System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 240
Toward evening, a cold wind began to howl through the forest, and then thin threads of rain slipped through the gaps in the canopy and fell onto the ground thick with dead branches and leaves, washing the warmth out of that pool of blood.
The Witchers’ gaze fixed on the man standing thirty feet away, a Witcher.
He stood facing them, clad in black light armor. Compared with most of his well-built kind, his frame was of middling height and somewhat lean, but his limbs were long, and his spare muscles held the flowing beauty of a drawn blade.
He wore two swords on his back. The silver sword still sat untouched in its sheath, while the steel sword had already been wiped clean of blood. With his left hand he spun it through several quick flourishes.
He was left-handed.
His face was marked with streaks of blood. A pair of dark glasses hid his eyes, so no one could make out the color of his pupils or where his gaze truly rested. His short black hair was neat, clearly a thing he took care of. High nose, thin lips, pointed chin, the planes of his face were keenly cut, and most striking of all were those long, narrow ears, plain proof of elven blood.
Three-quarters elven. It was said that members of the School of the Cat all carried some elven blood, which made their agility even more exceptional.
It put Roy in mind of a fragile assassin.
Flavius Age: 87
Gender: Male
Identity: Witcher of the School of the Cat
HP: 150
Mana: 110
Attributes:
Strength:? (Insufficient Perception)
Agility:?
Constitution: 15
Perception: 14
Willpower: 10
Charisma: 6
Spirit: 11
Skills:
Witcher Signs LV5, Meditation LV9, School of the Cat longsword Swordsmanship LV10, Witcher Senses LV10, Alchemy LV8...
...
“Friend of the School of the Cat, how shall we address you?” Letho spread his hands, showing he meant no harm.
The man opposite him drew his mouth into a strange curve, giving them a smile that was cold and faintly unhinged.
“Before asking another man’s name, should the four of you not introduce yourselves first?”
“I am Letho of Gulet.” The bald Witcher then named the companions at his side one by one. “Orin, Kael, Roy ... all from the Viper School.”
He showed the medallion hanging at his chest.
“Flavius, of the School of the Cat.”
“Do you know Karl?”
“You mean the orphan?”
The Cat School Witcher slid his glasses down to the bridge of his nose, and gray-green slit pupils swept over them. Then he drove his longsword into the ground and folded his arms. “I should remind the four of you, that child made an agreement with me long ago, and just now I avenged him.” He glanced at the severed head on the ground. “The bandits are dead, I kept my promise, and now the boy belongs to me. No one’s taking him away.”
His tone was peculiar, the ends of his words drawn out so long one could not place what country’s accent it belonged to. Together with that expression of his, it had to be said, he was an eminently punchable man.
Hot-blooded Kael was already beginning to bristle, fire in his eyes, but Roy stopped him in time with a hand on the shoulder.
“Friend of the Cat School, easy. Since you saw the child first, we won’t fight you for him.”
“Viper School men, and that kind-hearted? You tracked me all this way and now you mean to give up that easily?”
“You have it wrong. We tracked the bandits.” Roy gave a helpless smile. Flavius’s temper did not seem much better than Kael’s. “Since you’ve already dealt with them, there’s no need for us to dirty our hands.”
At that, silence fell between them.
Both sides stood facing one another, watching.
Flavius was slightly hunched, the fingers hanging at his sides moving in quick, subtle patterns, his whole body in a state that could spring into motion at any instant.
The Orin brothers were expressionless. This Cat School man did not seem quite as mad and unreasonable as they had imagined, and his swordsmanship was excellent, the sort worth crossing blades with.
Letho, meanwhile, had folded his arms, and memory flickered in his amber eyes, as though the man had reminded him of someone.
“How about we find somewhere and talk?” Roy broke the deadlock. “It’s not often one runs into one of our own kind. We might exchange a few words.”
As he spoke, he produced a bottle of Dwarven Spirit from nowhere, took a swig himself, then, forcing down the burn clawing at his throat, tossed the bottle to the other man.
“Drink dulls my reactions. I never touch the stuff.” The Witcher tilted the bottle and let the spirit run over the gleaming edge of his steel sword. “But on behalf of my brothers, I thank you for the hospitality.”
...
Night fell.
Firelight tore a hole in the darkness at the center of the forest, where five Witchers now sat in a ring around it.
A gutted elk lay stretched over the fire, the seared, tender meat dripping rich fat that hissed as it fell into the flames. The smell of it carried far into the night.
This had once been the camp of the bandits, but they were cold corpses now, buried beneath the earth.
Their ears, of course, had been taken off.
The Witchers had naturally claimed the camp for themselves.
“To tell the truth, before today I’d heard very little of the Viper School,” Flavius said, carving off a piece of roast with a hunter’s knife and stuffing it into his mouth while it was still hot. He hissed over his tongue in satisfaction. “Seeing four of you at once, even less.”