The Witcher: Wolf School's Hunting Notes

"Mir... Miracle Child?"

Lydia stepped back in alarm, avoiding Vilgefortz's unfamiliar gaze. Her eyes fell on the two translated prophecy manuscripts on the table.

Recalling his tone, a flash of insight struck her mind: "You're... you're saying that hunter, Allen, is the Miracle Child from Ithlinne's prophecy?"

"Th-this... this... how is this possible?"

"Even if the Miracle Child isn't a human mage, they must surely be an elf. A hunter... a Witcher who only knows how to swing a sword and uses those rudimentary signs that barely qualify as magic—how could they be worthy of the title of Miracle Child..."

Ithlinne's prophecy was known across the world.

Because parts of it had been verified in reality multiple times, countless humans, elves, dwarves, scholars, sorcerers, and nobles studied it.

Even the recently established Kaer Morhen had created a dedicated prophecy study division to analyze this thin collection of verses.

Over decades or even centuries of research, certain interpretations had gained widespread acceptance.

For example, the line "Aen Seidhe—the blood of elves—shall drown the earth, and you shall wail, for the destroyer of nations will come" was often thought to indicate the Miracle Child might be an elf.

Believers in this interpretation also pointed to the phrases "born in a land of bitter cold" and "not fully human." Elves, after all, had been driven by humans to the Blue Mountains and bore a grudge as deep as the destruction of their nations and people.

As this belief gained traction, elves were further pushed into desolate regions, and their hatred for humans deepened, making this hypothesis even more convincing.

Even the elves themselves did not deny it.

Another possibility proposed was that the Miracle Child might be a mage. However, few humans dared to openly advocate this theory.

Instead, this belief was more prevalent among mages, especially male sorcerers.

Mages wield the world's greatest magical powers—capable of razing cities and destroying nations.

And rebellious mages were far from rare; their disasters were countless, like the well-known example of Alzur's double-cross summoning of a Myriapodan, which destroyed half of Maribor.

If not a mage or elf, then at least the Miracle Child should be a human noble.

History recorded numerous noble heirs claiming to be the Miracle Child to seize power. Half-elven nobles were especially notorious for this, and some had even successfully staged coups and ascended to kingship.

Though they lacked unique powers, they controlled the most potent force in the world—authority.

Even sorcerers had to bow their heads to these mundane rulers and serve them.

But Witchers...

These creations of mages, while powerful and capable of slaying dragons, could not cast grand spells like sorcerers to topple fortresses.

Their small numbers and status as outcasts—respected yet never participants in politics—meant they lacked the life-or-death authority wielded by nobles over thousands.

Miracle Child... Could they deserve such a title?

"Lydia, you have mistaken the reflection on the lake's surface for the stars in the night sky," Vilgefortz said with a faint smile, glancing at Lydia.

"The Miracle Child is not called so because of their status or their ability to perform miracles."

"But because, regardless of who they are—human, elf, or dwarf... mage, noble... or even a farmer or a fisherman—no matter how lowly or insignificant their status, they can still create miracles."

"Miracles are, by definition, things that should be impossible to achieve."

Lydia did not retort. Seeing Vilgefortz's mad fervor cooling down, she curiously asked, "Is that hunter truly so powerful?"

The pressure brought by the Witcher Master Vesemir had been immense. From the start of the battle to its end, she had only been able to glance at their skirmish twice, and only when Vesemir was momentarily distracted.

She only knew that the Witcher had evaded Alzur's Thunder and forced Vilgefortz to use the uncontrollable talent of his Chaos Source.

"Powerful?" Vilgefortz shook his head. "It's more than that!"

For a moment, those azure cat-like eyes appeared in his mind again, sending a shiver down his spine.

What kind of eyes were those...

They gazed upon the world like a reaper's stare—lofty, detached.

They didn't resemble the eyes of a seasoned warrior filled with bloodlust. Those eyes bore no killing intent.

Yet anyone who met them felt as if a hand had gripped their throat, their breath choked off. Like livestock awaiting slaughter, they felt as though the mythical scythe of death might sever their life at any moment.

And Vilgefortz knew this was no illusion.

In that brief exchange, his Chaos Source revealed to him his own demise.

"The Blue Death... the Blue Death..."

Unconsciously, he rubbed his slender neck, where the cool sensation lingered.

Feeling closer, it was a bit sticky—only sweat dried by the wind.

One day, such power will be mine!

Clenching his fists, Vilgefortz thought to himself.

"Boom!"

An explosion outside the window snapped Vilgefortz out of his thoughts.

"Lydia!"

"I'm here!"

"Gather every piece of information about Allen for me... discreetly. Don't let anyone else know."

"Not let anyone else know? What about Ban Ard? Or Sunny..."

"Don't tell them either!" Vilgefortz interrupted sternly. "We rushed back after receiving the academy's warning."

"But if Sunny asks about it..."

"They won't ask," Vilgefortz replied, walking to the window. "Right now, who would have the time to care about two 'irrelevant' Witchers?"

Lydia followed his gaze.

The academy was in ruins.

At least a quarter of the buildings lay collapsed into rubble—some ablaze, others encased in frost, pierced by stone pillars, or shattered...

Of course.

The distant city of Ban Ard fared even worse. Black smoke billowed, engulfing the city. From the Mage Tower, even human screams and cries could be heard.

Indeed.

With Ban Ard Academy, the foundation of male mages, in such a state, no one knew how many had died.

Coupled with the ongoing war with Aedirn, even if Sunny survived today, they wouldn't have the energy to focus on the Witchers anytime soon.

"Let's go." Vilgefortz lightly patted Lydia's shoulder.

She paused, puzzled. "Where to?"

"We returned because of the academy's warning. Naturally, we go to assist at Ban Ard... But I do wonder—what kind of enemy could turn the holy land of mages into this?" Vilgefortz said, walking toward the door.

"Seems like the Wild Hunt..." Lydia followed closely. "I overheard people shouting and cursing that name earlier..."

"The Wild Hunt?" Vilgefortz paused briefly, gray light flickering unpredictably in his eyes. "The Miracle Child from the prophecy and the mythical scourge from legend..."

"This is going to be interesting!"

---------------------------The Next Day

A nameless path along the riverbank.

"You're saying... uh... this rope can tame the Royal Griffin?"

Vesemir's face was full of doubt. "And... and after taming the Royal Griffin, we'll ride it to Ellander to find High Priestess Ianna to break the curse?"

No one had ever tamed a Royal Griffin before. In fact, no one had even safely approached an ordinary griffin...

Wait!

There were indeed those who managed to tame flying beasts—but only among the most unconventional and daring knights.

Truthfully, humans could only utilize magical creatures; taming them in the way Allen described had never been done—or at least, he had never heard of it.

"Exactly."

Allen nodded seriously, putting away the massive Behemoth Snare from the One-Eyed Clan.

To be honest, he felt a bit unsure himself. After all, he had never used this tool before and had only seen members of the One-Eyed Clan capturing giant beasts in cutscenes.

Could items from another world work on a Royal Griffin in the world of witchers? Would they even be compatible?

Allen wasn't certain. He could only trust the annotations and descriptions in his Witcher's Journal.

In fact, if Vesemir hadn't insisted on asking out of a sense of responsibility, and if breaking the young witcher's curse weren't such an urgent matter, Allen wouldn't have mentioned this idea at all.

"We already figured out the way across the river this morning. Capturing a Royal Griffin won't take too long," Allen reassured Vesemir, who looked skeptical. "Three days. If we can't catch a Royal Griffin within three days, we'll head to Ellander right away."

"That way, even if we don't catch the Royal Griffin, we'll still reach Melitele's temple to lift the curse within a week."

Based on the original story, the Artefact compression spell would allow even a physically frail sorceress like Yennefer to persist in her petrified state for forty-five days.

Given that the young witcher was physically stronger and had better regenerative abilities, he should be able to endure even longer.

But life wasn't something to gamble with. Allen decided to set a strict time limit, especially since they hadn't yet found a good spot to hunt the Royal Griffin. Who knew how long that might take?

Then again, if they could capture the Royal Griffin, they could fly to Ellander in just one day.

Considering the war between Aedirn and Kaedwen and its potential impact on the School of the Wolf, this risk was worth taking.

Speaking of wars…

How had the battle between the Wild Hunt and Ban Ard gone last night?

"A week it is, then," Vesemir agreed, but not without grumbling. "These brats need to learn a lesson. I told them to practice Quen this afternoon, and some of them dared to fall asleep..."

"I've said it a thousand times: once you leave Kaer Morhen, you must always, always stay vigilant. And yet, they sleep instead of meditating!"

The more Vesemir thought about it, the angrier he got, his mustache practically bristling with fury.

Allen couldn't help but chuckle.

After returning to the inn last night, Vesemir had been fuming as he examined the seven statues, each depicting a different expression. The sight of three particular young witchers—nodding off, bleary-eyed, or laughing outright—had made him even more irate.

He'd scolded those three statues at length until Allen reminded him that those under the Artefact compression spell were oblivious to their surroundings. Only then did Vesemir stop. Otherwise, he might've lectured them all night.

Allen, who had spent valuable battle merit points from his Witcher's Corps to obtain the spell, was initially the one who should have been angrier. But Vesemir's reaction had completely defused his frustration.

"I'm sure after this experience, Krei, Ice, and Spencer will learn their lesson!"

"They'd better!" Vesemir snapped, waving his hand dismissively.

The weather was clear, and the summer currents of the river glistened under the sun.

Riding for only a short while, the two witchers reached a wooden bridge.

The bridge spanned an unnamed tributary of the Alba River, not far—about 700 meters—from where the river split into two channels.

Crossing the bridge, they found that the second channel was formed by numerous shallow streams, which could easily be crossed on horseback.

This wasn't exactly a secret.

At the first village they visited that morning, someone had already told them about it.

But for non-locals, encountering a divided waterway and having another route available often discouraged them from continuing onward.

"Whoosh—"

A sudden gust of wind rustled the forest.

Vesemir seemed to sense something and pulled at his reins, looking up.

Allen followed his gaze.

A black dot approached from the northeast, quickly soaring over the birch forest before heading southwest.

"Buzz—"

The witcher medallions around their necks vibrated faintly.

"It's early."

Vesemir urged his horse forward with a nudge, continuing down the path.

Allen casually patted his horse, Carrot, on her slender, upright neck, guiding her to avoid the muddy potholes that could hurt her hooves.

"As long as the direction's right, it's fine."

And indeed, the direction was correct.

After crossing several shallow streams, the two witchers encountered no further obstacles and soon reached the area opposite where they had lost the Royal Griffin the day before.

At the same time—

"Caw, caw, caw—"

Annoying drowners emerged from the water to cause trouble.

Of course, to two master witchers, these were no real threat.

Without even dismounting, they took turns using Igni signs and their silver swords to clear the area of drowners in no time.

Once they reached the destination, they dismounted, loosely tying their horses' reins to nearby trees, ready to leap onto them at a moment's notice if the Royal Griffin appeared.

Allen began clearing a small patch of land near the riverbank, ensuring it was dry and level. Meanwhile, Vesemir marked the bridge and shallow streams on his map.

The two of them then knelt on the ground and began meditating.

Some might wonder: since they knew the Royal Griffin's direction, why not chase after it immediately instead of meditating?

But seasoned travelers knew that navigating an ancient forest often led to disorientation.

The dense canopy blocking the sky, the uneven terrain, and the occasional battle made it nearly impossible to use distant mountains as reference points. Veering off course was almost inevitable.

When it came to hunting a Royal Griffin, taking time to prepare was the real way to save time.

"Three hours," Vesemir estimated before closing his eyes.

Allen shut his eyes too but didn't immediately enter meditation.

"Thump, thump."

His heartbeat slowed in a unique rhythm.

In an instant, golden specks of light shimmered in his bloodstream.

Slowing his heartbeat wasn't for practicing "Beast Roar: Berserk," but "Beast Roar: Wild Speech."

After being slower than Vesemir in sensing things earlier, and considering that "Beast Roar: Berserk" had reached a bottleneck, Allen figured he might as well try "Beast Roar: Wild Speech," which he had only tested when he first acquired it.

As his heartbeat slowed, his entire body relaxed.

"Why does it feel so much smoother this time?" he wondered.

Soon, brown earth-elemental magic merged with the golden energy, rising to his tongue—

And just like that, Allen fell into a deep sleep.

Until…

"Skreee—"

A magical beast's cry echoed from the high skies above.

.....

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