System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 2025 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 28
“I know you’ve got tricks up your sleeve, that you want to help Severin Hogg solve this mess,” Letho said as they left the Dwarf’s manor, “but listen to me this once: stay out of it. A Witcher must remain neutral, we do not involve ourselves in political fights.”
“That’s principle, and it’s how we survive.”
Roy listened to Letho’s earnest lecture and couldn’t help but think it oddly comic. After all, he knew of occasions when Letho and Orin had personally broken that rule, assassinating a northern ruler and pulling off the sort of political maneuvering that made better teachers out of them than examples. Even if the bald man in front of him still spoke of principle, Roy doubted it was always the right thing. Maybe this neutrality had helped hasten the decline of some Witcher schools; in times like these, who could truly stand aside?
If he survived the grass trial, Roy thought, he’d try to nudge the school toward change—keep it from becoming obsolete.
Afternoon sunlight carried the last stubborn warmth of late autumn. On the way from the wealthy quarter back toward Vol’s Tavern they passed Lebioda Prophet Square and were halted by a pitiful wail.
According to the flyer the cloaked messenger had handed out last night, the protest should have been in full riotous swing. Instead Roy found a scene of ruin, like a tourist spot left littered after a stampede. Debris, toppled banners, crushed flowers—and a single woman keening.
She was a middle-aged woman, hair wild, dress in disarray, staring at the sky with dead eyes. Her makeup run from crying left her face splotched and ridiculous and tragic at once. She sat on the ground like someone unraveling, patting a motionless man propped against her knee, murmuring and sobbing into his shoulder.
Passersby pointed and commented, half pity, half schadenfreude.
“The soldiers hit him good, dark shield and all, must’ve cracked his skull.”
“Joining the march, openly opposing the baron, that’s asking for it. Everyone who ran got away—this one just stayed.”
“Never thought the quiet types would have the nerve to join rebels.”
“Shut up with your jokes. He did good for folks when he was alive. And if we stop the rebellion, taxes won’t fall? Show some respect for the dead.”
“How will that poor widow even live now, no husband, no kids?”
Roy’s glance swept the man’s face once. He could not bear the woman’s hollow look.
“Poor bastard, used as rebel cannon fodder, left his widow to who knows what,” someone muttered.
Letho showed no expression. “Save your sympathy. Haven’t you seen enough corpses outside the city? Politics are not our concern. Come on, back to the tavern; we’ve got business to settle.”
As they left, a man with a wheelbarrow came up late and hauled the corpse away while the widow’s wails trailed off.
Back in their tavern room, Letho dropped a pouch of coin onto the table.
“This contract wouldn’t have gone through without your help. By Witcher code, you get your share—fifty Crown, no more, no less.”
“Splitting pay?” Roy blinked at the surprise. He’d been a bit-player in the job; Letho was the star. Still, he had some coin now—winnings from Gwent, spoils from the farmers, the Dwarf’s pay—so he wasn’t hurting.
“Keep it,” Letho said after a beat. “We don’t need to quibble. But note this: from tomorrow on, all your lodging and food are on you. I will not cover another penny.”
“You’re kidding,” Roy said, face going tight. So that’s why Letho had been so generous with the shares—he’d planned to cut the tab later. Roy didn’t like the sound of it.
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