Beast Slayer Online: Initialization
Copyright© 2026 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 24: Blood Oaths And Bitter Ale
Early the next morning, amid the ringing clamor of hammer on iron, Lannor leaned his School of the Bear silver sword against the wall inside the village smithy.
“My thanks, Ivan.”
He raised a hand toward the blacksmith.
“Leave it to me. Come back in an hour. The elder already said the silver for the edge goes on the village ledger, and the ingots I’ve got are fine stock, no question about that.”
Ivan stood beside the furnace, sweat and firelight turning his bare arms slick and bronze. He slapped the lid of his storage chest with obvious pride.
According to him, the silver came either from Vizima or Gors Velen.
His craftsmanship might not amount to much, but maintaining the coating on a silver blade was still within his abilities.
Bordon’s silver sword had gone without proper care ever since the old witcher became a wanted man. After carving through eighteen Drowners yesterday, a good portion of the silver plating had already been worn away.
At least two Orens’ worth.
Lannor waved a studded leather glove in farewell and stepped out of the smithy.
Once again, he had to admire his own decision.
Had he chosen to stay in one of the larger cities instead, he would not only have faced rent, suspicion, contempt, and the occasional knife slipped from a dark alley, he certainly would not have received service this attentive, or treatment this free.
“Ugh...”
Walking along the village’s wooden paths, Lannor occasionally pressed fingers against his temple.
“I pushed it a little hard yesterday, Mentos.”
The young man muttered under his breath.
“Your feedback has been fully recorded, but please...”
“Oh, spare me. Don’t start reciting regulations at me again.”
“ ... Understood, sir.”
Even knowing he would receive the same answer every time, Lannor still could not stop himself from complaining whenever knowledge infusion left his skull feeling like a shaken bottle of soda.
Still, Mentos’ capabilities were undeniable.
Last night, under the skill analysis section, the Trace Detection skill sourced from Bernie, a hunter with years behind him, had already reached thirteen percent.
That represented thirteen percent of Bernie’s accumulated experience and technical mastery.
The effects were obvious now.
As Lannor walked along the wooden planks, his boot brushed over a dent in the boards. Almost instantly, information surfaced in his mind. The damage was somewhere between a week and a month old, caused by a toppled barrel striking the wood.
Combined with his witcher senses, he also knew only fish barrels and ale casks regularly passed through this stretch of road.
“If I didn’t want to fight monsters, I could probably make a living as a detective.”
The thought surfaced suddenly.
A moment later he snorted at himself.
Very few people would hire a man with cat eyes to investigate anything.
A witcher had all the technical qualifications to become an investigator. That did not stop witchers from starving because nobody would employ them.
“Sir, I would advise against indulging in reflections at present. According to schedule, you are required to repair the outer cotton layer of your gambeson immediately in preparation for this afternoon’s hunt. Your surgical proficiency still requires considerable practical material. The biological structure project remains largely incomplete, and Trace Detection still requires continued observational analysis of the target individual.”
“Aren’t I already on the way? It’s just a few tears. Won’t take long.”
Lannor lowered his hand from his temple and grumbled to himself.
Surgery was a practical discipline. Unlike Trace Detection, which relied heavily on accumulated knowledge and experience, raw information infusion alone accomplished very little.
He needed to practice with his own hands while Mentos corrected him in real time.
School of the Bear swordsmanship and riding skills belonged to the same category.
He continued along the wooden walkways stretched over the lake water, weaving between crooked houses.
“This should be the way, right? The ‘woman with the best stitching hands in the village,’ according to old Aaron.”
The buildings stood in complete disorder. Auridon only had a population of around a hundred, but even so there were more than thirty huts.
To the point that even the village elder could only gesture vaguely when describing where the seamstress lived.
The smell of a fishing village was never pleasant, especially not one this primitive.
Fish blood soaked between the cracks in the planks and baked under wind and sun until the stench hit harder than rotting meat in midsummer.
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