System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 112
A crescent moon hung in the sky. At about eight or nine o’clock the Temple of Melitele was utterly still. Only the main hall and the laboratory still burned candles and magic lamps; most rooms lay in pitch darkness, priestesses who had labored through the day sunk into sweet sleep.
As usual at this hour the Witcher was likely conferring with the sorceress and Mother Nenneke about the next day’s mutation work.
Only the boy remained in the bedroom.
His mind sank into the Template—
Roy
Age: 14 years, 1 month
HP: 66
Attributes:
Strength: 5 → 5.3
Agility: 6.1 → 6.3
Constitution: 6.5 → 6.6
Perception: 7
Willpower: 6.5
Charisma: 6
Spirit: 6.5
Skills:
Carnage LV4
Scry LV2
Meditation LV2
Crossbow Mastery LV1
Longsword Specialization LV1
Under the careful instruction of a Witcher master and after a full month of rigorous training, you have grasped the fundamentals of longsword technique.
When wielding a longsword, hand-and-a-half sword, or similar weapons, your Strength, Agility, and Vitality are increased by 5%, allowing you to parry, dodge, and strike with greater speed and precision in close combat.
You may actively activate this ability, doubling the attribute bonuses.
However, stamina consumption is also doubled.
Once activated, this state lasts for no less than 30 seconds.
Alchemy LV1
Grace of the Wind (Passive Trait)
Class:
Witcher LV4 (1305/2000)
Stage: Apprentice
(Next Stage: Survive one Trial of the Grasses and hunt 10/10 types of magical creatures to advance to Novice Witcher.)
School: Viper
Class Feature:
Primary Attribute...
Bound Weapons:
You have bound the hand crossbow — Gabriel, the steel sword — Gwyhyr, and the silver sword — None.
Full Restoration...
Loot Satchel: 2 cu.
Remaining: 1 Skill Point.
After a month of alchemical conditioning and a great deal of training, his swordsmanship had finally entered the doorway; his previously static attributes saw slight increases.
But that was not enough.
Roy focused his spirit on the “+” from Meditation, concentrated, and with a thought his Skill Point dropped from 1 to 0, the Template’s information rippling like water—
Meditation LV2 → LV3
Constitution: 6.6 → 7.1
Life: 66 → 71
Spirit: 6.5 → 7
A warm current flooded his limbs and marrow. Once more he lay back on the bed, eyes half-closed, savoring a full-body ease. Five minutes later he opened his eyes.
It was time to struggle for a level.
Roy slipped out of the Temple. As on previous nights he followed the weedy, winding flagstone path toward the hills behind the temple. Moonlight dappled the trees, the north wind whispered, and Gwyhyr traced a cold gleam through the air as his wrist trembled.
He considered what trap to set to snare game more efficiently, when a figure suddenly blocked the wooded path ahead—Letho, tall and proud.
Letho crouched half in a squat, his shaved head catching the faint moonlight, amber eyes fixed on him from afar.
“Kid, perfect timing. I was about to look for you.”
“Letho, weren’t you headed to Mother Nenneke? Why are you stalled here?” Roy’s nose twitched; he picked up a faint scent of blood. Tiny spots of blood speckled Letho’s cuirass.
A possibility sprang to mind.
The Witcher beckoned, then silently stepped into the dim trees. A minute later the two of them reached a glade ringed by a few alders.
Roy’s breath caught—five mangy hounds lay in a row among the dead leaves and twigs, their chests rising and falling in shallow breaths, breath steaming in the cold night.
One hind leg was snapped, bone jutting; another wore a bloody sword wound along its flank, and the stench of Paralyzing Venom hung from the lesions.
All of them lay unconscious, utterly incapable of resistance.
“Letho, you ... prepared these for me?” Roy remembered their talk and looked at the Witcher with a complicated expression. He had not expected the man to go so far—slaying a pack of dogs was one thing; bringing them down alive and helpless was a special kind of craft.
He had no sense how long Letho had been at it.
Roy’s lips moved as if to speak.
“Kid, spare me the flowery words.” The Witcher slowly wiped his steel sword and his own blood with a blue rag. “Be practical, kill them.”
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