The two months that followed the Ritual of Amon were a fever dream of reformation. Across the occupied territories of Temeria, the black sun of Nilfgaard no longer signaled the coming of the noose and the torch. Following Sebastian's "Right Track," the Nilfgaardian Military had transformed into a legion of strict but benevolent administrators. They didn't just seize grain; they brought irrigation techniques learned from the Scripture of Vinushka. They didn't just hang "heretics"; they built "Sanctuaries of Clarity" where the mad could be cured with Wild Dagga elixirs.
To the peasants, the "Black Ones" had become a necessary, disciplined steel that held back the chaos of the war. For the first time in history, Nilfgaardian patrols were met with bread and cheers rather than locked doors.
It was into this alien atmosphere that Geralt of Rivia and Vesemir rode their horses, Roach and the bay, through the gates of White Orchard.
Only an hour prior, they had saved a merchant from a Griffin attack on the road. Usually, such a rescue would lead to a village full of fearful, starving people. Instead, the Witchers found themselves squinting against a vibrant, emerald glare.
"Vesemir," Geralt grunted, his yellow eyes scanning the horizon. "Tell me my mutations aren't acting up. Is that... a forest growing on the hills that were charred black last week?"
"It's not your eyes, Geralt," the older Witcher replied, his hand resting on the hilt of his silver sword. "And it's not just the trees. Look at the people."
The village square was a hive of activity. Humans and Elves were working side-by-side, passing crates of supplies stamped with the Nilfgaardian sun. A group of children ran past, laughing, their faces bright and healthy, carrying small vials of a blue syrup. Most jarringly, a Nilfgaardian officer was sat at a table, not demanding tithes, but discussing crop rotations with the village elder over a map.
"The wind feels... different," Geralt muttered, dismounting. He could smell the ozone of a lingering Red Arc and the heavy, sweet scent of incense. "There's a power here. Not Chaos. Something heavier. Something older."
As they approached the tavern, they saw a group of peasants gathered around a notice board. It wasn't covered in bounties or execution orders, but in handwritten copies of a Holy Scripture.
"'Take only what is required to live, and the earth will never go thirsty again,'" Vesemir read aloud, his brow furrowed. "That doesn't sound like Emhyr var Emreis. Since when did the White Flame start preaching environmental ethics?"
"Since the Dark Priest arrived," a voice called out from the tavern porch.
Geralt turned to see the boy in the ink-stained robes. Sebastian sat with a quill in hand, a Soul Stone glowing faintly on the table beside him. The boy's aura was unlike anything the Witcher's medallion had ever reacted to—it wasn't vibrating with the frantic buzz of a monster or a mage, but with a deep, rhythmic thrum that felt like the heartbeat of the world itself.
"You're the Witcher," Sebastian said, his eyes—dark and filled with a terrifyingly calm intelligence—fixing on Geralt. "You've spent your life cleaning up the symptoms of a broken world. How would you like to finally see the cure?"
Geralt's cat-like eyes didn't settle on the Soul Stone first, nor the ink-stained robes. They snapped to the baskets sitting at Sebastian's feet.
"Weeds," Geralt grunted, gesturing with a gloved hand toward the vibrant, strangely shaped flora. "Herbalists in the North pull those by the roots. They say they choke out the Arenaria and Mistletoe. Most thought they'd gone extinct years ago."
Sebastian looked down at the Blue, Green, and Red petals. He offered a faint, knowing smile. "That is the tragedy of this Continent, Witcher. You kill the cure because it doesn't look like the medicine you've been taught to trust. These aren't weeds. They are divine gifts that have been waiting for someone to recognize their true frequency."
He picked up a Green Herb. "The Green removes the rot of infection—even the filth left by a Drowner's claws. The Blue mends the spirit and the flesh, washing away the mental shadow of combat. And the Red?" He held up the jagged crimson leaf. "On its own, it is silent. Inept. But it acts as a divine multiplier."
Vesemir leaned in, his interest piqued by the technicality of the craft. "A multiplier?"
"Mix Red with Blue," Sebastian explained, grinding the two together in a small stone mortar, "and the healing is intensified tenfold. Mix Red with Green, and you don't just cure infection—you create a universal antidote that purges the most lethal venoms."
He then reached for a small, translucent blue vial. "And this... this is a Blue Vial. Pure, concentrated essence of the Blue Herb. It doesn't have the raw power of a Red-Blue mixture, but it is easier to produce in bulk. It is what keeps the children of this village from waking up screaming in the night."
Geralt reached out, taking a vial and uncorking it. He sniffed. There was no acrid sting of alcohol, no metallic tang of monster mutagens. It smelled like rain on a summer forest floor.
"Witcher potions are effective," Sebastian said, his voice lowering as he watched Geralt's reaction. "But they are poisons. They scar your organs, turn your blood to sludge, and steal your humanity. These herbs... they don't demand a 'Toxicity' price. They are 'Right Track' alchemy. They heal the body without destroying the man."
The two Witchers exchanged a long, weighted look. For centuries, they had survived by drinking Thunderbolt and Swallow, paying for their strength with the slow erosion of their own vitality. To find a medicine that was both effective and truly "good" was a revolution they weren't prepared for.
"If this works the way you say," Vesemir muttered, his eyes fixed on the Red-Green mixture, "the Griffin we're hunting won't stand a chance against a man who can't be poisoned."