Silence fell by the ridge between the fields.
A light breeze carried the fragrance of ripened wheat and the clamor of harvest, lingering in the air.
The witcher truly had not expected Melitele to say such words. An uncontrollable surge of emotion erupted in his heart. He squeezed his eyes shut, refusing to let something soft and fragile spill out.
Only after taking several deep breaths did he manage to suppress the overflowing emotions.
He didn't know what was happening to him—or perhaps he did.
It was the burden he had carried since the moment he transmigrated into this world, the weight called "a transmigrator." From the defense of Kaer Morhen onward—to the Wild Hunt, and then to the world-ending White Frost—not for a single moment had that burden been set down. Instead, it had only continued to grow heavier.
Some of that weight could be spoken aloud, but most of it could only be hidden in his heart. It wasn't that he didn't trust Vesemir, Mary, Vera, Sol, Enid, or Lysa—
On the contrary, it was precisely because he believed in them, trusted them, respected them, and felt gratitude and emotion at having such friends and elders, that he could not speak it out loud.
During the defense of Kaer Morhen, he could speak with Vesemir, with Vera, with Sol. He could even deceive them under the guise of prophecy, forcing them to believe.
Because that was an imminent problem—and more importantly, though difficult, it was a problem that could be solved.
As long as the Wolf School was more vigilant, as long as they struck first, even if they couldn't emerge completely unscathed and instead turn danger into opportunity as they had now, at the very least they wouldn't collapse overnight in confusion, dying without even knowing why.
But what about the Wild Hunt?
Should he directly say that it was a force that had once conquered countless worlds, an invincible power, rather than some bedtime horror story meant to scare naughty children?
Ivar Evil-Eye of the Viper School stood as proof!
That grandmaster of the Viper School had told countless people about the rivers of blood he had seen through his mutated single eye—but how many had believed him?
Those were all comrades who had once fought and survived together with him amid the claws and fangs of monsters within the witcher order.
A bond even closer than that of blood brothers.
And even Ivar Evil-Eye had been treated thus.
If someone like Allen—a fourteen-year-old child who had just become a witcher—were to say such things, Vesemir, Vera, and Sol, even if they didn't think he was lying, would only believe it to be a child's nightmare, an imagined fear.
Allen didn't blame them. If he were in their place, he wouldn't believe it either.
Only after the Wild Hunt had destroyed half of Ellander and razed the entire city of Ban Ard, leaving behind nothing but a lone academy, did those warnings about the Wild Hunt finally gain soil in which they could truly take root.
Even the Wild Hunt was like that.
And the Wild Hunt was still something tangible—living beings, merely stronger, more ferocious, but still killable with blade and magic.
But the White Frost?
Even Allen—who "knew" more than a hundred years of the future—didn't know how to describe that apocalyptic calamity, called a natural disaster in the original work, yet in this reality perhaps twisted into something entirely unknown.
On the Northern Continent—at least in the original story—there had never been any viable solution to it.
Don't even mention how it was "resolved" in the games.
Whenever Allen recalled those endings, they felt so simplistic as to be almost laughable.
One had to understand: the Elder Blood inherited by Ciri was not a weapon researched by the Aen Elle to deal with the White Frost.
She was merely a door—a great ship—allowing the Aen Elle, who had lost their talent for traversing time and space, to flee in disgrace before the White Frost arrived, searching for the next refuge, wherever it might be.
In other words, Ciri was simply what the Aen Elle of the past had been. Nothing more.
How could such a talent possibly end the White Frost entirely just by stepping through a door?
Unless the Aen Elle of the past had fled like homeless dogs not because they were afraid, but because the world was too big and they all wanted to go out and see it?
Allen wished that were true—but he couldn't imagine how it could be.
What's more, Ciri's birth was still a full hundred years away, and the White Frost seemed to be accelerating its approach.
In the end, within the Northern Continent, within the witcher world, there was no answer to be found.
Mortals could seemingly only seize the moment, and then quietly wait for the apocalypse to arrive and freeze everything.
What good would it do to tell Vesemir, Vera, or Sol of such a burden?
It would only multiply despair.
A single burden, kept in his heart, was just one burden. But once spoken aloud, not only would it remain unsolved—it would also saddle another person with the same weight.
Why do that?
And so, he could only bury this despair in his heart, waiting for a proper moment—like the destruction of Ban Ard. Or perhaps that moment would never come, just like that prophecy that still haunted him in midnight dreams, where his life ended at the threshold of the Wild Hunt.
Thus—
Only the goddess, only Melitele, was the sole existence in this world who understood all of his fears.
She was even comforting him, even trying to fulfill the duty of a racial deity of humankind, to protect him—
"Goddess, you can't keep saying things like that," Allen took another deep breath and said in a joking tone. "If you go on, I might really become your devoted martyr."
The pregnant aspect looked at the witcher with affection and did not press the matter further. She gave a slight nod and asked in return, "Then I'll stop. Why don't you speak instead?"
"My Holy Child—do you have anything you wish to ask me? Or is it as usual?"
Allen instantly felt relieved and hurriedly said, "I came for the Blessing of Abundant Harvest. If it won't affect your recovery or the cultivation of your followers—uh, wait—"
He suddenly thought of the prophecy he had dreamed after waking from his recent coma. After a pause, he asked, "Goddess Melitele, I do have a question I wish to consult you on—"
"Prophecies. The endings foretold in prophecies—can they be avoided?"
The witcher recounted the prophecy: that strange city assaulted by the King of the Wild Hunt, and the tragic ending where he and so many people close to him died beneath the Wild Hunt's blades. He looked at Melitele with anticipation.
"The Wild Hunt… prophecy…" The pregnant aspect's smile faded, her expression turning grave.
As the smile completely vanished from her full, maternal face, it transformed into a visage like aged bark, furrowed by time—solemn and severe.
Before Allen, the pregnant woman suddenly became a hunched old crone.
She wore a black knitted mantle, with a tattered pouch at her waist like those carried by herbalists, her head full of silver hair.
"When is the future you foresaw?" she asked in a hoarse voice.
"I don't know," Allen shook his head, then frowned and thought carefully before adding, "But it shouldn't be within the next year or two—"
The old woman tapped the ground with her staff in silence, then said thoughtfully, "Prophecies are not absolutely unchangeable. Since you are certain you foresaw it, this likely wasn't your first prophecy—"
Allen nodded.
Though he had not possessed the unstable prophetic power for long, counting carefully, it had already manifested four times.
The first time had been the prophecy that Sunny would secretly deliver a large batch of war beasts—produced by the Rissberg Group's Civil Cooperative Organization—to Kaer Morhen.
According to Vera, not long ago the Wolf School had already "properly dealt with" the matter, even capturing two mages and locking them in the dungeon.
The second time was in Kaer Village at the foot of Kaer Morhen. There, he had seen one of the four witchers who would remain in the future Wolf School—Eskel.
He hadn't done anything about it at the time, but he knew that the Wolf School would take in some orphans amid the chaos of war.
Eskel would most likely still become a witcher in the end.
The third time was in Ban Ard. After rescuing Hen Gedymdeith in the underground complex, before leaving the secret passage, he had foreseen that stepping out would be sensed by the Wild Hunt's Renakins, resulting in his instant death. He immediately layered every concealment method he had on himself, and in the end successfully evaded the perception of the Wild Hunt and Ortolan.
The final time—
He was run through the heart by a single sword thrust from the King of the Wild Hunt, Eredin Bréacc Glas, and then saw the corpses of Vesemir, Aristo, Mary, Sol, Philippa Eilhart, Francesca Findabair,
Vera— strewn in disarray across shattered terrain blasted apart by magic.
Thinking it over like this, Although the first two prophecies had indeed come true, the content of the third prophecy had been broken by the witcher's own actions.
Then in theory, he should be able to deal with the fourth prophecy in the same way, rather than being so pessimistic—as if prophecies were, as so many general treatises claimed, completely unchangeable.
No!
That wasn't it!
Although he had never truly studied prophecy in a complete and systematic way like alchemy or ritual studies, making it difficult to definitively categorize—
He was nonetheless absolutely certain that the fourth prophecy was different, that it would definitely happen.
Or, to put it another way, the third "prophecy" might not have been a true prophecy at all, but rather a kind of foresight—a fleeting glimmer not yet branded into the river of time, merely one of countless possibilities.
But when he had "dreamed" of being pierced through the heart by Eredin Bréacc Glas, and of seeing Vesemir, Aristo, Mary, and the others die miserably in the wilderness—
He was utterly certain—
That was a true prophecy. That was the future. A future that would inevitably come to pass.
After Allen explained the several prophecies and all of his feelings surrounding them, the Crone nodded and said, "Prophecies are not absolutely unchangeable. As you yourself experienced, they can be altered."
"And moreover—"
The Crone looked at him sternly and said in a reproachful tone, "If we all firmly believed that prophecies must come true—"
"Then when Ithlinne Aegli aep Aevenien prophesied a thousand years ago that the White Frost would destroy the entire world, did you choose to give up?"
Allen froze, then replied, "Of course not!"
"Why?" the Crone asked in return. "Is Ithlinne's prophecy not a prophecy? Or do you believe that Ithlinne's prophetic ability is inferior to yours?"
How could he possibly dare to accept that?
If there were only one being in this world, past to present, who could be called a prophet, it would without question be Ithlinne Aegli aep Aevenien.
Not merely because of his memories of the original work from a previous life—though that was part of it—but more importantly because Ithlinne's prophetic verses were not limited to the Child of Surprise and the White Frost.
In Ithlinne's prophecy, the portions preceding the Child of Surprise and the White Frost—from the extinction of the Elder Elves, to the surrender and tragic death of the last elven king, Auberon's predecessor, and finally to the failure of Aelirenn's uprising; from the establishment of the Novigradian Union, to humanity's complete domination of the world, to the emergence of witchers, and even the ravages of the Black Plague—
Every prophecy in the verses had come to pass.
It was only after the fact that people matched reality with the poetic, vague lines of the prophecy.
That was the true reason an Elder Elven prophecy could be passed down to this day without being lost, even though many human kingdoms were deeply hostile to all elven history.
Ithlinne's prophecy was prophecy among prophecies—the future written on parchment.
Allen was left momentarily at a loss for words.
The Crone slowly said, "Because that is someone else's prophecy, not something you saw with your own eyes.
"Because you are afraid, my child. You are afraid. Afraid that the people you care about will truly die beneath the hooves of the Wild Hunt because of you."
Allen fell silent.
The intense intuition that came from directly facing a prophecy was not something anyone who had never experienced such a prophecy could understand.
"Do not be misled by prophecy, my Holy Child. Do not, like a pitiful fool, become a slave to it," the Crone continued. "You are the Child of Destiny. You are the one fated to save the world.
"And you might even think of it this way—"
She fixed the witcher with her aged yet wise golden eyes. "In your prophecy, you will soon die together with those you care about. But in Ithlinne's prophecy, you are the Child of Destiny who will ultimately save the world."
"These two prophecies are clearly in conflict. So which one is true?"
"Or let me ask again—are you truly so confident in yourself that you believe you already stand above the great prophet Ithlinne Aegli aep Aevenien?"
Allen gave a bitter smile. "I have never hoped more than now that Ithlinne's prophecy is the true one."
"But—"
He hesitated, then asked, "Does that mean I do nothing at all? Just wait for the two prophecies to collide, and wait for Ithlinne to completely defeat me?"
"Of course not," the Crone shook her head. "The more subjects a prophecy involves, the stronger they are, the higher their standing—the harder that prophecy is to change."
"So your feeling is not wrong. You are indeed in danger. Very great danger."
"What should I do?" Allen asked urgently.
The Crone tapped the ground again with her staff, thought for a moment, then shook her head. "Prophecy is not within my divine portfolio. I cannot give you any advice. However, you can go to the Temple of Kreve."
"Prophecy is Kreve's domain, and the High Priest of the Kreve cult, Ymir Isaac, is the most orthodox great prophet on the Northern Continent."
"The Kreve cult—" Allen froze, then subconsciously asked, "In my capacity as Melitele's Holy Child?"
He didn't believe that the special treatment he received at Melitele's temple would carry over to the Temple of Kreve.
Especially given the public image of Kreve—not nearly as easygoing as Melitele.
Kreve was seen as a violent, irascible, unforgiving, and extremely arrogant "strict father."
He feared that if he used Divine Dreamwalking to push open the gates of Kreve's divine realm, he would be blasted straight out by a bolt of lightning—or even have his soul shattered.
"You have a better identity, my Holy Child," the Crone said meaningfully. "Ymir Isaac will agree to all of your requests."
Kreve's high priest will agree to all of my requests…
Allen was genuinely stunned.
Could it be that Ymir Isaac, like Ianna, was also a child adopted by Sol and Vera?
What kind of legendary eye for talent did Sol and Vera have—every child they adopted became a great figure, while only their own child met a tragic end?
"Do you have any other questions?" the Crone asked, interrupting him just as he was about to probe further.
Seeing that the goddess was clearly keeping him in suspense, Allen didn't mind. In the end, he would find out after a trip to the Temple of Kreve.
"No," Allen shook his head.
"Then take my blessing and return," the Crone suddenly became the gentle pregnant woman once more. "And one more thing—you must remember this—"
"On this road, you are never walking alone!"
....
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