System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 2025 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 5
Night had settled over Kagen. In nine out of ten houses the lights were out; men lay with their wives, children pressed their faces to windows and counted sheep across the sky. Thompson, the night watchman, torch in hand and a rusted steel sword at his hip, patrolled the village, warding off prowling beasts, thieves, or signaling an early alarm.
Only two places still burned bright: the village headman’s home, and the shabby tavern at the center of town, The Old Captain Inn.
Sometimes younger men with energy to spare, not yet married or fathered, would drift in to kill some time, sip a dram, and, if spirits were high, drag One-Eyed Jack—the tavernkeeper with a full beard and endless tales of his Skellige sea days—into a round of Gwent.
By candlelight and hearth-glow The Old Captain Inn hosted a scatter of figures. Roy stood by a Gwent board, eyes shining as he stared at the stack of ornate cards.
These were the real thing. Genuine Gwent.
Gwent was invented by bored dwarves, but its simple rules and endlessly varied play had made it irresistible. Nobles and commoners played it after meals to pass the time.
The cards featured popular heroic figures: Emhyr of Nilfgaard, King Foltest of Temeria, Aedirn’s crowned king Demavend, the beautiful Queen Meve of Lyria and Rivia, and more.
Dwarven craftsmen carved and painted the cards with such skill the pieces were nearly impossible to counterfeit. The finest sets, made by master dwarves, were miniature works of art.
Common Gwent cost a Crown or two and could be found in general stores; rare cards could buy a house in Vengerberg, the capital. Collectors rarely sold them.
Roy had watched the table long enough to see Nilfgaardian, Northern Realms, and Skellige decks in play, but not a single Monster card, nor a Squirrel Party card. Monster cards were rare; the Squirrel Party had not yet risen to prominence in the timeline—its raids helping Nilfgaardian strikes against northern humans would come later, after the wars—so no Squirrel Party decks were in circulation yet.
“Little Roy, why aren’t you at home sleeping? What are you doing in the tavern at this hour?” One-Eyed Jack’s big, hairy hand reached for Roy’s head, but the boy dodged with a quick step.
Roy gave an ingratiating smile; at thirteen, a little charm did no harm. “Uncle Jack, I’m waiting for Balen. He promised to buy me some fruit wine tonight.” In truth he’d come to teach Balen a simple trick he’d learned online before crossing over.
He also had another idea for making money. Old players of The Witcher 3 had a hard time resisting Gwent.
One-Eyed Jack’s weathered face curled into an ugly grin. “That fat boy steals from his dad now and then for a drink. I watered his cider so he’d be sober, otherwise old Grok’d smell the booze on him and teach him a lesson. Don’t pick up his bad habits.” A light flashed in the one good eye and he casually tossed a pale Gwent card onto the board.
His opponent’s face went ashen.
“Take my frost strike, melee units unified! Ha, thirty-five to twenty, old Ott, that’s my game!”
Coins clattered into a pile by Jack’s elbow.
The farmer across the table scowled. “Tonight my luck’s worse than a Kovir salted fish. I’m out.” He pushed back his chair and left.
Roy slid into the vacant seat opposite One-Eyed Jack and stared the man down.
“Move over. My regular’s almost here; I aim to ruin him until he’s penniless, not even a pair of drawers left.”
“Uncle Jack, I’m bored. Let me play—think of it as warm-up.”
Jack shook his head. “You got Gwent? A ten-year-old never has the coin for a deck.”
“Everyone in the village knows Captain Jack, the Gwent collector. You’ve got duplicates. Be kind, lend me a deck?” Roy clasped his hands, hopeful.
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