Beast Slayer Online: Initialization
Copyright© 2026 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 4: Blood Beneath Black Water
The strategy for a single hunter facing a pack was simple in theory: turn one-versus-many into a series of one-on-one fights.
Nekkers were not particularly strong. A farmer armed with a long-handled pitchfork, if calm and brave, could survive an encounter with a single Nekker. Their claws were sharp enough to dig through earth, but the reach of a polearm easily outweighed them.
Lannor, though still new to this magical medieval world, had already faced a few battles. He knew that an enemy who could be handled with ease in a one-on-one duel became deadly the moment there were two against one.
The reality: even a witcher’s veins and tendons lay mere millimeters beneath the skin. For claws or weapons, that was as good as nothing. A scratch was enough to wound, a wound enough to hinder. And as the disadvantage mounted beyond control, death came swiftly and inevitably.
Lannor had never experienced it, and he had no desire to. So even with the School of the Bear’s emphasis on strength and constitution, and its rigid, solid swordsmanship, he shifted his footing constantly.
Seventeen Nekkers surged forward in a single wave. Behind him, Bordon’s gaze was cold as ice, without warmth. The young witcher could only move laterally. To avoid being surrounded by the throng, he had to move at double their speed.
A hungry young man? Impossible? Not at all. Lannor did more than keep pace.
Bam!
His thin leather boots struck the soft valley soil in perfect coordination with his muscles, sending clods of earth and broken roots flying. The slight youth lunged sideways into the nearest opening like a maddened bear.
The shrieking, claw-flailing scavengers swiveled to follow. Nekkers had no chance against a witcher’s burst of speed in a straight line. Yet the last of the long line cut across a shorter path, closing in on Lannor’s front. Their reeking mouths displayed rows of twisted, corrupted teeth, strung with the remnants of carrion.
Five Nekkers had already claimed his path, crouching, claws flexing, anticipating their prey.
Lannor’s face did not change. It was as if he wore knightly plate instead of cheap quilted armor. As if the five sets of digging claws before him did not exist. He watched their mouths stretch wider with the lure of fresh meat until the instinct to hunt took over.
He leapt, compact body twisting midair, using his weight against the descent. Claws snapped downward. His amber cat eyes widened ever so slightly.
“Quen!”
The Sign of physical protection flared to life in a shimmer of magic. Normally, Quen hid invisibly, only activating when struck, absorbing and dispersing impact. But under the Bear School teachings, it manifested as an orange-yellow spherical shield.
It was not advanced. In a sorcerer’s eyes, even a witcher’s Signs were little more than cantrips. Against a single Nekker, it might block the first strike, then overload and shatter.
But Lannor, flung from a stable age into a savage one, would make full use of every ounce of power at his disposal.
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