In a temperate broadleaf-and-mixed forest, the classic pairing—a domineering billionaire boss and the girl next door—strolled along. Today marked the hundredth day of their online relationship: a romantic day, a special day. Choosing this day to finally meet in person, they were lucky it didn't go up in flames—because neither of them was any good at retouching photos.
But as they walked, they fell into an oddly awkward silence. Online, they could talk about anything. Face to face, they kept running out of words at the worst moments.
Luckily, this was a famous tourist spot, and a guide's megaphone came to the rescue, booming loud enough to shake the treetops.
"Everyone, come a little closer… closer, take a good look—don't get separated.
"This monument marks the place where, a thousand years ago, the Golden Eagle Angoulême subdued the bandit Iorveth with a single sword strike! Let me tell you, that battle was no joke—back then…"
As they listened, the pair exchanged a glance and smiled. Unspoken understanding grew between them.
Then the boss gently took the girl's hand and said softly, "Let's go take a look too."
…
Angoulême was already on the verge of collapse after running all day, holding herself together by sheer willpower. But against an opponent on Iorveth's level, willpower didn't mean much.
The way he moved his one-handed sword looked almost light—yet when Angoulême swung down with a two-handed cut, he parried with one hand as if it cost him nothing.
Under the total suppression of strength, speed, and technique, it only took a few exchanges before her sword was knocked away. Then the left side of her skull took a hard blow from a sword pommel. She spun twice in midair and crashed straight into Victor's arms.
Around them, the elves' cheers thundered like a storm.
Victor caught Angoulême, crouched, and checked her injury. It matched the female elf's wound almost exactly—only worse. The boy snapped his head up and glared at the elven butcher.
"Angry?" Iorveth wore an easy smile. "When I found Toruviel in the brush, I was angry too. If you don't like it, pick up a sword and we'll play?"
He stood naturally, casually, and flicked his left hand into a crude gesture popular in dwarven circles.
Victor drew a slow breath, shook his head to show he wouldn't fight, and took out a healing potion. Supporting Angoulême by the neck, he helped her drink.
"Why are you chasing us? From the start, we had no hostility toward the Scoia'tael. Everything was an accident. I thought we made that very clear."
The elf spun his blade in a flourish, sheathed the sword in his right hand, and then—looking utterly unguarded—walked up to Victor with careless ease. He yanked the left-hand sword out of the ground where it had been planted and leveled the tip at the boy's throat.
"I thought… once you saw my scars, you'd know you were already dead."
"By ancient law, witchers remain neutral. We don't involve ourselves in worldly disputes. Even the queen of the Aen Seidhe has to acknowledge that. Your pursuit of us makes no sense."
Even with a blade at his throat, Victor neither groveled nor postured. Because from the moment he started watching—up until now—he'd already seen how this conversation ended.
Before, it was maybe an eighty percent chance. Now, it was a narrow escape—no real danger. Iorveth was a competent guerrilla commander, which meant Victor was certain that as long as he steered the topic in the right direction, both he and Angoulême would live.
Iorveth sneered. "You're not a witcher, human. And as one of your kind, you'll pay for the atrocities your race has committed against us."
Victor answered contempt with sarcasm, calm and prepared. "Atrocities? You mean slaughtering merchants who can't fight back? Or burning the grain farmers break their backs to grow?"
"Heh." Iorveth's laugh was cold. "I don't need to explain anything to you, but this time I will—because I feel like it. The merchants and nobles set up a trading trap, trying to surround and butcher us. And the crafty farmers poisoned the grain they sold at an inflated price."
Someone else might have dismissed that outright. But Victor, by nature, pitied—and also looked down on—this greedy age of arrogance and prejudice. He didn't think Iorveth was lying. Of course, he also didn't believe Iorveth was so pure that every time he merely "struck back."
"Even so, you have even less reason to kill us. Why snuff out genuine goodwill? Why turn potential friends into enemies? Has living like a beast in the woods ground your reason down to nothing?"
That argument landed hard enough that Iorveth fell silent for a moment.
Then he asked, "What you wrote on that note—was it true?"
"It was," Victor said. "Every word. Except that I'm still an apprentice, not a full witcher.
"She'll only be unconscious for three days. And that kind of sleep is good for her injuries."
"Fine." Iorveth pointed at Angoulême. "That woman is even. She'll live.
"But you—because you set traps that left five elves gravely wounded, and mildly crippled for the rest of their lives—you are sentenced to death.
"Since you spread gravel to reduce the trap's lethality, I'll let you choose a death without blood."
With the conversation at this point, Victor's tone actually turned light, teasing. "That's surprising. Has the Scoia'tael's support network weakened this badly? I thought injuries that minor could be fully treated."
Iorveth's voice went icy. "The Scoia'tael are in this state because of you humans!"
Victor laughed. "The one who sold out the Vrihedd Brigade and the Scoia'tael could be the White Flame Dancing on the Barrows of His Enemies. It could be the Daisy of the Valley. But it will never be me—Victor Corion.
"Iorveth… have you fallen so far you can't even hate the right target anymore?"
Thanks to Lambert's company all winter, the boy's venomous tongue—buried for twelve years of storybook softness—returned to full, glorious form.
"Shut up!" That needle of painful poison pierced straight through bone. Powerless fury made the elf tremble faintly. Frost coated his face, and the blade at Victor's throat quivered, hungry to move.
Victor wouldn't have minded letting the man stew longer, but he didn't want to push it too far—so he changed course at the right moment.
"What if I can heal them completely? No disabilities. No lingering aftereffects."
Little by little…
The frost thawed.
Iorveth steadied himself, and a faint, understanding smile appeared.
"So that's why you're so fearless. Skilled with traps, poisons, and treatment… are you an apprentice of the School of the Griffin?"
"No." Victor pulled a Wolf School medallion from his chest. "I'm Wolf School. I specialize in swordsmanship, blade oils, and bombs."
After a brief pause, Iorveth said, "Fine, Victor. I don't care which school you belong to. If you can fully heal my people, then… you are our guest. Of course, you know what happens if you lie to me."
Victor shrugged as if it didn't matter.
Iorveth slid the left-hand sword back into its scabbard and raised his voice.
"Bring a stretcher. We've got two guests. One of them needs help getting carried."
Then he looked at Victor, his tone almost gentle.
"Guests… yes?"
Victor laid Angoulême down, quietly gathered both his own weapon and the girl's, and offered them hilt-first into the elf's hands.
"Yes. Guests. Two of us.
"I'll prove my goodwill—once my safety is guaranteed."
Iorveth accepted the longsword with both hands.
"I promise you this: right now, you're as safe as if you were in your own home."