Beast Slayer Online: Initialization
Copyright© 2026 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 18
In truth, in this world, only those absurdly wealthy who treat coin as nothing, or a Witcher, would take a blade fit to be a family heirloom and use it to hack at anything.
A scrap of iron kills well enough, so why bring such rare treasures onto a battlefield?
And that, too, was a small reflection of the hardship of the Witcher’s trade.
They carried swords worth hundreds of Orens into mortal struggle with monsters, yet could not simply turn those blades into coin, spend it freely in the city, or settle down with property.
Because there were few who would protect a Witcher’s possessions.
After the visit to the smithy, Lannor and Auridon’s monster-hunting contract had to gain another clause.
Whenever equipment required maintenance, the village would reimburse the cost, and the village smith would accompany Lannor to seek out a master blacksmith.
The point was to have someone knowledgeable present, to prevent Lannor from inflating the reimbursement beyond reason.
Though the young man had never intended to do so.
“I’m not cheating you, you know. Look, the armor I brought was already damaged before this. I meant to pay for the repairs myself, sooner or later.”
Lannor walked behind them, arms folded, a faint, careless smile on his face.
Old Aaron walked ahead, lips curled in disdain.
Yes, you planned to pay for it yourself.
But what if, before you saved enough to mend that armor, a Drowner split your belly open because you had no mail?
What if a Swamp Hag cut your throat?
What then of the fishery expansion?
What then of the village’s coin?
... Damn it!
Old Aaron shot a look back at the young man’s padded jacket, its stuffing nearly bursting through the seams, and sighed.
He resolved that tonight he would have the village women with steady hands work late, at least to stitch up the padded outer layer of that composite armor set the lad had brought.
Until the fishery expansion was complete, this Witcher working at a discount had to stay alive and well.
Lose even a finger, and the work would suffer.
Before Lannor came, Old Aaron would never have believed he’d fret over a Witcher’s safety.
Mutants killing monsters was the natural order of things. No one cared whether they lived or died.
But now, he had to greet him with a smile, fuss over him like some old matron.
As they walked, Lannor spoke, as if in passing.
“By the way, those two poor devils who were killed ... how are their families?”
At that, Old Aaron’s stride faltered, just a fraction.
Lannor’s keen senses caught it at once; his cat eyes narrowed slightly.
“What, something happened to them?”
The young man’s tone did not change, still carrying that detached indifference, as if it had nothing to do with him.
Yet for no clear reason, Old Aaron felt a chill creep up the back of his neck.
“No ... well, how should I put it?” Old Aaron said, choosing his words with care. “One family is ... gone. Little Turner chased his puppy into the woods, and a pack of festering wild dogs tore him to pieces. He screamed something awful. His cries, at the end, drove his mother mad. She rushed in after him. Several of our men were there, tried to hold her back, couldn’t. Then ... neither of them came out of the woods.”
The village elder sighed, though only so much. In Velen, human tragedies were so many they dulled the senses.
What concerned him more now was whether, with one of the victim families gone, it might affect the “compensation” from the School of the Bear.
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