System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 2025 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 19
“Air, the water, the earth, the fire, they circle around you and then leave. As I thought, you are only a common man.”
“A common man.” That line kept echoing in Roy’s ears. He exhaled. “Of course. Son of a farmer, nothing more.”
“No accident law sent you to a Witcher as a foundling, no quarter-elf blood, no gifted spark for sorcery. If you want to stand in this world, you’ll have to do it on your own.”
In that moment his resolve to become a Witcher hardened a little.
After his first deliberate meditation, the template added a new notification:
You have unlocked a new Skill: Meditation LV1: A practice of body and mind. Through trance you regulate your body, accelerate recovery of wounds, stamina, and (if present) magical energy. Slowly improves coordination and increases affinity for Chaotic Energy. Note: Each time this Skill levels up it permanently increases Constitution and Spirit.
Roy’s mouth opened a fraction. This was the first Skill he’d seen that could raise attributes. He felt tempted—he wanted to level up immediately and pour points into it. Then he calmed down. No Mana had unlocked, so he still could not cast Signs. Even if Spirit rose, it would not yet change the power of spells.
Letho had watched him quietly; a keen Perception let him detect subtle, hard-to-describe changes in the boy. He thought to himself, This kid is full of secrets. But now he belongs to the Viper School; those secrets will belong to the school too, fuel for its revival.
The next morning they left the wastes and followed the rutted track toward Aldersberg. Wheel grooves and hoof prints marked the path. Thick woods pressed in on both sides; leaves stirred and brought the clean, earthy scent of soil and growth.
The wind rose. Letho stiffened as if keyed to some signal. He halted, drew the reins tight, crouched, and ran his fingers over the ground. He looked up at empty air ahead; a wary flare passed through his amber eyes.
“Roy, hold your crossbow. Ready yourself for a fight.”
Everything had been calm until now. What had changed?
Roy cinched Gabriel’s string and chambered an arrow. He felt no panic; maybe meditation steadied him, or maybe the tall shape ahead gave him confidence.
They moved forward. Roy’s ears went sharp. Muscles tightened. At about two hundred feet, Letho stopped again. The wind whipped the black cloth at his shoulder back like a flag.
A sharp whistle pierced the trees. From the undergrowth on both sides a group of ragged men burst out.
Farmers, or a ragtag militia? Their clothes were tatters and their weapons laughable: spades, hammers, pitchforks. They swarmed in chaotic ranks, shouting, and quickly surrounded the two riders. Hunger and cruelty showed on their faces.
A middling man stepped forward—green cap, yellow jacket, black trousers, a black mole on his cheek—chest thrust out, crowing like a rooster.
“Drop your weapons, get on the ground!” he barked.
Roy gripped his crossbow and counted. About thirteen men.
Letho folded his arms and asked, cool and unbothered, “Rebel farmers now turning to brigandage? How quaint.”
Roy thought of rumors in Kagen: peasants rising around Aldersberg? Could these be them, or just bandits hopped up on something? The leader fumed.
“Silence! How dare you call us thieves,” the man shouted, face flushed with righteous anger. “We are the Revolution, overthrowing Demavend and Tavik’s tyranny. If you’re with justice, give us your goods. If you resist, you side with the tyrants and will be judged by the Revolution.”
Roy felt bile rise. To call robbery a noble deed—nothing surprises the west, he thought.
Letho frowned. In all his long years few had dared steal from a Witcher. In the past he might have charged without a second thought; now there was a child with him, killing indiscriminately would be reckless.
He unclipped the pendant at his throat and held it up.
“You know what this is?” he asked.
Greed gleamed in the leader’s eyes. “Silver? Toss it over!”
“A Witcher!” a gaunt farmer blurted, trembling. “He’s a freak, a mutt!”
“Look at his eyes, amber like a cat’s!” several men took a step back at once. Roy felt the surprise too—Witcher carried weight.
“We’re no match for a Witcher,” another muttered.
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