With a thought, Allen downed a vial of Drowner Heart Essence, recovering his nearly exhausted stamina. He exhaled heavily, then curled his lips into a faint smirk.
"Since I'm the child of miracles… then that means you must be the sorcerer."
Though tired, when Hen Gedymdeith's presence drew near and the dangerous mission finally reached a stable turning point, the witcher couldn't help but loosen his nerves and crack a joke.
Vilgefortz responded with a weary smile and a shake of his head.
The exhaustion faded slowly as Allen rested. Narrowing his eyes, he gazed at the distant temple shimmering with pale blue light. His heartbeat throbbed with a rhythmic, almost melodic pulse.
"Uirs…"
Without a sound, Allen's thought expanded outward — but under his control, it didn't spread far, only enveloping the grand yet ruined temple ahead.
-----------------------------------
[Skill Name: Whisper of Life]
Passive Effects: Maintaining the flow of "Beast Roar: Whisper of Life" provides—
1. A gradual increase in physical constitution.
2. Acute awareness of hostile intent nearby.
Active Effect: Consumes energy to detect all living beings within a concealed range.
Note:A witcher never dies to an assassin?]
-----------------------------------
Red light dots appeared faintly within the temple — only a few.
Brief information flashed across his mind, displaying details for each red mark.
All familiar… except for one.
"So blocking Hen Gedymdeith's path are only four Gargoyles and one Golem."
Disabling Whisper of Life, Allen drew in a long breath and softly exhaled another word.
"Uilas…"
The power of Trap Sense rippled outward as he began walking toward the ancient, half-collapsed temple.
Vilgefortz followed silently.
At this point, even if Allen pointed to a cliff and claimed there was a road ahead, Vilgefortz thought he'd probably believe it.
"That's… not magic," he muttered after a moment, gesturing toward his lips. "Though there are incantations — if those are even incantations — the external mana doesn't respond. It's… similar to your witcher Signs."
"But I recall Signs were simplified by Alzur long ago — they shouldn't even need words anymore."
"I call them Roars… careful, don't step there."
Allen casually gestured toward a square stone tile on the ground, its color just slightly different from the rest.
There was no need to hide the existence of the Way of the Roar.
"Roars…"
Vilgefortz repeated the word, tasting it like something primal — violent and raw.
"The one before was Uirs, and now Uilas. The phonetics are similar to incantations for Signs, but entirely different."
"Yeah," Allen nodded. "Two kinds — one for detecting traps, one for sensing life."
Though he had already suspected as much during their journey, hearing Allen confirm it left Vilgefortz quietly stunned.
Indeed, before Allen's arrival, he had already mapped out nearly every trap and monster within this underground complex.
But that had taken him half a month — half a month of tracking the patrol routes, monitoring the golems' detection frequency, and sneaking in night after night to test the terrain.
There were magical ways to detect traps, yes — in fact, Vilgefortz himself used an ancient elven spell he'd found in a tomb. But those were incredibly difficult to learn, required complex preparations, and only worked on traps imbued with mana — magical ones.
Physical traps, the kind made by hunters or craftsmen, still had to be found by sight.
All his supposed "ease" had come only after a week of crawling through mud and shadows.
Yet Allen… had walked through the same deadly corridor as if it were a stroll through a meadow — even making Vilgefortz suspect these traps were purposely set up for him to pass.
That was why he could never mistake Roars for Signs.
Though both had brief invocation times, Signs were diluted fragments of full spells — their power reduced manyfold in exchange for near-instant casting.
Roars, however… were entirely different.
If anything, they resembled Divine Invocations — the holy arts of a bygone era.
Back in the Age of the Elves, priests had held their lofty status not only because of their gods, but because they could cast divine miracles faster and stronger than any spell.
That was the kind of power Allen's Roars invoked — and that realization shook Vilgefortz far more deeply than seeing Allen cast magic like a sorcerer ever could.
No — not just him. Any mage who witnessed this would be utterly terrified.
Because this effortless power revealed one simple, terrifying truth—
Allen's so-called Roars weren't on the same level as magic.
They surpassed it — even higher than the Ancient Elven magic that only those with true magical Sources could wield.
"These Roars… like your blade oils — did you create them yourself?"
Vilgefortz couldn't help but ask again.
Allen merely gave a small nod, and under Vilgefortz's blazing, almost feverish stare — his magical aura flickering like fire — he quickly changed the subject.
"Rescuing Hen Gedymdeith went smoother than expected."
"Honestly, I was worried we'd run into some of Rissberg's gene-modified creatures — I thought I might not have brought enough equipment."
"Didn't expect just magical traps, Gargoyles, and a Golem — and not even many of those."
Vilgefortz gave him a complicated look, then explained: "You may not know — most of Rissberg's products, aside from the simpler constructs, have built-in safeguards."
"They always alter their creations so that under certain conditions, they can't turn against their masters. It's part of their design philosophy."
"And for now, Sunny doesn't seem to intend to share Hen Gedymdeith with Ortolan."
"So naturally, he's being cautious…"
He inhaled deeply, gesturing to the staircase they'd just ascended — then to the dark pit stretching behind them, black as tar.
"All these magic traps already cost a fortune. Sunny must've used nearly all of Ban Ard's stock here."
"Gargoyles and golems are even more expensive. Against mages, thieves, mercenaries — even most witchers — they'd be more than enough. Present company excluded, of course."
"Besides, the sheer size of this underground complex is already its best defense—"
Vilgefortz's words suddenly stopped.
-----------------------------------
Because with a rumbling sound, the Gargoyles crouched atop the hundred-step staircase before the temple began to stir.
The Witcher instinctively moved to rush up the stairs—
"Boom!"
A bolt of violet-red lightning struck before he could even take a step.
The blinding arc carved a deep trench into the stone steps, slamming hard into the Gargoyle on the left that had yet to find its balance. Its left arm and one stubby wing were shattered instantly.
Vilgefortz's voice, sharp and commanding like a warhorn, resounded beside Allen, the incantation rolling from his tongue with crystal clarity.
For some reason, Allen could almost feel the venom in those words—
Vilgefortz wasn't just casting a spell.
He was venting.
Yes.
He was definitely venting.
By the time Allen reached the seventh step, several more searing arcs of blue-violet lightning had already crashed down upon the remaining Gargoyles. The thunderclaps were deafening—shards of stone exploded in all directions, the creatures torn apart in mid-motion.
Dust and smoke billowed upward.
The Gargoyles' life force faded instantly, but the lightning didn't stop—it continued to rake through their remains, crackling and roaring, until their massive stone bodies glowed molten red, turning into streams of lava.
"Phew~"
Vilgefortz exhaled loudly, then noticed Allen's gaze and gave him a cheeky wink.
"I've got to pull my weight somehow, don't I? If I'm not scouting traps, I may as well handle the monsters."
Allen shook his head wordlessly.
But truth be told, this side of Vilgefortz—the one that refused to lose and desperately wanted to prove himself—felt far more real than his usual calm, calculating demeanor.
After all…
Vilgefortz wasn't yet the world-shaking figure he would someday become.
He was still at that stage—recognized by a few like Philippa Eilhart and Mary, but not yet truly standing upon the world's stage.
His composure, too, hadn't yet hardened into armor.
Allen sheathed his sword and asked, "Hen Gedymdeith should be just ahead. Once we rescue him, how do we get out of here? The teleportation gate likely won't function—do we go back the way we came?"
With their goal almost in reach, it was only natural to plan the next step.
"The spatial flow inside this catacomb is in disarray," Vilgefortz nodded. "Sunny must have laid a binding ritual to seal the area. But… ancient elven ruins like this never have just one exit."
"I might be able to—"
His words suddenly faltered.
Vmmm—
Allen's wolf medallion trembled faintly against his chest. Instinctively, he turned to look behind him.
From the darkness of the passage they'd come through, a faint violet glow flickered to life.
The Witcher unsheathed his blade again, stepping forward—
Only to feel a light tap on his shoulder.
"It's Lydia…" Vilgefortz said, stepping past him toward the dark light.
At that moment, a magical transmission from Lydia reached them—Allen's heart sank, skipping a beat.
The beam of light shot straight into Vilgefortz's forehead. He closed his eyes for only a brief instant before his expression twisted drastically, his eyes snapping open wide.
"What happened?" Allen immediately stepped forward and demanded.
Vilgefortz's gaze locked onto Allen's, his tone grave.
"Lydia reports—Sunny and Ortolan have returned!"
"That's impossible!" the Witcher exclaimed.
When he'd left that desolate woodland, the mages of Ban Ard and Rissberg Group's Civil Cooperative Organization were still locked in fierce combat with the Wild Hunt.
Even if you counted from that moment until now, barely two hours had passed.
Two hours—while sounding long—was only possible for him because he had ridden without rest from the withered forest through Passolon Woods and back to Kaer Morhen, changing horses only once.
Before he found a mount, he had been running on foot—and even then, his speed rivaled that of a trained warhorse.
Even if the war between Ban Ard, the Rissberg mages, and the Wild Hunt had ended the very instant he left, there was no way they could have returned so swiftly.
What reason would they even have to hurry like that?
And more importantly—how could that battle have ended so quickly?
Unless…
"Sunny and Ortolan were seriously injured?" Allen pressed, "Or maybe the mages of Ban Ard and Rissberg were decimated? Did the Wild Hunt attack Ban Ard?"
"Neither," Vilgefortz replied, his expression growing darker still. "Lydia said in her message that Sunny and Ortolan, along with every mage they took with them, have returned completely unharmed."
"And right now," he continued, his brows furrowing, "Sunny and Ortolan have ordered the entire city of New Ban Ard sealed off—they're conducting a massive search for something…"
His voice trailed off. He frowned deeply and fixed his eyes on Allen.
He had never asked how Allen had entered Ban Ard, but it wasn't hard to guess. The moment they met, Allen already knew that Sunny and Ortolan were away from the academy.
Some things didn't need to be said aloud.
Seeing Vilgefortz's hesitation, Allen instantly understood what he was thinking and shook his head.
"It's not because of me. I was extremely careful."
There was no way he could have known that the Wild Hunt had only exchanged a few probing blows with the mages before retreating—nor that the corpse he had attached the Eye of Truth to had been found by Ortolan himself.
Even if one of Ban Ard's mages had noticed his undead among the thousands in that cursed woodland—over ten thousand dead spirits and at least three thousand corpses—it shouldn't have mattered.
His enchanted corpse had been deep within the heart of the battlefield; it should never have survived till the end.
And even if someone discovered it afterward—so what?
Who could have predicted that the battle would end so swiftly, that his corpse would survive to the end, and that Ortolan himself would not only take interest in it but also track its magical signature back to him—and connect it to the man who had triggered the dimensional fusion?
"There's no time to think about it," Allen growled, biting down hard. "We're too far in to back out now—and we won't get another chance."
Without hesitation, he vaulted over the shattered remains of the four Gargoyles, sprinting straight toward the temple while shouting over his shoulder: "I'll rescue Hen Gedymdeith! You find us another way out!"
"Our time is running out!"
-----------------------------------
Meanwhile, far away at Ban Ard Academy, Sunny and Ortolan stood before the gates, their faces expressionless as they listened to the reports of the mages returning from their sweeping search of New Ban Ard City.
But as more and more search teams returned, the expressions of the two men—each standing at the pinnacle of power in the supernatural world—grew darker and darker.
Clearly, even though nearly the entire New City had been turned upside down, its streets echoing with cries, screams, and shouts, no good news had come.
And Sunny's face was even grimmer than the aged Ortolan's.
As time passed, that suffocating sensation—that feeling of losing something vital—did not fade. Instead, it only grew heavier, as though a massive stone were pressing down on his heart, crushing his breath.
Then, suddenly—
A few mages came rushing out of the academy, their robes in disarray, shouting frantically: "Dean Sunny!"
"The guards at the arena have been knocked out!"
....
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