Beast Slayer Online: Initialization
Copyright© 2026 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 23: The Girl Behind The Mask
The clearing of the surrounding waters continued for the entire day, keeping pace with the Auridon villagers’ hours of fishing and hunting.
Working together, Lannor and Bernie expanded the safe boundary of the village fishing grounds roughly five kilometers eastward.
By the end of it, nearly twenty Drowners had fallen to the silver sword.
Every hunt followed the same pattern as the first. Once ashore, Bernie led the tracking while Lannor followed behind, quietly studying the craft. When they encountered Drowners, the witcher handled the combat. Afterward, Lannor still ended up taking the corpses apart piece by piece.
Twenty Drowners gathered together would have been enough to massacre a village somewhere in Velen.
Fortunately, the creatures were scattered. The first pack of five had already been the largest group they encountered all day. Otherwise, even the young witcher would have found things troublesome.
By the time the sun was beginning to sink into the waters of Feck Lake, the two finally headed back to the village together.
As Bernie’s small fishing boat approached the harbor, the fisherman-hunter suddenly raised a brow.
“Hey.”
He called softly, gesturing for the witcher seated at the bow to turn around.
The light had already begun to fade, yet the village harbor was crowded with people.
At this hour, the villagers normally would have gone home or gathered in the tavern. Instead, they had all come to the docks. Some absentmindedly worked fishing nets. Others sat atop barrels, kicking their legs idly. Old Aaron stood at the front, puffing steadily on his pipeweed.
The moment the villagers spotted the returning boat, a roar of cheers broke out.
One after another, they dropped the work they had barely been paying attention to and surged toward the pier, stretching their necks to peer into the little vessel.
Old Aaron was the first to shout.
“Drowner ears! So many Drowner ears!”
The stench and clotted blood did not bother him in the slightest. His excited yell triggered another wave of cheers.
It was the first time since arriving in this world that Lannor had been welcomed ashore like some conquering hero.
Old Aaron slapped the leather plate over the young man’s shoulder hard enough to make it crack.
“I never thought...” The old man stumbled over his own words. “I truly never thought you meant it!”
Even after Lannor had deliberately approached them in a way that matched local sensibilities, even after laying all the groundwork he could, the villagers’ distrust toward witchers had never fully vanished.
That kind of hatred had soaked into people over generations.
But now ... what did it matter?
The young witcher laughed openly and smacked old Aaron across the back with a gloved hand, nearly knocking a cough out of the elder.
The old man only laughed louder, and so did the villagers around them.
Trust had finally taken root.
A better tomorrow could drown even the oldest prejudice.
“Sorry, truly sorry, Lannor!” Old Aaron had to lean close and shout into the witcher’s ear over the cheering crowd. “For me, and for every fool in Auridon who doubted you. Come on, friend, I owe you a proper drink!”
“Royal Vizima?”
“Royal Vizima!”
And so the men and women of the village burst into laughter and crowded together into the tiny tavern.
The tavern itself was small enough that only a few candles were needed to light the room once night fell.
Normally the place survived on a handful of fishermen nursing cheap drinks. Tonight, though, it was packed shoulder to shoulder, loud and lively.
A few women had even brought instruments from home. To Lannor’s ears they sounded something like flutes. The melody was bright and flowing, cheerful without becoming grating no matter how many times it repeated.
At the table, the young witcher tilted back a mug and swallowed a great mouthful of golden Royal Vizima beer.
The brew itself came under the supervision of master brewers in Vizima, capital of Temeria. Properly added hops lent the perfectly fermented drink a clean bitterness beneath the malt.
Lannor slammed the half-empty wooden mug back onto the table with a crack and licked the foam from his lips, still unsatisfied.
Then Mentos’ voice sounded in his head.
“Sir, forgive my frankness, but I truly never imagined someone would want to add honey to beer...”
“Mentos, shut up.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Intelligence Core obeyed immediately.
How many times did he have to explain it? Stress responses did not count as strange taste.
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