Beast Slayer Online: Initialization
Copyright© 2026 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 85: Eyes Inside The Fog
At first light the next morning, Lannor and Arya checked out of the Silver Heron.
The two Orens he had paid earlier more than covered the extra laundering for the bloodstained bedding, so no additional coin changed hands. At the counter, Lannor sent Arya ahead to fetch Pope while he casually tossed a question to the bartender settling the account.
“You work here alone?”
“Yes, sir. Bartending’s not difficult work, but you still need to keep books and count coin properly, so the owner only keeps one man behind the counter. I’ve worked here over ten years now.”
The middle-aged man, towel draped over his shoulder, looked nothing like the “bartender” from last night.
In fact, he was not even the same man Lannor had seen during his first visit to the Silver Heron.
Which meant that from the very moment he first stepped into Gors Velen, the thing calling itself Gaunter O’Dimm had already been waiting for him there.
A damned headache.
Lannor felt no honor whatsoever in attracting the attention of a creature capable of seeing the future and reshaping reality. Especially not when that creature clearly possessed the temperament of a malicious jester.
The witcher said nothing more to the bartender. He turned, left the inn, took Pope’s reins from Arya, and mounted up.
The Alchemy Sack, noticeably flatter than before, swayed against the mare’s flank. Lannor hauled Arya up behind him, then leaned forward in the saddle and rubbed Pope’s muzzle. The horse snorted damply and tossed its head.
At least she had slept well.
“My lord ... your hair.”
Arya’s voice came softly from behind him, edged with worry.
From the girl’s perspective, after only one night, great swathes of white had appeared near the roots of the witcher’s hair. Not the brittle gray-white of old age, but bright silver, gleaming almost like molten metal.
Still, such a change overnight ... Stories from her homeland always spoke of magic and alchemy as things bought with terrible prices. Life. Years. Blood.
She could not help but worry that whatever Lannor had done last night had burned away part of his lifespan.
“No. Don’t concern yourself.” Lannor calmly pulled up his hood. “Last night’s alchemy was a success. This is merely one of the results.”
Truthfully, from the fragmented memories he had inherited, individuals implanted with the same category of Gene Seed tended to develop certain similarities over time.
And the Gene Seed now resting inside his chest, the Emperor’s Children strain, seemed unusually fond of turning its hosts into silver-haired bastards with impossible faces.
In the end, it was only appearance. Worse things could happen than becoming taller, stronger, and more handsome.
What man would refuse that?
Impossible.
The powerful mare gradually accelerated from a trot into a full gallop through the empty morning streets.
The encounter with that unknown thing last night had done nothing to shake Lannor’s resolve.
Even if heaven itself decided to make sport of you, what then? Stand still and surrender?
That was not the sort of man he was.
If his opponent towered so high above him that it resembled “a tiger biting the sky, nowhere to strike,” then he would simply continue doing what he could.
If the enemy could not yet be touched, then he would ensure his own steady advance.
And first, whether to temper himself against his newfound strength, fulfill the contract with Aretuza Academy, or simply vent the disgust and fury boiling inside him toward slavers and cannibals alike ... He needed to go to Vizima.
And when he got there, Head Devourer and his buyer were both going to die.
Temeria’s capital, Vizima.
Inside an opulent manor situated within the Trade Quarter, Head Devourer, Ubank, sat stiffly on a waiting bench outside a study.
Soldiers in military armor patrolled constantly through the vast estate. Their equipment resembled standard Temerian issue, layered composite armor built for practicality rather than ceremony. Yet instead of the silver lilies worn by Temerian troops, the surcoats over their armor were plain black.
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