Prologue 1
In some medieval fantasy world, there was a cozy, peaceful little town that felt like it existed only in fairy tales. On a small hill near the town stood a wooden cottage. In front of it were a well and a flowerbed; behind it was an herb garden. Kelpie was in that herb garden, gently tugging at a little boy's clothes with her teeth.
The boy's name was Victor. He had just turned twelve, stood five feet tall—an utterly ordinary height—with blond hair and blue eyes, and a face so plain it wouldn't stand out in a crowd.
When Kelpie caught the hem of his clothes, he was harvesting herbs, preparing to brew a healing potion.
Victor turned his head to look at Kelpie. She was a glossy black mare, perfectly proportioned, with firm muscles, elegant steps, and a mane that shone with a rich sheen. She looked like she could run like the wind—beautiful in the way only a fantasy world could produce. And this beautiful creature was gently nibbling at his clothing, trying to coax him to follow.
He patted the leftover dirt from his hands, stood up, and followed Kelpie to the cottage door—where he saw her.
A young girl with silver-gray hair lay facedown at his doorstep, a longsword strapped to her back. Her clothes were in tatters, and she was smeared with blood.
…
Waking from the nightmare that had trapped her, Ciri felt something probing at her face. Panic shot through her—she snapped her eyes open and struggled upright, and then she saw Victor's utterly ordinary face, his pale blue eyes clear and bright.
The room's homey furnishings—a wooden wall clock, a stone fireplace, little hanging animal ornaments, crisp white bedsheets without lace—told her this was absolutely not that place from her nightmare.
He's just a kid, she thought. I'm safe.
The thought drained all the strength out of her at once. She collapsed back onto the bed, her arm throbbing with a faint, deep pain from a heavy blow and a small fracture.
His warm, dry hand returned to her forehead, checking that she didn't have a fever. Then the child lifted the cup of water beside the bed and handed her most of a mug of warm water. Ciri, parched, drank it in big, undignified gulps while he watched.
She was very young, with fine but thick eyebrows and large, oval green eyes. Against her pale skin, a striking scar cut from beneath her left eye across most of her cheek.
You could tell just from her face that she was stubborn and hard as nails. He said, "I'm Victor. I'm from Bell Town. What's your name?"
Under his innocent gaze, Ciri hesitated. "...F-Falka. My name is Falka," she said.
It was a lie. In a strange place, she didn't dare give her real name.
Victor smiled a little. "And that horse?"
"Kelpie."
Victor nodded. "Doesn't seem too serious, then. Eat something, and sleep again. Get your strength back. We'll talk more tomorrow."
He rolled a small movable serving cart up to the bed. On it were crispy fried bacon, soft whole-wheat bread, and a bowl of vegetable soup—those were what she recognized at a glance—along with two fried eggs whose yolks were far too large to be chicken eggs, plus a few fruits she couldn't identify.
Then he stood, left the room, and closed the door behind him.
Ciri lifted the blanket and sat up. She realized her upper body was bare—her cleaned skin wrapped in tight rings of bandages. Her lower half was better, but only because she had a pair of cotton underpants.
"Don't think about it. He's just a kid," she told herself. As for every other question—hunger shoved them all aside.
…
The next day, Ciri found that the medicine he'd used on her bandages was remarkably effective. The pain in her arm had eased noticeably. After she got dressed, she left the room feeling refreshed—and saw the short kid, at least nine inches shorter than her, standing on a low stool. He was holding a long stirring rod and stirring a huge cauldron. The cauldron stood nearly half his height, and if you really tried, it looked big enough that you could curl up inside it for a bath.
"Wait a bit," he said. "Let me finish this batch first. If you're hungry, you can eat. There's nobody else at home anyway."
Ciri moved to the table, where two sets of cutlery had been laid out. The food was abundant, yet her thoughts sank inward.
Alchemy—she wasn't unfamiliar with it. She could even be considered practiced. Even if she couldn't drink witcher potions, Uncle Vesemir had taught her plenty of blade-oil recipes, and she'd always been a good student.
Back at Kaer Morhen, her adoptive father—the White Wolf, Geralt—would sometimes do the same thing: stand over a cauldron, stirring without pause, and then bottle up all kinds of brightly colored potions and brews.
Lost in those memories, Ciri barely noticed Victor finish his work and sit across from her. He lifted a hand to signal they should start eating, smiling as he said, "Hi, Falka. I'm Victor—an alchemist from Bell Town. I'm twelve. You can call me Vic."
"You… live here alone? There's no one else taking care of you?" Ciri asked. She'd assumed he was just small for his age. She hadn't expected him to be a full four years younger than her. At that age, living alone was rare.
"I used to have my grandmother living with me," Vic answered, lowering his head as he sipped soup from a spoon. It made his voice sound muffled.
Ciri froze. "I… I'm sorry. I didn't mean— I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to bring it up. Don't be sad."
Vic looked up. His blue eyes first showed confusion—then they turned bright with amusement. "Sorry, I didn't explain it clearly and made you misunderstand. My grandmother's perfectly fine—healthy, honestly too healthy. She's not here because she went overseas traveling with my other grandmother and my third aunt."
Ciri felt awkward for a second—and then she and Vic burst into laughter, looking at each other.
He cut into a pancake and lifted a bite with his fork. "Don't worry about it. I chose not to go traveling. I can take care of myself. Staying home lets me practice alchemy, and I can help the neighbors, too."
"Don't they worry about you?" Ciri asked with a smile, letting her guard down a little. The bacon was fried just right, fragrant and crisp.
"Actually, most of the time I'm the one taking care of them. Their cooking is… not exactly something you'd praise. And they're experts at turning a room upside down.
"Especially after I learned alchemy—now even the everyday work of making healing salves and selling tonics, they just hand it all to me…"
Vic was in a talkative mood, rambling on about the tiny details of country life. Because he liked this girl—liked her in the simplest, most human way. Not the kind of "liking" that comes with bad intentions. He was still a child: no ability for that, and no interest in it, either.
And Ciri realized she liked listening to him. Because his words were far from blood and fire. There was no pressure in them, no schemes, and none of that nauseating coercion.
Without meaning to, Vic soothed something bruised inside her.
In the tidy cottage, books were lined up neatly on the shelves. In the spacious dining room, the tableware was clean and gleaming. Morning sunlight spilled through the window onto the alchemy cauldron, and the whole place carried the gentle flavor of a peaceful life.
Their laughter rang out bright and clear.
…
In the blink of an eye, half a year passed. Without realizing it, Ciri sank into the warm life of the small town. The peace and happiness here were something she'd never experienced—not even a version of it. No war. No disease. People had food and clothing without worry, and they got along in harmony.
After she'd clumsily made up a story about being a traveler who'd met with misfortune—a story so wild, so full of holes that even she found it ridiculous—Victor still accepted her. Just like that, he shared the cottage with her, let her live with him, and recover from her injuries. The other villagers of Bell Town accepted her just as easily, welcoming the new resident with enthusiastic beer and delicious cake, completely ignoring how suspicious she clearly was.
Even Kelpie—usually sharp-eyed and skittish—couldn't resist a few "sweetened bribes": soft little cakes and finely chopped hay. She let the nearby children come up and pet her as they pleased. They adored the beautiful, powerful Kelpie.
Unfortunately, fate wasn't going to let Ciri live in comfort like this forever…
Prologue 2
Late at night…
"Mom! What did they do to you?!" Ciri jolted awake from her dream, drenched in sweat. She had seen Yennefer—the sorceress she regarded as a mother—locked in a cold, damp cell and brutalized, her hands caked with dark, dried blood.
She knew it wasn't just a dream, but a real fragment.
As the one and only Source with the Elder Blood, what her bloodline gave her wasn't merely a vast, barely controllable well of magic—it also gave her the ability to slip through time and space.
That bloodline made her prey to powerful, wicked mages. And to capture her and seize what flowed in her veins, the people she loved—and who loved her—had been hurt. The thought made her shake uncontrollably.
She knew she had to leave. The "holiday" was over. She had to go back… she had to… face her destiny, even if it meant enduring the worst kind of humiliation.
Everyone knew the medieval world had no genetic cloning. And if there was no special magic to extract a bloodline cleanly… then there was only one way left.
…
The door opened. Victor walked in, sat on the bed, and patted her back gently. "Nightmare?"
What she'd been through had made her someone who didn't put much stock in trust. But after half a year together, she couldn't bring herself to reject Victor—this young, plain, steady, sensible kid.
She suddenly wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tight, and through sobs she confessed her true identity, the pain of what she'd endured, and why she had to leave now.
In front of him, I've gotten weak, she thought. But I have to tell him—my dearest brother. He deserves the truth, before I leave him forever.
…
"So… your name isn't Falka. It's Ciri. You aren't some traveler from over the mountains or beyond the sea—you're someone who crossed over from another world. A princess of the Kingdom of Cintra. A Source with a mysterious bloodline and powerful magic.
"And before this, a group of evil elves from another world—the Aen Elle—kidnapped you. They trapped you in their world because they wanted to claim your bloodline through their king.
"Luckily, you found a chance to escape.
"After that, you went through all kinds of trouble, and in the end you crossed into our world and collapsed at my front door.
"And today, six months later, you learned in a dream that a powerful mage in your original world has captured the lady you see as your mother and is torturing her… so you have to go back and save her."
Being squeezed half to death by the hug and forcibly walked through the explanation, Victor summed it up with a face twisted in strain, a little short of breath.
Even though Ciri's description left a lot unsaid, Victor could easily see the parts she couldn't bring herself to speak—things too shameful, too ugly.
"It's hard to believe, right? But everything I said is true. I'm sorry I used a false name at the beginning. Please forgive me," Ciri whispered.
"No. I believe every word you said. Truly."
Victor really did believe her. Ciri could feel it—he wasn't lying. The realization made her eyes burn with tears.
Only Victor knew that even half a year ago, the reason he'd taken a liking to her the moment they met was because her appearance tugged at a distant memory. A very, very long time ago—before he crossed into Bell Town—there had been a game called The Witcher 3, and in it there just happened to be a woman named Ciri with the same silver-gray hair, the same vivid green oval eyes, and the same deep scar beneath her eye.
Back then, the spark of his fondness for this girl had begun as a kind of borrowed affection tied to his memories of Earth.
So when her story lined up so perfectly with what he remembered, he had no reason not to believe her.
…
On a roadside several miles from town, Ciri finished packing and led her horse by the reins while Victor stood with her, reluctant to part.
"Will you forget me?" they asked at the same time, after a sudden, heavy silence.
That strange synchronicity made them look at each other—and laugh.
"I won't forget you," Ciri said softly. "My dear brother."
"I won't either, Ciri."
"Then why won't you call me your sister?" she asked.
"That's difficult, Ciri—especially when for half a year I've basically been the one taking care of you, you complete disaster at daily life."
As he spoke, Victor took two blue vials from the herb pouch he never left home without and stuffed them into the girl's belt pouch. "Take these. If you get hurt, they can save your life. They're not some flawed batch I made—they're top-grade. My grandmother left them to me."
"Thank you…"
Thinking back on the past half year—so dreamlike, so idyllic—Ciri sank into a quiet sadness… until a sudden, biting chill snapped her wide awake.
"Not good. The Aen Elle are after me."
Ciri swung up onto the saddle and saw the air around them ripple with countless rings—signs that spatial corridors were opening. She realized she couldn't leave Victor behind. She couldn't leave him to those cruel elves.
"Get on!" With a sharp pull, she hauled Victor up onto the horse behind her. Then she barked, "Hold on tight!"
She squeezed with her legs, and Kelpie surged forward, hooves pounding as she bolted at full speed.
In the jolting, bouncing rush, Victor looked back and saw the spatial corridors opening one after another. Armored knights poured out—wearing gear that looked like something out of the Lich King's legend—roaring with fury, and then charging into pursuit without hesitation. Unable to help himself, he muttered, almost amused, "So this is the mandatory chase scene in an epic story…"
Ciri ignored him, focusing. Ahead of them, the outline of a door suddenly unfolded in midair, and within it swirled a milky-white vortex glittering with phosphorescent light.
With the special effects cranked to the maximum, on Kelpie's strong, warm back, Victor clung to the girl who wanted him to call her "sister" and experienced his first "fully conscious" crossing—
dizzy… uncomfortable… miserable… and then blacking out.
…
Kaer Morhen—in Elder Speech, "Old Sea Fortress"—the keep where witchers of the School of the Wolf trained, and the place they called home. Ciri had lived here for several years in the past. She was glad she'd managed to lock onto it smoothly, and even more glad to see the shocked expression on Uncle Vesemir's face as he worked in the courtyard repairing the wooden practice posts.
She lifted the unconscious Victor down from the horse and laid him gently on a pile of dry hay in the courtyard.
"Ciri? How are you here?" Vesemir recognized her at once, even if the way she appeared was far too sorcerous. "Geralt and Yennefer have been looking for you everywhere."
Ciri stepped forward and hugged Vesemir. "I know. I know they're waiting for me. I have to go to them immediately.
"Listen, Uncle Vesemir. I don't have time to explain. This kid… he's my brother. He's important to me. I'm asking you to look after him—like you looked after me back then. He saved my life. He's… he's very important to me."
Seeing how serious and resolute Ciri looked, Vesemir—still not understanding what was going on—could only nod and agree. Then he watched as she kissed Victor's forehead, climbed back onto Kelpie, and tore through a portal like a thunderbolt, vanishing from Kaer Morhen's courtyard.
…
Her crossing succeeded again, locking onto the place from her nightmare—the location where Yennefer was being held: Stygga Castle.
But in truth, Ciri was still too young, too naïve. She believed she had plenty of leverage for negotiation. And after two long-overdue, successful crossings in a row, she felt even more confident—she didn't even realize her enemy could interfere with and seal off her ability to travel.
So she strode into the castle openly, demanding negotiations—only to be beaten until her face was swollen and bruised, then bound into a specially made restraint chair to await what they had planned for her.
Fortunately, just before disaster could truly fall, the one bound to her fate—her adoptive father, the White Wolf, Geralt—arrived in time with his search party. They stopped the tragedy, rescued Yennefer and Ciri, and pulled them out of the abyss.
In the end, Geralt joined forces with Yennefer against the evil mage, while Ciri faced a ruthless mercenary on her own—destiny's duel unfolding at last.
Chapter 1: A New Life Starts with Studying
Where am I?
I was lying on a bed that wasn't particularly soft, fully dressed. The blankets carried a faint smell of mildew.
A few minutes after opening his eyes, Victor—being a realist—didn't waste time doubting anything. He simply accepted the fact that he'd ended up in yet another new world. After all, there's only "never," and then there's "countless times... right?"
Of course, this new world's starting point was far worse. Not only had he lost every relationship he'd painstakingly built, but the blood and fire of the witcher's world—the cruelty—were also far beyond the comparatively peaceful alchemical world he'd come from.
Luckily, as he slowly sifted through his thoughts, he was sure he could recall quite a lot about this world. Those things might not let him fight armies or shatter mountains, but they would definitely help him stay far away from danger.
…
This was Kaer Morhen. As he went down the keep's ancient stone stairs, he'd already judged where he was: Kaer Morhen, the inheritance ground of the School of the Wolf.
Sure enough, by the fireplace in the great hall, Victor saw the spiritual mentor of every Wolf School witcher—the old witcher Ciri called "uncle" but treated like a grandfather: Vesemir, with gray eyes, catlike pupils, and snow-white hair.
When it came to events, he didn't think the game's content could be applied directly to reality. Even a tiny deviation in the process could create a huge difference in the result. But broadly speaking, character traits wouldn't be too far off—that was the conclusion he'd reached after spending time with Ciri.
Their gazes met. Victor nodded in greeting, offering a friendly smile to the venerable witcher who'd spent centuries slaying monsters, clinging to his principles without wavering—an old man worthy of respect.
…
After finishing the simple (and frankly awful) lunch the old witcher had made with his own hands, Victor and Vesemir sat on the steps of the inner courtyard and talked.
After hearing Vesemir repeat Ciri's parting words—her declaration of entrusting him to Vesemir's care—Victor felt both amused and exasperated. So he really had been treated like a child. And yet, he couldn't help feeling a little happy too, because it meant she valued him that much.
So when it was his turn to speak, he didn't mention much of Ciri's private matters. He simply described why he'd been brought into the witcher's world.
Because the truth was, he knew too much—details that, under normal circumstances, Ciri would never have told anyone.
Last night, she'd been willing to tell him most likely because she'd been prepared to never see him again, and because she'd carried the guilt of hiding things for half a year. If he dumped all of that onto the old man, it would only make future interactions more awkward.
"…So that's how it happened. She lived at my place for half a year. Last night she had a nightmare and said she had to leave. Then, when we were saying goodbye, we were attacked by the Aen Elle. Ciri had no choice but to haul me onto a horse and escape."
"So you're someone who came from another world." After hearing the whole story, Vesemir's expression grew grave. "Child, from now on, you can't tell anyone else about your origins.
"Our world has a natural phenomenon called the Conjunction of the Spheres. When it occurs, many places overlap with other worlds, causing environmental changes and the migration of living creatures.
"And the creatures brought by the Conjunction fifteen hundred years ago were things like ghouls, bloodthorn corpse-demons, higher vampires, basilisks—monsters.
"So you can imagine how people feel about beings from other worlds."
Victor nodded. "Understood, Uncle Vesemir!"
He had no psychological barrier to calling him that. The man was a living fossil who'd survived for centuries—calling him "grandfather" wouldn't have been wrong either.
"Then for the time being, I'll be relying on you. I'll do my best to adapt here. Are there any taboos or restricted areas in Kaer Morhen?"
Even though he was worried about Ciri's safety, Victor knew he was powerless. In fact, by now, the outcome of that fight had probably already been decided. All he could do was stay in Kaer Morhen and wait for news.
Vesemir said, "You looked after our child, which makes you our family. I promise you—in Kaer Morhen, there are no taboos and no forbidden areas for you. You're as free as if you were in your own home."
Victor thought for a moment. "Then… please tell me about witchers.
"Ciri only had time to tell me the bare basics. I want to start by understanding you—so I can understand this world."
Vesemir didn't refuse, but he didn't start explaining right away either. Instead, he led Victor to the library on the third floor, sat him at a desk, then went to the shelves and carefully picked out several books before returning to Victor's side.
First, he handed Victor Royal Bloodlines of the North and The Cintran Massacre. "These two books describe Ciri's background.
"Witchers: Not as Evil as You Think presents a more neutral introduction and viewpoint on witchers.
"Monsters: A Portrait of Witchers, Volume One is the hateful perspective—the mainstream opinion out in the wider world.
"Once you've finished those, you can continue with The Trial of the Grasses and Other Secret Witcher Trainings—My Eyewitness Account, which tells how we become witchers.
"Finally, Witcher Signs and Art Is an Explosion—Did You Explode Today? introduce two of the auxiliary attack methods witchers commonly use."
After hearing the selection and Vesemir's explanations, Victor felt the old man's thoughtfulness. To prevent Victor from forming a distorted understanding of the world, Vesemir had even placed the prejudiced, witcher-hating viewpoint directly in front of him to read.
"Child, I'll be reading over there in that chair," Vesemir said gently. "If you have any questions, come ask. I'll do my best to answer."
"Thank you, Uncle Vesemir."
…
For Victor, the best way to start engaging with a new world was to read. Reading was never wasted effort. Books didn't just help him unseal forgotten memories; more importantly, they let him complete the surface-level "learning process" he was supposed to have. In the future, if he ever needed to know things ahead of time, that would help him avoid a lot of unnecessary suspicion.
Those transmigrators who skipped all the basics and immediately started revealing secrets, acting omniscient, calculating everything flawlessly, and crushing everyone with sheer intellect only avoided getting themselves killed because they had plot armor.
Victor took it as a warning.
…
When he woke from his evening nap, Vesemir was surprised to find Victor still at the desk, utterly absorbed, unable to put the books down.
From the side, the slanting sunset lit Victor's plain profile. A faint, satisfied smile tugged at his lips. The scene unexpectedly gave Vesemir the sense that a quiet strength was gathering.
He stood, walked to Victor's side, and patted his shoulder. "Let's eat first."
Victor set the book down and looked up. "Uncle Vesemir, in my original world, daily life was almost completely free of danger. But in this world, killing and conflict are clearly everywhere.
"I want to train harder and learn swordsmanship to protect myself, but I don't know how to begin. Would you be willing to train me?"
Vesemir didn't answer immediately. He held Victor's serious gaze for several seconds before he finally said, "Do you mean you want to become a witcher?"
Victor shook his head.
"Witchers—also called monster slayers—are mutants created by mages after the Conjunction of the Spheres to fight the monsters that came with it. They have speed faster than ordinary people, greater strength, extraordinary senses, and long lives. Their shared traits are mutated pupils and sterility.
"I respect the struggle of witchers who fight monsters, but becoming a witcher myself?
"…No.
"Absolutely not.
"I don't want to go through the Trial of the Grasses—the seven-day ordeal of seizures, high fever, nosebleeds, vomiting, agony that bores into your organs… with a failure rate as high as seventy percent." His tone was decisive, leaving no room for argument.
Hearing that answer, Vesemir let out a breath of relief—yet a trace of disappointment still slipped through. He truly didn't want to see another child endure such inhuman torment, and yet he couldn't help mourning the fading of their legacy.
"You've been reading well," Vesemir said, patting Victor's shoulder in encouragement. "Your summary was excellent. Every symptom you described was correct."
Then he added, "Of course I can train you. Eat dinner, go to bed early. Tomorrow morning, we start at five."
Victor broke into a delighted smile. "No problem. And please let me cook dinner tonight—I'm very good at preparing food."