Beast Slayer Online: Initialization
Copyright© 2026 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 18: The Hunter Who Never Blinked
In truth, only the obscenely rich, men who no longer knew what coin meant, or witchers, would take an heirloom-grade blade and use it to cut things apart.
A strip of iron could kill. Why bring treasures like these onto a battlefield?
That, too, was a small picture of how hard the witcher’s trade truly was. They carried swords worth hundreds of Orens into death fights with monsters, yet could not simply sell the blades, spend the coin in a city, and settle down.
Few would protect a witcher’s property.
After the visit to the smithy, Lannor’s monster-hunting agreement with Auridon gained another clause. When equipment required maintenance, the village would reimburse the cost, and the village blacksmith would accompany Lannor to find a master blacksmith.
Mostly so someone who knew the trade could prevent Lannor from inventing repairs and demanding reimbursement.
Not that the young man had any intention of doing so.
“I’m not taking advantage of you,” Lannor said with a light laugh, arms folded as he walked behind old Aaron, his face careless. “Look, the armor I brought was damaged before this. I planned to pay for that myself later.”
Old Aaron walked ahead with his mouth twisted.
Yes, you planned to pay for it yourself.
But what if, before you saved enough coin to fix that armor, a Drowner gutted you because you had no proper protection?
What if a Swamp Hag slit your throat?
Were they still supposed to expand the fishing grounds?
Was the village still supposed to earn coin?
Damn it all.
Old Aaron glanced back at the young man’s worn gambeson, its stuffing already threatening to burst from the seams, and sighed. He decided that tonight he would have the village women with good hands work late. At the very least, they could stitch up the outer quilted layer of that composite armor Lannor had brought.
Until the fishing grounds were cleared, this discounted witcher had better stay alive.
Even an injured finger would slow the work.
Before Lannor came to Auridon, old Aaron would never have believed he could worry over a witcher’s safety. Sending a mutant to kill monsters was only natural. Whether they lived or died was no one’s concern.
Yet now he had to smile, fuss, and fret over him like some village aunt.
As they walked, Lannor spoke as if the thought had only just occurred to him.
“By the way, those two unlucky men who were killed. How are their families?”
At that, old Aaron’s steps caught for the briefest instant.
Lannor’s sharpened senses caught it easily. His cat eyes narrowed.
“What? Something happened to them?”
His tone had not changed, still indifferent, as if the matter had nothing to do with him. Yet somehow, old Aaron felt a chill crawl along the base of his neck.
“No, well...” Old Aaron chose his words carefully. “One family’s already ... gone. Little Turner chased his dog into the woods and got torn apart by a pack of mangy wild dogs. Poor lad screamed something awful. His mother heard it and went mad, ran in after him. Several men were there at the time and couldn’t hold her back. Then ... neither of them came out.”
The elder sighed, but no more than that. Tragedies in Velen were too common to leave deep marks for long.
What he truly worried about now was whether the School of the Bear’s “compensation” would change because one of the victim families was already gone.
Lannor pressed his lips together. Old Aaron felt the cold at his neck deepen.
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