Beast Slayer Online: Initialization
Copyright© 2026 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 49
The sound of hooves striking earth was never a beautiful thing.
Least of all when the horse in question was a strong, battle-bred warhorse carrying a Witcher in full killing temper, the two of them together weighing well over one hundred and fifty kilograms.
Nothing could have been further from the bright, merry image of a knightly parade painted by minstrels. Armored Lannor looked tall, broad, and brutal.
The black warhorse beneath him stood a full one point six meters at the shoulder.
When such a pair came charging down the country tracks of Velen like a force bent on smashing through anything in its path, it was enough to call to mind the old horror tales whispered through human villages, war fiends, ghostly knights, the Wild Hunt.
“Sir, I must remind you again, remain calm.”
Mentos had stopped making flippant remarks.
Truth be told, it would rather Lannor start humming to himself, or sit there with a jar of honey in his hands, shoveling it into his mouth like a bear.
Blazing with fury, hauling all his gear, riding straight toward at least several dozen vicious man-eaters for a head-on clash ... it was madness.
And by madness, it did not mean whether he could win. On that front, Mentos had a certain measure of faith in both Lannor and itself.
After all, these were only criminals.
They had neither the discipline nor the vigilance of a professional army, nor the trained skill in killing and scouting that such soldiers possessed.
Their numbers were large, yes, but their loose structure was itself a weakness.
With a proper plan and decent reconnaissance, even a slow, inefficient series of assassinations would do. Kill off a dozen of them, and the whole organization would come apart at the seams.
And once it had fallen apart, Lannor would no longer be facing dozens of swords against one.
He would be facing dozens of separate fights, one sword against one sword.
There were no famed knights or seasoned champions among them. A Witcher did not easily lose to ordinary men.
What truly worried Mentos now was Lannor’s state of mind.
A meticulous plan required a calm hand to carry it out.
On the emotional curve chart it had drawn up, Lannor’s current state was extremely stable.
... Extremely stable at the absolute highest level.
“I am calm, Mentos.”
Lannor’s steady voice cut through the artificial speech inside his head. He repeated himself.
“I am very calm right now.”
Mentos said nothing more.
A Biological Intelligence Core had the authority to advise and warn, not to decide.
And as Lannor continued to advance in academic clearance and moved closer to the level of a fully educated adult member of the Human Federation, even more of the Core’s authority as a learning-assistance device would be ceded back to the primary user.
It had already done what such a Core was meant to do.
What remained was obedience.
Sea wind drove dark clouds overhead, and the air began to carry that damp, earthy tang of coming rain.
Velen was about to be drenched again.
Thanks to the Witcher body’s extreme endurance, the length of time Lannor could ride without stopping depended only on Pope’s ability to recover.
Ordinarily, riding from Auridon to the Condal region Villis had mentioned would have taken two or three days.
But Lannor, together with Pope, who was nearly breathing himself empty, covered the distance in less than a single day.
The golden first forty-eight hours in a missing child case hung around Lannor’s heart like a hangman’s noose.
And with every passing second, that noose drew tighter.
Lannor was in a hurry, but at the same time he was fighting with all his strength to suppress that urgency.
If panic helped, the world would have long since been rid of half its nonsense.
“Slow, Pope.”
“Hrrr, hrrk...”
Still in the saddle, Lannor tugged the reins and brought the near-exhausted warhorse down to a slower pace.
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