System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 159
The first rays of morning sunlight spilled down, sheathing the young Witcher’s sweat-damp face in a thin, glittering film.
A week of fully enclosed training had ended. It was the morning of June 21, 1261, the day of the summer solstice.
The three Witchers showed uncharacteristic mercy and gave Roy a day of rest, letting him follow Orin to the market square in the city center to find something to eat, and to discreetly inquire about news of the Child of Destiny.
Roy had been to Aldersberg, Mahakam, Ellander, and Vizima, yet the congestion and clamor of Cintra’s market square were just as astonishing.
Across the sea to the west lay Skellige, and maritime trade flourished. To the north, crossing the Yaruga River, lay Temeria’s vassal states of Brugge and Sodden, with frequent commercial exchange.
Merchants and peddlers from the north and west easily packed the entire square until it was nearly airtight.
Witcher Orin led him straight into the crowd. At once, a heavy wall of stench hit them, sweat, armpits, filthy feet, mixed with the reek of poultry and livestock dung and urine. Roy felt his head spin. “Are you serious? This smells worse than a nekker’s mouth.”
“Come a few more times and you’ll get used to it.”
Somewhere in the market drifted the sound of flutes and lutes. Clearly, bards and musicians were performing in the open air. Even worse, a shameless trumpeter was blasting a horn with no sense of rhythm whatsoever.
All that chaotic noise slammed into his ears, and Roy felt like his skull was about to split.
“Hah, this is a disaster.”
He forced himself to push through the crowd for a while longer, and ended up seeing a few new curiosities. Several halflings were demonstrating how to craft ornate wine skins from water buffalo hide under a ring of onlookers. Two elves had set up a stall, selling dolls with unusual designs.
At last, he saw nonhuman races beyond dwarves and elves. Halflings were even smaller than dwarves, under four feet tall, their features slightly more refined, though still big-nosed and big-eyed compared to humans. They lacked the luxuriant beards of dwarves, but their chest and leg hair was remarkably thick.
After using Scry several times, Roy discovered that a halfling’s physique and strength attributes did not even reach 4, clearly weaker than an average human. Yet they possessed a special racial talent, Nimble Hands (Passive Trait):
Halflings are naturally smaller than Humans and Dwarves, but possess extraordinary innate precision in archery and stone-throwing. Agility +1, Perception +2.
...
After wandering and watching it all, the headache-inducing horn finally fell silent. Roy guessed the performer had probably been killed.
“That smells good. What is it?”
“Roasted radish?” Orin felt the coins in his pocket. “Want one?”
“Make it two. One each.”
“I only eat meat.” Orin bared his white teeth in a gentle grin.
“Uh ... you really have an appetite.”
Roy still spent a few coins on a roasted radish and ate it whole. The unique aroma pleasantly surprised him, but it was nowhere near enough to sate a hungry Witcher.
There were more stalls in the square than he could count. He ate a piece of baked bread and a smoked bighead fish. Only then did the gnawing in his gut finally quiet down.
Once fed, it was time for serious business. Orin began to explain a few tricks.
“We believe the Child of Destiny pursued by the Wild Hunt shares certain traits with what Witchers call a Child of Surprise.” Orin’s lazy gaze drifted over the crowd, a sharp glint flashing through it from time to time.
“There is something about them that sets them apart. Sharpen your eyes and observe carefully.”
“Orin, why does it feel like you said nothing at all? We don’t even know why the Wild Hunt is taking people. Where do we start?”
“Patience, kid.” Orin continued scanning the surroundings. “I didn’t tell you yesterday, that little girl who was taken by the Wild Hunt and then released, she has talent. You understand?”
“You mean, a sorceress’s talent?”
“Exactly. She’s still very young, but a faint magic has already accumulated in her body. She doesn’t know how to control it, so it triggered resonance in the Viper medallion.”
“Fine.” Knowing the ultimate objective, Roy could only put on a show and cooperate with the Witchers.
“One thing to remember, not every girl with talent can cause a Viper medallion to resonate. Some girls with facial or limb deformities, or strange behavior, could also be the target.”
Roy understood at once. Those girls were the common prototypes of sorceresses, just like Kascja.
Cintra’s market square, the busiest place in the city, became their first search point.
Moving on, they spotted a peculiar semicircular enclosure. Six-foot wooden poles held up sheets of canvas as makeshift walls, with an opening between two of the poles.
A tall, pockmarked man in a short jacket, striped trousers, and sailor’s boots blocked the entrance. A small crowd milled around him, some tossing coins into his hand before vanishing behind the canvas.
The long-faced man tossed the coins into a large sack and shouted hoarsely, “Step right up, take a look. The gods’ most terrifying creation. The world’s only basilisk, a venom-spitting monster from the deserts of Zerrikania. Just one Crown to see it.”
“Basilisk?” Roy was puzzled. How stupid would someone have to be to haul something that dangerous into a crowded market?
Still, it piqued his interest. What if it was real?
He was just looking for magical creatures to test the power of taming. If there really was a basilisk trapped in a cage, it would be a perfect test subject.
“Convenient. I’ve never seen one before.” To any Witcher, a basilisk was a deadly and dangerous foe.
“Want to take a look?”
“I’ll go find some fun, and keep searching for our target.” Orin shook his head. “You amuse yourself, but don’t miss training tomorrow morning.”
“Don’t worry.”
They split up. Roy tossed down a Crown and entered the canvas enclosure.
At the center stood a stage built of wooden planks. The audience formed a tight circle around it, staring at a wooden cage on the stage, tightly covered with a blanket.
When the last few spectators entered, the long-faced man jumped onto the stage and used a long pole to lift the blanket. In an instant, a wave of animal stench surged out.
Several spectators complained and stepped back.
Only the Witcher watched with keen interest, not retreating an inch.
“Honored guests, keep your distance. It’s extremely dangerous.”
Inside the cramped cage lay a black beast the size of a calf. Its body was covered in bizarre black feathers, curled into a ball.
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