Beast Slayer Online: Initialization
Copyright© 2026 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 34: The Witch In White Linen
“Aha! Now the bastard can’t run.”
Phillip cheered as if the cannibal were already within arm’s reach.
“Master, you’ll have to help us one more time. We’ll go together and cut that mongrel down.”
Phillip was fit to be a sergeant, which meant he was no fool. Now that they knew the criminal’s characteristics, they still had to find him the slow way. But if they brought along this witcher, whose nose seemed sharper than a temple priestess’ prayers, the case might be done by nightfall.
Lannor thought about it. For a contract worth two hundred and thirty Orens, coming here to kill two ghouls and say a few words did seem a little improper.
And besides...
His cat eyes narrowed, cold and bright, like a hunting beast’s.
He truly did want to know what it felt like to cut down a cannibal.
“Did you protect the crime scene?”
Lannor nodded to Phillip, then asked.
The sergeant slapped his own belly, iron glove clanging against the armor over his gut.
“No one’s watching the scene, but don’t fret. Since this mess happened, the villagers around here would tear the killer apart with their bare hands if they could, but none of them dares go near Dunham now. Nobody knows when the Goddess might send down her wrath.”
“Understood.”
Lannor gave a small nod.
If the murder had happened five or six days ago, and no one had disturbed the site since, then his witcher senses might be able to find the killer’s tracks directly.
“Then let’s move.”
“Right, lads! Mount up!”
The soldiers moved in a rough, loud wave toward the tavern stable.
The villagers of Midcopse, almost as one, opened their wooden doors just enough to peer through the cracks.
Their eyes, full of fear and expectation, followed the squad that was setting out to bring a defiler of faith to justice.
Lannor understood those looks.
In a feudal age, soldiers and bandits were hard to tell apart. With better organization, soldiers could sometimes be worse than bandits.
The company kicked black mud up from the country road and rode into the distance.
Dunham was half a day from Midcopse, true, but that was measured by a farmer’s feet.
They were mounted men. In a little over an hour, they reached their destination.
“That’s a fine ... hah ... fine horse you have, witcher.”
An hour and a half of continuous riding left Phillip jolted hard at the end, his breath uneven.
They had arrived near the crossroads that carried the faith of the surrounding settlements.
The locals dared not approach, but under the pressure of public anger, they had still organized a few young men with pitchforks and clubs to serve as a patrol.
Phillip and his men, all in Temerian standard-issue armor, won their trust easily enough. He spat to the side, barked a couple of curses, and the armed farmers gave way.
Had an ordinary traveling merchant tried to pass through, Lannor suspected the crossing would not have gone so smoothly without a few coins, or a portion of his wares, left behind.
He had already spotted a string of garlic hanging around one farmer’s neck.
After they passed, Phillip complained quietly to Lannor.
“That’s why we ought to finish this quickly. If these armed peasants get a taste for blocking roads, odds are they’ll start working as bandits in the off-season. Mark me. This region will have more robbers than the rest for the next few months.”
Lannor neither nodded nor replied. His body rose and fell with the horse’s gait.
On matters like this, he saw more clearly than Phillip, who relied on experience alone. But all of it was still too far from him.
The education he had received told him public security was never merely a matter of public security.
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