The Witcher: Wolf School's Hunting Notes

A forest near the outskirts of Ban Ard.

"Have you… ever encountered anything like this before?"

Hearing Miguel's question, Vilgefortz's eyes flickered slightly.

"No," he replied without hesitation, shaking his head. "Ithlinne's Star Phantoms are incredibly complex. I've only recently started learning it and haven't fully delved into all its intricacies."

Miguel nodded without suspicion. "A ritual as powerful as this, one that even the elusive Wild Hunt cannot escape from under the light of the Stars, is indeed extraordinary."

"Such an exceptional spell is worth studying further," Vilgefortz agreed, testing the waters with a question. "Miguel, what do you think…"

He gestured toward the crater on the ground before them.

"…who—or what—this… 'person' could be?"

Miguel picked up on the subtle implication in Vilgefortz's tone. "You don't think this person exists?"

"It's highly suspect. The Wild Hunt's rampage and the missing experimental artifact…" Vilgefortz shook his head. "But it's hard to imagine anyone, even Hen Gedymdeith himself, managing to leave behind a Wild Hunt corpse, let alone decapitating one."

Miguel fell silent. That was indeed a significant issue.

In truth, when they had fought that particular Wild Hunt warrior, it was this same compelling reasoning that had made them dismiss the possibility of someone watching from the shadows. Otherwise, they would have been more vigilant and likely avoided such a crushing defeat.

Could there really be someone in this world stronger than Hen Gedymdeith, the mighty sorcerer?

Wait… stronger?

Why must it be a human?

Miguel's mind flashed with realization.

Clap!

He smacked his forehead sharply.

"Elves!"

"What?" Vilgefortz blinked in confusion.

"It has to be the elves!" Miguel gripped Vilgefortz's shoulders with both excitement and fury. "Only those long-eared forest-dwellers would have the means to deceive us…"

"Yes! That's it!"

"Ithlinne has been dead for centuries. Do you think the elves wouldn't have a way to counteract or conceal themselves from 'Ithlinne's Star Phantoms'?"

"All of Hen Gedymdeith's might and magical expertise came from his time studying in the Aen Elle courts. Just because he couldn't do something doesn't mean the elves can't…"

"And… and…"

Miguel's face flushed red as he grew more animated, joy and anger intertwining as he unraveled the truth.

"Not to mention the attack on Ban Ard! The destruction of the academy wouldn't have been known so quickly by powerful factions unless the elves were involved…"

"The largest enclave of elves on the Northern Continent lies just beyond the forests east of Ban Ard. And don't forget… before the Conjunction of the Spheres, Ban Ard captured a few elves, but they mysteriously escaped from the dungeons…"

At this thought, another flash of insight struck Miguel.

"Perhaps… perhaps all of this is an elven conspiracy!!!"

"Why?" Vilgefortz, still reeling from the sudden turn of logic, asked instinctively.

Smack!

Miguel slapped Vilgefortz's shoulder forcefully, glaring at him with exasperation.

"Think about it! Not long before the Conjunction of the Spheres, a group of unidentified elves was captured at Ban Ard and then vanished without explanation…"

"Do you think they just wanted to sightsee in a human prison?"

"No!" Miguel swung his right arm emphatically. "They must have done something!"

Thud, thud, thud.

He paced rapidly near the crater, muttering under his breath about the Conjunction, the Curse of the Black Sun, elves, and the Wild Hunt.

Then, abruptly, he stopped, his bloodshot eyes snapping to Vilgefortz, who recoiled in shock at the intensity of his gaze.

"How cunning!" Miguel spat bitterly, seemingly speaking to himself.

"First, they orchestrated the Conjunction during the Apprentice Combat Trials, ensuring the King of Kaedwen died at Ban Ard, sowing discord between sorcerers and the royal family…"

"They might have even colluded with the witchers to time everything so perfectly. No, wait…" Miguel shook his head. "The Cat School works with us, and the Wolf School is neutral—a bunch of rigid fools. They must have other ways…"

"For ancient races like theirs, it wouldn't be hard."

"Ban Ard's falling out with Aretuza, Kaedwen's war with Aedirn… the elves of Dol Blathanna have ties in Aedirn too…"

"The wars not only drained the kingdom's forces but also drew many capable sorcerers to the front lines under agreements with the new king, leaving the academy defenseless…"

"The Conjunction's powerful disruptions awoke the Wild Hunt, which then struck a crippled Ban Ard…"

"It all fits. Even the strange stone we're chasing, taken from the 'Hazardous Experiment Storage Warehouse' was originally something Jenks stole from the elves. It could all have been part of their plan…"

"What a devious, ruthless strategy!"

"What kind of monster has emerged among the elves?"

As Miguel pieced everything together, a chill ran down his spine.

Before Vilgefortz could sort through his thoughts to respond, Miguel suddenly slapped his forehead again.

"Damn!"

"What now?"

"Why do you think the long-eared ones planned this so meticulously?" Miguel's face drained of color as a bead of sweat slid down his temple.

"The academy is in ruins. The headmaster is gravely injured and unable to oversee affairs… Kaedwen is locked in a fierce war with Aedirn, unable to spare any forces… two successive disasters wiped out not only the citizens of Ban Ard but even the surrounding villages…"

"This is Ban Ard at its weakest!"

"What are those long-eared bastards planning to do?!"

Before Vilgefortz could answer, Miguel began chanting a spell in panic.

Whoosh!

An orange-red portal, swirling with forest winds, materialized before them. Branches and leaves swayed violently in its presence.

"Quick, Vilgefortz, follow me!" Miguel shouted in alarm, charging toward the portal without waiting for a response.

It seemed he had entirely forgotten the humiliation of losing ten of his twelve sorcerers to the Wild Hunt's vengeance.

Vilgefortz stood frozen, his mind a tempest of thoughts.

This wasn't the first time Ithlinne's Star Phantoms had faltered—this was the third occurrence.

Back when the mage named Lyon escaped, Vilgefortz had already noticed anomalies in the illusion spells.

Mentioning Hen Gedymdeith had merely been a diversion from the truth.

The Child of Prophecy was his, and Vilgefortz wasn't one to share his vision of the future with others. But the more he listened to Miguel's reasoning, the less he could find fault with the logic.

Could Ithlinne's Star Phantoms only fail in the presence of the Child of Prophecy?

He wasn't sure.

The spell came from Aen Elle-era tablets. Who knew if the elves had some advanced cloaking or concealment magic to counter it?

And that assumption was the crux of his argument for the Child of Prophecy's involvement—the only reliable reason he had.

Besides, there was his gut instinct.

A powerful instinct!

Otherwise, how could a fourteen-year-old witcher, barely a boy, have crossed such vast distances in only a few days to reach Ban Ard?

A child of his age wouldn't have such motivation—or means.

Would he have overlooked such contradictions?

Yet now, Miguel's reasoning was logical, coherent, and utterly convincing.

The elves were, indeed, the greatest beneficiaries of this event.

"How odd…" Vilgefortz murmured as he stepped toward the portal, frowning. "Could all this truly be the work of the elves and have nothing to do with the Child of Prophecy?"

---------------------------

The Next Day.

Temple of Melitele.

He woke from his slumber to find soft golden sunlight streaming through the window, bathing the room in a warm glow.

"Where am I?" The witcher instinctively raised a hand to shield his eyes from the light.

"Hiss~"

His muscles, stiff and aching as if unused for ages, spasmed painfully, drawing a low groan from his lips.

A tickling sensation brushed against his cheek, accompanied by a faint, fresh scent of eucalyptus carried on the breeze.

He tried to turn his head toward the familiar scent's source, only for it to move closer to him instead.

Raven-black hair danced in the air, touched by the sunlight and turned into strands of gold. Translucent, snow-pale skin radiated an alluring glow. And those eyes—clear as the mountain streams of early spring—drew his gaze.

For a moment, he thought he recognized the face, though it felt strangely unfamiliar.

"Allen, you're awake!" A soft, melodic voice called out, like a rose swaying gently in the breeze.

"Ly…sa?"

His slightly unfocused cat-like pupils adjusted, allowing him to recognize the girl before him.

"It's me!" She smiled gently.

Allen felt his hand being wrapped in the softness of silken fabric.

"This is the Temple of Melitele. You returned last night… Vesemir carried you back here. Your injuries were severe…"

The words spilled from her rosy lips, a soft chatter recounting the events of the previous night. Though it was slightly noisy, the witcher found his tense body relaxing as he listened.

Half-awake, his eyelids began to grow heavy once more, sleep creeping back over him.

Lysa noticed this, her voice softening: "You've lost a lot of blood and need rest to recover. Don't worry about the arrangement with Duke Mason—Vesemir left with the others early this morning."

"Rest well, Allen. I'll bring you lunch, just like I did during Orchard."

The witcher felt as though he nodded, though he wasn't sure if he actually moved. Sleep's embrace grew heavier, and he surrendered to it once more.

Before he drifted off, he thought he heard a quiet "Thank you" whispered near his ear.

Thank you?

He wanted to ask, but his eyes had already closed.

-------------------------

"...Serra…"

"...Vanished…"

Fragments of words drifted into his consciousness, and the witcher's eyes snapped open—awake.

Though there was no light source, he could see the "darkness." The darkness before him had taken shape, becoming a pitch-black corridor spiraling upward like the staircase of Kaer Morhen's northern tower.

'Where am I?'

The witcher asked aloud, but no sound came forth—not even to his own ears.

Realizing something was wrong, he looked down.

Below him was a staircase of shadows, but there was no trace of boots, greaves, or potion pouches. No—there was nothing concrete to describe. It was as if nothing existed.

It felt as though his very being was reduced to a pair of floating eyes—a mere viewpoint suspended in this unknown void. Even the colorful spheres associated with visions of Melitele's realm were absent. This was something else.

'Am I just a consciousness floating here?'

The witcher's thoughts felt sluggish, like a poorly oiled cogwheel grinding forward with difficulty.

'Am I dreaming?'

No answer came.

In this boundless, eerie void, he should have felt fear, yet no emotions surfaced.

If no answer was forthcoming, he decided not to waste effort seeking one. He focused on the broken fragments of sound that had roused him, attempting to track their source.

Experimenting, he willed his viewpoint to shift.

To his surprise, it obeyed seamlessly, leaping like a blink spell to any shadowy corner his "gaze" could reach. In this peculiar place, it seemed he could teleport endlessly, moving wherever his thoughts directed him.

'Is this place mine to command?'

The witcher shook his "head" instinctively, only for his perspective to spin like a twirling camera, inducing vertigo.

'This dream… it's strangely amusing.'

As he mused, a pale-blue flame flared to life within the darkness, far below on a shadowed staircase.

'Hmm?'

Curious, he directed his view closer, stopping at the edge of the spiraling steps. Ahead lay a vast void, the stairs winding both upward and downward into the blackness.

'Wait…'

He peered downward. Something stirred in the depths of the dark—a subtle thinning of the shadow, like a misty glow.

Before he could make sense of it, the pale-blue flame drew nearer.

Clip-clop, clip-clop…

The echo of hoofbeats reverberated through the void. Then came a procession of riders clad in crimson armor, astride skeletal horses exhaling blue spectral mist.

'The Wild Hunt!'

The witcher's instincts screamed danger.

'Why is the Wild Hunt appearing in my dream?'

'Unless…'

'This isn't a dream!'

'Where am I?'

The witcher asked himself the same question for the third time.

The hoofbeats grew louder, and the spectral riders drew closer—barely two hundred meters away now.

The witcher instinctively sought cover but found none in this bizarre realm. The endless staircase offered no escape as the Hunt approached.

Two hundred meters. One hundred fifty. One hundred.

The burning stench of blue ghostfire was nearly palpable.

Desperate, the witcher's focus landed on the Hunt's lead rider, locking eyes with the distinct, blood-red glow of the specter's gaze.

"Who dares?" the figure snarled.

The skeletal steed reared up, its bony frame outlined in ghastly light.

"Who dares spy upon us?!"

.....

📢20 advanced chapters on p@treaon📢

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379. Spiral! The Witcher Who Commands Time and Space!

380. Source LV1.

381. Allen, What Are You So Anxious About?

382. The Blue Death.

383. The Guiding Stone of Ard Gaeth's Gate.