Geralt spent the winter months in the drafty halls of Kaer Morhen, acting no longer as a brother-in-arms, but as a professor of the arcane. One by one, he initiated them into the 16 Colleges, teaching them how to bypass the clumsy "push" of Signs in favour of the surgical precision of Refined Magick.
Vesemir found a new lease on life. His centuries of experience allowed him to master the College of Force with terrifying efficiency, his kinetic blasts now capable of shattering a Cyclops's ribs with a flick of his wrist. Eskel took to Necromantic White, marveling as he Healed old training scars that had plagued him for decades.
The gratitude in the hall was palpable. For the first time, they weren't just mutants—they were masters of a discipline that made the Sorcerers of Ban Ard look like amateurs.
However, as their Magical Aptitude climbed with every new spell they mastered, the reality of the "Aptitude Conflict" set in. Geralt had brought back detailed descriptions and sketches of Jake's Balanced Sword and Firearms.
Lambert stared at a drawing of the sword, his face twisted in a pout. "So you're telling me," he groaned, throwing the parchment onto the table, "that because we're now 'Super Witchers' with skyrocketing magic levels, we can never use that gear? It's the coolest steel I've ever heard of, and if I so much as sneeze near it, the hilt will give me a seizure and the blade will turn to rust?"
"Worse," Geralt replied, leaning against a pillar. "The more you learn, the more the 'Static' between you and Technology grows. You're becoming a walking Dead Zone for anything Jake builds. You'll be able to level a forest with a thought, Lambert, but you'll never pull a trigger."
Lambert slumped into his chair, looking genuinely miserable. "Typical. Give a man the power of a god, and he can't even play with the shiny new toys. I hate the 'logic' of this world."
Despite Lambert's sulking, the transformation was complete. The Witchers of the Wolf School were no longer just monster hunters; they were a Magical Elite grounded in the principles of a boy from another world.
As spring approached, the snows began to melt, and with them, the path back to the North opened.
"We owe this Jake Thompson a debt," Vesemir said, his eyes glowing with a newfound, refined intensity. "And with Nilfgaard moving north, he's going to need a vanguard that understands both the sword and the spark."
Meanwhile, back in the Unclaimed North...Jake has not been idle. While the Witchers trained, he has successfully built his first Steam Engine. The sound of rhythmic, mechanical thumping now echoes through the elven glades, and the first Automaton—a hulking mass of brass and steam—is currently standing guard over his gold.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION (JAKE'S SIDE)]
Technological Tier Increased: [Industrial Revolution]
New Schematic: Mechanical Arachnid
Event: The Witchers are returning to the North.
The air in the North had changed. It no longer smelled only of pine and ancient magic; it hummed with the rhythmic, deep-bass thrum of a thousand pistons. As Geralt led the Wolves over the final mountain pass, they stopped dead. Below them lay the Unified Republic, a nation-state that had swallowed the wilderness.
It was as vast as Redania, but it looked like nothing else on the Continent. It was a "Garden City"—a sprawling metropolis of white stone and glass where towering Steam Engines and blackened chimneys were entwined with lush, genetically-purified greenery. Huge, engineered vines wrapped around the exhaust pipes, acting as natural purifiers that breathed in the soot and exhaled clean air. This was the compromise Jake had struck with the Aen Seidhe: an industrial revolution that didn't poison the earth.
The four races were a blur of activity. Dwarves and Gnomes operated massive steam-lathes, their Technological Aptitude having reached heights that made their ancient ancestors look like amateurs. Meanwhile, in the quieter districts, elven mages and scholars were deep into the study of Refined Alchemy. They didn't brew the toxic slop of traditional sorcery; they used precision distillation to create the Essence of Intellect. This potion was the lifeblood of the Republic's thinkers, sharpening the mind to a razor's edge without a single drop of toxicity.
"Welcome back, Geralt," a voice called out.
Jake Thompson stepped from a carriage that moved without horses, powered by a hissing boiler. He was dressed in Tarantian silk, looking every bit the founding father of a new world.
"Jake," Geralt rasped, gesturing to the three stunned Witchers behind him. "Meet Vesemir, Eskel, and Lambert. I told them about your world, but I think seeing it is making their heads spin."
"The Republic welcomes the School of the Wolf," Jake said with a grin. "Come. You've had a long ride. It's time you saw what happens when logic meets the North."
The tour was a sensory assault for the Witchers. They saw streetlamps glowing with Tesla energy and Automaton sentries that patrolled the borders with tireless iron legs.
Lambert was the most conflicted. As they passed a workshop where a Fine Revolver was being calibrated, he groaned. "Look at that steel... the balance... and I can't even hold the damn things because my magic is too 'refined' now. It's a tragedy, Jake. A real tragedy."
"Maybe," Jake laughed, "but you can cast a Shield of Force that can stop a cannonball. I'd call that a fair trade."
As they reached the heart of the city, a low, mourning whistle echoed through the valley. A massive iron beast on tracks pulled into the central station, hissing steam and pulling dozens of carriages.
"What is that?" Vesemir asked, his hand instinctively reaching for a sword he no longer needed to rely on.
"That's the future," Jake said. "We call it a Steam Train. And it's how we're going to move an army if Nilfgaard decides to test our borders."
The Witchers stood in the middle of the station, four relics of a dying age standing in the birthplace of a new one. They weren't just monster hunters anymore; they were the guests of honor in a nation that had outgrown its gods.