Beast Slayer Online: Initialization
Copyright© 2026 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 191: A Blade Too Calm
The old witcher stared at Lannor’s smile and, for a moment, simply froze.
Then he seemed to snap awake and shook his head hard.
“Fuck. Near scared me half to death. Don’t smile at me like that again.”
Lannor tilted his head, unconcerned, swung down from the saddle, and walked toward Berengar.
“First time I’ve heard an employee make demands of his employer. Fine, then. Tell me, old man. How’s the work coming along? If I’m not satisfied, you don’t get paid.”
Lannor teased the coal-smeared witcher.
Berengar found a rag, scrubbed at his face, then turned his head and spat onto the ground.
“Ptui. The forging technique is just like you said. Not complicated. Took me about two weeks to work it out.”
“But the same problem remains. I need magical assistance.”
“My guess is this steel doesn’t require much mana, and the magic itself isn’t that complex. But I’m still a witcher. Breaking curses, I can manage. Deciphering spells? Well. You understand.”
“I do.” Lannor nodded. “So I brought you the spell.”
He drew a sheet of parchment from a pocket in his plate armor and handed it over.
The old witcher took it with a suspicious squint.
“Smithing’s rough work, sure, but tracing a spell? That sort of fine work finished in a few weeks? Bloody he...”
The spell was not long. By witcher standards, it was not even particularly awkward.
Berengar only needed one glance to commit it to memory.
The moment the words settled in his mind, some hidden condition in the parchment seemed to trigger. Flame burst across the page, bright and sudden.
In the blink of an eye, not even ash remained.
Lannor stood beside him with his arms crossed, wearing a thoroughly wicked grin.
“Well? That’s the real work of a rectoress-level sorceress of Aretuza.”
In truth, after Lannor had told Margarita about the Valyrian steel reforging spell, the sorceress had needed less than half a day to complete it.
Once the spell was deciphered, the secret behind Valyrian steel’s creation lay bare before them.
In the forging of that steel, besides mana and raw material, there was one crucial ingredient.
Mana-bearing blood.
According to Lady Margarita, whose History of Magic marks had apparently been quite respectable, the technique most likely originated from a primitive blood sacrifice ritual. Refined and dressed in better manners over time, that bloody foundation had evolved into a curse.
“Simple, isn’t it?”
Lannor spread his hands toward Berengar.
The old witcher nodded several times, his eyes already sharpening with fresh ideas.
“Simple, yes. But without a specialist’s help, witchers alone could spend a lifetime and never trace this curse back to its source.”
“Exactly. Experts solve most problems.” Lannor glanced toward the forge. “How long before you can produce Valyrian steel? Even a trial piece?”
Berengar rubbed his chin and made a rough estimate.
“Produce it? Two weeks, at least.”
“Pity. I was hoping to swing a Valyrian steel sword around.”
“Then keep hoping. First blade’s mine.”
A witcher’s obsession with weapons and armor was unavoidable. Men who lived by violence and killing rarely had much sense of safety, and for that very reason, it was hard for them not to grow attached to the tools that kept them alive. Even Berengar, who had made up his mind to retire, would still hang weapons and armor in his house if given the chance.
At that point, Lannor’s face tightened with visible pain. He tugged a purse from behind his waist and handed it over with reluctant fingers.
Berengar showed no mercy. The moment he took hold of the purse, he felt Lannor’s reluctance through the leather and still pulled it firmly free.
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