System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 130
“On December 27th, 1260, Barshel was fishing by the Vigen River when he accidentally discovered the illicit affair between Knight Simon and Princess Emilia...”
“The knight panicked, drew his sword, and wounded Barshel, then fled with the Princess.”
“Later, the injured Barshel was taken by a Metamorph Spider that had gone out hunting, and met a gruesome end.”
“Because the affair was exposed, the Princess decided to sever her ambiguous relationship with Sir Patrick-Laddin. He refused to let go. Love and hatred intertwined, he was driven to extremes, and thus began the Seven Deadly Sins ritual...”
“Simon, together with his fellow cultist Salvatore, selected and murdered their targets, and in the end even turned himself into a sacrifice...”
The Witcher finished his low narration, closed the black-covered notebook, and slipped it into his coat.
“So the one who stabbed Barshel is already dead,” Old Hark said. His orange-peel cheeks were soaked red with tears, his voice incredulous, yet carrying a trace of release. “Died by suicide?”
“That’s right. The body is still in the morgue, but ordinary folk cannot get near it. If you want to see...” Roy paused. “You would only be able to see the burned corpse of his fellow cultist, Salvatore.”
Old Hark closed his eyes and fell silent for a moment. His whole body slackened.
“I understand. I am truly grateful. Since the killer is dead, Barshel should be able to rest in peace. I have no more regrets.” Old Hark’s clouded eyes fixed on Roy as he suddenly pleaded, “We agreed on a reward of two hundred Crowns, but scraping together what I could, I only managed to borrow one hundred and fifty. I am still short fifty. Could you give me a few days’ grace, until the house is sold...”
“Old Hark would never renege on a debt!”
The Witcher folded his arms, glanced around the room, and suddenly asked, “You’ve lived in this house for twenty or thirty years, haven’t you. Are you really willing to sell it?”
Old Hark was caught off guard. His eyes swept over the hearth, the mottled floor, the walls, all tinged with reluctant affection.
“Barshel’s remains are still in Ellander. If you sell the house, where will you go?” Roy’s gaze moved from the white hair at his temples, to the deeply lined, gaunt face, to the stooped, aging body. “If you ask me, don’t sell the house.”
“Master Roy, thank you for your understanding,” Old Hark said, shaking his head stubbornly. “But I cannot take advantage of you. You’ve already helped me so much.”
“I never said I’d waive the fifty Crowns,” the youth said, breaking into a bright grin. “I’ve wanted to taste your cooking for a long time.”
“When the bakery reopens, you can pay the debt with bread. From then on, whenever I come back to Ellander, you let me eat my fill for free.”
“This...”
“It’s settled then. Just don’t complain when I eat too much.”
...
“Sigh, losing a quarter of the reward, I really am generous,” the young Witcher muttered with self-mockery, stepping out of the bakery with one hundred and fifty Crowns in his pocket.
If the client had been a pack of foul-mouthed louts, he would not have given up a single coin.
But Old Hark was only a father who had lost his child, alone and destitute. Roy had witnessed the entire ordeal of what he had endured for his son, and could not bear to take away his last hope.
“Just this once. Never again.”
...
The Bulging Belly.
“We never would’ve guessed...” A burly laborer with a thick beard took a deep swig of ale. The drink flushed his cheeks and sent spit flying as he spoke. “That the killer was a ‘noble’ Knight of the White Rose.”
The scrawny companion across from him squinted his eyes into slits. “Pretending to be Ellander’s protector in public, while secretly doing this murderous, lawbreaking business. A traitorous piece of filth.”
“No, you’ve got one thing wrong. There were two killers. They turned on each other over how to split the spoils, and the one who died, died real ugly.”
The scrawny man shook his head. “I heard they were killing people to complete some vile ritual. Otherwise, why would Knight Salvatore be burned at the stake? In the past, that kind of cruel punishment was only for old hags who practiced forbidden witchcraft.”
...
“Glug ... glug...”
The young Witcher took a gulp of mildly sweet fruit wine and wiped the stain from the corner of his mouth.
“As expected, the truth has been almost completely muddled. Robbery and murder, some vile ritual...”
“Isn’t it obvious?” said a bald man with his chest bound in bandages, his face bruised and swollen. “Prince Sigeval, a Grand Duke no less, would never want his dirty laundry spread for all to hear.”
“Pity we didn’t get to see Princess Emilia at Sigeval’s side,” Roy said, shaking his head. “Just how stunning must she have been, to leave Sir Patrick-Laddin so utterly bewitched?”
It had been two days since he found the Witcher and cracked the case. Letho’s injuries had improved somewhat, but he would need at least another week of rest before fully recovering.
In truth, while Letho had been locked in the secret chamber, he had not been beaten by the two knights. Instead, the lack of water and food had left him mildly dehydrated and weak.
Only the horrific wound across his chest and abdomen was truly severe, a wound left earlier by Francis.
“We’d best not provoke that Higher Vampire again. Strange as his mannerisms are,” Roy said, his feelings toward the creature complicated, “he is not a great villain. He only fought you because you mistook him for the killer and set an ambush first.”
The youth recalled the short poem the Higher Vampire had recited at parting, and vaguely felt that the creature had seen through everything long ago, and had even offered a warning.
“I know my limits,” the Witcher said, taking a sip of Dwarven spirits. It was unclear whether he had truly taken the words to heart. “Back to the point. You didn’t disappoint me, Kael, or Orin. You passed the Trial of the Grasses.”
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