Beast Slayer Online: Initialization
Copyright© 2026 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 130: The Crown Began to Crack
Lannor showed little reaction to Berengar’s refusal. It had been expected.
So he merely shrugged and let the matter drop.
“Any books on curses you’d recommend? Your lectures are a mess, but surely you still remember a few decent textbooks.”
As his strength grew and his alchemical knowledge became more complete, Lannor’s urgency regarding monsters had gradually begun to fade.
After all, if something could simply be hacked apart head-on, then understanding its habits stopped mattering so much.
Curses, however, were different.
They left him with nowhere to apply force, and that unsettled him.
“Hm...” Berengar rubbed his chin. “The Curse Master’s Anthology, I think that was the title. Written by Aretuza’s Headmistress, Tissaia de Vries, and Margarita Laux-Antille. They explain their curse research in a way even amateurs can follow. Good for readers of any level.”
The familiar names made Lannor raise a brow.
“You studied that book ... at Kaer Morhen?”
“No. Hadn’t been published yet back then. I read it later on my own.”
Lannor quietly relaxed.
Good. So not several hundred years ago.
But after thinking for a moment, Berengar added with certainty:
“Pretty sure I read the first edition over forty years ago. Yeah. More than forty.”
Lannor paused, then smacked his lips softly.
So Rita had already been publishing books for over forty years...
The thought lingered only briefly before fading.
Sorcerers and witchers both lived long lives. A difference of several decades felt enormous to ordinary humans, but from the perspective of long-lived races...
The difference between five hundred years and five hundred forty years barely seemed worth mentioning.
Dark Water was never truly quiet at night.
The ancient city phantoms Lannor had seen when first arriving were rare sights, certainly. But on ordinary moonless nights, drowners still crawled ashore from the lake.
Recently, though, a different breed had appeared.
These strange drowners wandered together with ordinary ones along the shoreline, aimless and twitching. The moment they encountered man or beast, they lunged like rabid things desperate to tear flesh apart.
This had become Lannor’s “extracurricular activity.”
According to the Drowner Sacrifice beside the Lady of the Lake’s altar, these twisted creatures were former believers who had abandoned their faith and turned to worship Dagong.
Not only had their beliefs rotted, their bodies had as well.
Organic corruption spread through them like disease.
Before Lannor could confront Dagong itself, the Drowner Sacrifice relayed the Lady’s instructions.
Cleanse these corrupted drowners first.
On one hand, killing them would weaken Dagong.
On the other, repeated contact with these warped creatures would slowly harden Lannor’s mind against the spiritual corruption he would eventually have to endure.
Whether Foltest truly considered Lannor a friend or not, the alchemical materials he sent through Triss were genuinely abundant, and of exceptional quality.
Every formula Berengar taught required practice.
Though Lannor almost always succeeded on the first attempt, he had still accumulated dozens of potions, oils, and over a dozen bombs of various kinds.
An ordinary witcher would not even dare dream of possessing this much equipment.
How many contracts would someone need to complete to afford wasting supplies like this?
A single bomb alone cost dozens of orens.
Who lived like that?
Only someone currently on good terms with the King of Temeria could afford such extravagance.
The alchemy sack inherited from Bordon bulged so heavily now that it looked distorted.
Clearly, whoever crafted it had never imagined it would one day actually be filled.
“Happy hunting.”
Inside the candlelit tavern, Berengar raised his tankard toward Lannor, who was tightening the straps of his armor before heading out.
At the same time, the old witcher casually pressed down on Arya’s head as she tried sneaking a window open to watch the battle outside.