System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 2025 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 13
Letho drew a bright blade and set to work on the Grave Hag’s corpse with the same efficient precision a butcher used on cattle. Eyes, ears, and odd chunks of flesh were laid out on a spread blue cloth in neat rows. He reached into the monster’s belly and pulled out several fist-sized, misshapen lumps, weighing them in his palm.
“Lucky,” he said, “this hag’s old enough. Those mutants will do nicely for decoctions.”
“Master, what are those for?” Roy asked.
Letho glanced at him with more interest than he’d shown the other villagers. The boy had calmly finished the hag off when it still flailed, and he’d watched the Witchers dissect the prize without turning pale. That steadiness marked him as an outlier. Any other child, even most adults, would have been sickened.
“He’s a promising one,” Letho murmured.
Pointing at the items, Letho patiently named and explained each piece and its use. Roy listened quietly, occasionally frowning in thought. Then, almost offhand, Letho asked, “Roy, who lives with you?”
“My father and mother,” Roy said.
Hearing that, Letho’s face registered slight disappointment, and he moved faster, packing away the valuable bits from the hag. After about an hour, once the alchemical fumes in the cottage had blown through, the party entered the gravekeeper’s ruined home.
What had once been a human room was now a dank, clay-smeared ruin, humid and dark. Pots, jars, and strange implements cluttered the space—signs the Grave Hag had tried to brew something. Bones, both human and small animal, hung like grotesque ornaments from the clay walls. It was oppressive, ugly, and reeked of rot.
Roy’s eyes caught a wall at the back and he broke into a run.
“Balen...” The round, snotty boy who used to pester him, reduced to a rotting body pierced by a black stake like a hanging banner. Skin clung to dry bones; both eye sockets had been gouged out, leaving two empty black hollows. His mouth hung open in a rictus of the terror he must have felt alive.
Roy closed his eyes, took a slow breath, and carefully removed the child’s brittle bones from the stake. He held them to his chest without flinching, as if he had not smelled the sour rot that filled the room.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “If only I’d had more patience with you back then...”
Warm, callused fingers settled on his shoulder.
“Grieve if you must. You avenged them,” a Witcher said, oddly gentle.
Not long after, Roy buried Pussig and the Grok father and son with Letho’s help and carved simple headstones.
Pussig Kagen Blacksmith, son of Skellige Tested his courage between life and death Fell 1260, September, bravely fighting the Grave Hag
Grok Kagen Butcher Great love, never well spoken
Balen Friend of the rooster-slayer, future bard and master of tricks Will bloom in the goddess’s keeping Died 1260, September
They finished the graves and returned to the village. The Old Mole couple wept and checked Roy over, while the Witchers displayed the hag’s ugly head and collected their fee from the mayor and One-Eyed Jack. The immediate threat was over, but the aftermath was not tidy.
The villagers were oddly fickle once the monster was dead. They paid the bounty, but instead of hailing their saviors they began to gossip and snub them. Fear curdled into superstition.
“The monster’s dead and the coin’s paid, why aren’t those three gone?” someone muttered.
“Look at them, they’re not the sort you want around. Mayor, make them leave tonight. Don’t let them take the children; I’ve heard Witchers steal children to make ... monsters.”
Roy listened to the small-minded chatter with a disgusted shake of his head, then slipped into the tavern. The three Witchers had taken a room and were over a barrel of ale with One-Eyed Jack, who was bragging and badgering them with the jollity of an old salt. Jack lacked the village’s superstitious bile.
“That brat Roy, I swear the kid’s been practicing Gwent in the womb, he’s raked in sixty crowns off me,” Jack crowed. “You lot should teach the boy a lesson.”
An hour later Letho’s poker face twitched and he produced a coin from his pouch—gold, crisp.
“Fifteen crowns,” he said, handing it over, “a tenth of the fee gone already.”
“Right, boy,” Letho continued, sitting opposite Roy with Kael and Orin. “You’ve got enough coin. Now tell us the truth. You didn’t hang around out of fear, you came forward to speak to us. Curious about Witchers, are you? Which version of our story do you want to hear?”
Roy’s heart raced but he did not lie. He answered plainly. “I envy some of what you have. You live long, rarely fall ill, you’re strong—stronger than any normal man.”
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