System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 2025 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 21
He watched Letho, the ever-reliable bodyguard, climb the stairs with the woman, and Roy stopped playing like a reckless kid. He’d learned to be clever: win a few hands, then throw a couple on purpose so nobody got bloodshot with greed, so they’d underestimate him. In under an hour he’d quietly won twenty Crown.
Nobody suspected a thing. Nobody, that is, except a thirty-something man who turned out to be even sleazier than Roy had expected. The fellow tried to cheat right under his nose.
Roy’s Perception, over seven now, caught the man’s clumsy sleight-of-hand immediately; it was laughably amateur. Still, Roy didn’t call him out. Without Letho around he was vulnerable, and waking the local alpha and ruining Letho’s good time would be foolish.
“Kid, you’ve done pretty well. Buy your pals a round,” the man with the drooping mustache crooned, and reached for Roy’s winnings, scooping up ten Crown with a greedy, practiced hand.
Roy stared, and the man returned a look of contempt. He thought he’d struck gold, a fat little lamb to fleece tonight. He grinned like a predator and reached again, this time not for coin but for the deck—the intoxicating Skellige deck laid neatly on the table.
None of the other players intervened.
“Poor little brother, the Scoia’tael have got their eyes on you,” one muttered.
“You shouldn’t be staying in taverns alone, go find that Witcher,” another added.
A metallic thunk split the air. For a heartbeat everyone’s vision blurred; a dagger, still streaked with dried blood, landed point-first on the Gwend board, impaling a card and the man’s two fingers where they hovered. It came frighteningly close to his palm.
The drooping-mustache fellow yelped and snatched his hand back as if stung, his face blanching. He’d been rattled.
“What—where’d that come from? I didn’t even notice—” he stammered, furious and humiliated. “You little bastard, do you know who I am? You’re daring the Scoia’tael, are you begging to die?”
Roy didn’t answer. He swept his left hand over the board and a handful of Crown vanished as if by sleight of hand. Then he drew the dagger out of the board and held it up in front of his face, blowing on the blade. Calm as a blade cools.
After what he’d seen outside the village, Roy’s mind had shifted. He had killed animals, monsters, and men; a blusterer like this suddenly seemed ridiculous rather than terrifying. He smiled with a small, cold humor.
“Sorry,” Roy said, the smile thin and humorless, “when you travel with a Witcher you get used to carrying weapons. Wild dogs, Drowner, ghouls show up. You learn not to go anywhere unarmed.”
He let his eyes narrow on the drooping-mustache man. For a blink the man saw an apparition: thick, bloody red tendrils sprouting from the boy and reaching for him. It vanished, but the chill stuck. He rubbed at his burning eyes and felt suddenly very small.
“All right, you’re gutsy. Fine—today I’m unarmed, so I’ll let you go. But watch yourself out there.” He threw a final threat over his shoulder and backed for the door, only to feel a cold brush at his ear. A tuft of hair scraped his temple.
He reached up and found a patch of scalp bare. A quiet shiver ran through him.
When he whirled, the dagger that had nearly nicked his fingers was stuck in the wall behind him, the haft vibrating from the throw.
“Leave my sixteen Crown,” Roy said quietly.
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