Chapter 186

The young Witcher sat cross-legged beneath a crude shelter, spine straight, body and mind at ease, his face calm as still water, unbroken by the slightest ripple.

His hands moved through measured gestures. A vague, elusive breath lingered around him, and the air became like invisible palms, stroking his muscles with gentle pressure, stirring the white shirt close against his skin.

A speck of multicolored dust, blinking faintly, was born out of nothingness. It became visible to the naked eye, then slowly yet steadily drifted into his body.

Then more light motes emerged, one after another, like sparks bursting from a fire, scorching his skin, searing his muscles, sinking into the Witcher’s soul. Again and again, in endless cycles.

“Mmm...” At some point Roy let out a long breath and opened his eyes. For an instant, it was as though stars had been born within his dark-gold pupils, dazzling and bright.

He raised the index finger of his right hand. Without a single Incantation, without even shaping a Sign, a tiny flame sprang into being out of thin air, floating above his fingertip like a scarlet bean, dancing playfully back and forth with the movement of his finger.

“The changes from the Water of Brokilon have finally finished today. I never thought it would go this far...”

Compared to before, his Elemental Affinity had probably improved by ten to twenty percent. It did not sound like much, but now even his level-one Witcher Signs could produce the force of level two.

And the most crucial gain was this, his control over Signs had improved. Magic had become obedient, willing to heed his command. There would be no more farce of random mana consumption every time he cast a Sign.

The Witcher rose and stretched his body, then changed into the clean clothes he had prepared and stepped outside.

“Mm. I’m only going to watch how those three fools disgrace themselves.”

Today was the Harvest Festival.

Outside, the setting sun was sinking low, and night was descending.

Even in the farthest, loneliest corner of Cintra, the Witcher could feel the great uproar rolling in from several streets away. In his vision, a river of moving firelight flickered there.

“At this hour, the procession’s begun.”

The Witcher headed toward it. Along the way, quite a few houses were dark and silent, their lamps unlit, because their owners had all gone out into the streets to revel to their hearts’ content.

Roy also saw another sort of folk, old married men with their well-dressed wives and children, building bonfires out of pine near the open ground around their own homes, preparing for the evening’s fire rites.

A family could celebrate the Harvest Festival that way too, in warmth and contentment. There was no need to go mad out in the streets.

Yes, mad. He was still some distance from the central avenue, yet already his sight was full of bodies writhing with desperate vigor.

Men and women, old and young. Some were rich, wearing handsome velvet doublets. Others had dug out their oldest shirts from the bottom of a chest, and even then could not hide the poverty clinging to them.

They gathered at the roadside. Some men in red caps planted their hands on their hips and danced some sharp, rhythmic kicking step. Others leapt straight up from the spot, then waved toward the center, or simply twisted hips, waists, and necks with no form at all, pure release and nothing more.

“Madmen, all of them...” When the Witcher reached the edge of the crowd, his expression turned even more vivid.

Without exception, every soul there was flushed with excitement, shouting at the top of their lungs, their voices louder and shriller than fishwives cursing each other in the street.