought and sold children, crippling them to sell as beggars."
Allen raised his brows but didn't deny it. "But I think that doesn't matter, does it?"
"It matters a great deal, Allen. It matters," Vilgefortz shook his head. "Very soon, our lives will depend on each other."
"Then you must trust that I won't betray you to Sunny and Ortolan, and I must trust that you can help rescue Hen Gedymdeith. Without that, not only would I lose all hope of shaping the future of sorcery, but Sunny and Ortolan would never forgive a traitor."
"I recall we already have a contract…"
"Even the strictest contract can be twisted," Vilgefortz interrupted with a slight shake of his head. "Besides, too rigid a contract is one that neither I, nor Tissaia de Vries, nor you would ever sign. It would only make the task of rescuing Hen Gedymdeith all the harder…"
Somehow, without Allen noticing, the mage had seized control of the conversation.
This meeting had been Allen's idea, its true purpose not to discuss rescuing Hen Gedymdeith at all, but to confront him about that letter.
And yet now it seemed as though Vilgefortz were the one reproaching him—chastising him for being too wary of his future partner, warning that such mistrust would harm the mission.
It was an accusation against his professionalism as a witcher—only veiled, discreet, and carefully phrased.
Allen was silent for a few seconds before he asked, "Then what is it you want me to do?"
Rescuing Hen Gedymdeith was a venture of little return for Vilgefortz, but for Allen and the School of the Wolf, it was a wager they could not refuse.
They could not allow a hostile dynasty of sorcerers to rise in Kaedwen, within the traditional hunting grounds of the Wolves.
An organization of mages that already despised witchers—if it were to gain the wings of worldly power, the consequences would be unimaginable.
A sincere smile curved at Vilgefortz's lips. "It's not about what I want you to do, Allen. It's about how we resolve the rift between us."
"Honesty is the only cure."
The Vilgefortz of Roggeveen was tall and broad-shouldered, strikingly handsome, with a noble bearing. His voice was earnest and heartfelt.
If not for Allen's memories of his past life, this was a man who, at first sight, would inspire trust and goodwill. But once those memories existed, the more genuine and sincere he appeared, the more alarming it became.
Seeing the faint shift in Allen's expression, Vilgefortz assumed his words had struck home. After glancing around to ensure they were alone, he asked softly: "Allen, do you know why I accepted Tissaia de Vries's invitation?"
"Why?" The witcher played along, though in truth he was very curious.
For Vilgefortz, rescuing Hen Gedymdeith was an unnecessary political gamble.
With his talent in the Source, his background, and his prestige, all he had to do was wait. Step by step, he would rise smoothly from the Brotherhood's lower council to its higher ranks.
In time, when one of the Association's great legends passed away, he would naturally ascend to the pinnacle of magical authority on the Continent.
Even if Hen Gedymdeith died, his advancement would only be slowed, never halted.
And sorcerers lived long lives. Time was on their side.
Indeed, in the future described in the original tale, Vilgefortz became one of the Five—supreme among sorcerers, and even then the most powerful of them all.
After the First Northern War, his influence over the kings of the North was so great that even the King of Temeria complained, "That mage's power is far too vast."
He had no reason to take this mission.
As for the claim of "upholding justice"—no matter how much time might reshape a man, it could never alter his true nature.
Righteousness was nothing more than Vilgefortz's disguise.
Of course… Allen never believed it had anything to do with himself. He wasn't arrogant enough to think that just because he bore the title of "Child of Miracle," the whole world was conspiring against him.
Ida Emean's attitude had already proven that point.
If anyone needed a breaker of stalemates, it was the aen seidhe.
And yet…
"Because of you, Allen—the youngest master of the School of the Wolf, the tamer of the Royal Griffin, the slayer of gods, and…"
"The Child of Miracle!"
Vilgefortz's words rang out, sharp and fervent, his tone near to madness, building in urgency as though he were about to ignite in flame.
"Those who dwell afar will perish of plague, those who dwell nearby will fall to the sword…"
"Those who flee and hide will starve, those who survive will succumb to frost and snow…"
"For Tedd Deireádh is coming—the time of ending, the era of sword and axe, the age of contempt."
"The time of White Frost and White Light, the era of the howling winter wolf…"
"And Filius Miraculi—the Child of Miracle—has been born into this world…"
-----------------------------------
After reciting the long passage of prophecy in one breath, Vilgefortz's eyes gleamed as he fixed his gaze on Allen: "You, Allen—you are the Child of Miracle. You are the future of this world. And I…"
"…shall walk with hope and with the future!"
-----------------------------------
Bang~
Allen quietly closed the wooden door. He froze for a moment, then nodded politely to Lydia van Bredevoort, who had been silently waiting at the end of the corridor without him noticing. After that, he walked down the dim hallway and left the tower.
Vilgefortz did not know exactly where that letter had led him.
He claimed it was in the great tomb of the legendary prophetess Ithlinne Aegli aep Aevenien that he had found a ritual connected to Elder Blood and the Child of Miracle.
The letter itself had merely been the vessel of that ritual.
Before Allen even asked to borrow or trade for it, Vilgefortz generously declared that at their next meeting, he would gift him whatever he had unearthed in that tomb.
And if Allen wished, after rescuing Hen Gedymdeith, Vilgefortz would personally take him there.
But Ithlinne's tomb, the Elder Blood, and the ritual of the Child of Miracle—none of that mattered. At least, not for now.
Somehow, Allen had been forced into accepting a follower.
Yes.
That follower was Vilgefortz of Roggeveen, source-mage, one of the future Five of the Chapter of Gift and Art, and without question the mightiest male sorcerer.
To be honest, because of his past life's memories, Allen always carried a faint sense of superiority over those destined to shine in the future.
It was as if, though everyone else believed he was just a piece on the chessboard—he alone knew he was not a piece, but the hand that held the pieces, the one who could see through the game ahead.
Vilgefortz might wear his disguise well, but Allen knew his true nature.
And yet…
How could such a man—an ambitious genius, proud beyond measure, one who sought to control the entire Northern Continent—how could he submit so readily to a witcher, even one called the Child of Miracle, without first suffering heavy setbacks?
It felt like he had seen through him, and yet… not entirely.
As though one of the chess pieces on the board had suddenly gained a mind of its own—though its movements still happened to benefit the player.
Back in his room, Allen sat in his chair in a daze, thinking for a long while, turning Vilgefortz's motives over and over in his mind.
The golden-red candlelight flickered endlessly.
From the mountains outside, a night-owl cried its hoarse lament.
..............
📢Advanced chapters on p@treaon📢
For advance chapters: [email protected]/Uchiha_Itachi007 (replace @ with a)
1. 20 advanced chapters of The Witcher: Wolf School's Hunting Notes.
2. 30 advanced chapters of What year is this? You're still writing a traditional diary?.