The Witcher: Wolf School's Hunting Notes

"Your Majesty… Your Majesty, please… please come with me quickly…"

"Lord Faol…"

"Let His Majesty go first!"

The council chamber was instantly thrown into chaos, a scene of frantic disarray.

For nearly a month now, the Royal Griffin had developed a regular pattern of harassment, showing up in the mornings and leaving before noon.

As a result, King Demavend II and his key court ministers had adapted to this routine—spending their mornings hiding in the newly constructed underground chambers or private rooms in the palace, only to return in the afternoons to discuss national and military affairs.

Why not hold meetings underground all the time?

Would the King's dignity allow such a thing?

How could the court deliberate a nation's future like a group of rats, constantly hiding in the shadows?

"This is disgraceful! Absolutely disgraceful!"

King Demavend II roared in fury, though his heart was filled with a rising sense of dread.

The Royal Griffin altering its usual pattern of attack was no trivial matter.

If the palace was already in such disarray, he didn't need to imagine how chaotic the situation must be in and around Vengerberg.

The hard-won order would undoubtedly crumble in an instant.

Worse still, during peacetime, this might have been manageable, merely resulting in a slight blemish on the royal family's reputation.

But now!

Especially now, when the frontline was seeing significant success!

Because of the Royal Griffin's attacks, the supplies destined for the frontlines—scheduled for transport this afternoon—were already struggling to meet demand.

The grumbles from within the city had been growing louder, with the complaints from the Vivaldi Bank merely being the tip of the iceberg.

If the Royal Griffin wasn't dealt with soon, no amount of effort would allow him to hold out for even… no, perhaps not even half a month.

Demavend II dared not even think what might happen if the Royal Griffin began attacking twice a day. If this continued, the frontlines would collapse in no time.

Forget half a month; perhaps it would take less than three days for the entire royal court to be engulfed by protests.

Merchants and nobles would use every means to obstruct the war effort, potentially leading to riots or even a palace coup.

"Damn beast, of all times… of all times!"

Demavend II roared as his attendants hurriedly escorted him out of the council chamber.

His eyes fell on a trampled portrait on the floor, its wooden frame broken.

It depicted his own sharp and ambitious gaze from when he first ascended the throne. Now, it seemed to silently mock him.

Is this your ambition?

Will the vow you made before the late king's tomb end like this?

All because of a flying beast?

"Never! I will never allow it to end like this!" Demavend II shouted.

"Your Majesty! Hurry! The Royal Griffin is already here!" the Hand of the King urged.

"Boom!"

The grand wooden doors of the council chamber slammed shut, cutting off the king's view of his portrait, as if sealing away the dream of a nation's revival.

"Ah!"

The chaos outside the council chamber was even greater. Palace servants, overwhelmed by the familiar oppressive air, ran about like headless flies.

"Don't block the way! Step aside! Let His Majesty through!"

Surrounded by guards, Demavend II and his ministers finally pushed through the crowd, rushing down the long corridor toward the underground chambers.

Demavend II waved off the attendants trying to steady him, walking with his head down and brows tightly knit, lost in thought.

The other ministers, understanding the king's foul mood, held their breath, not daring to provoke him.

"Clack, clack, clack~"

For a time, the only sounds in the long corridor were their footsteps and the distant noise of the city's turmoil coming through the windows.

The silver-haired Hand of the King, Duke Mars, sighed softly, quickening his pace to whisper near the king's ear: "Your Majesty, it's time to consider it."

"Consider what?" Demavend II turned his head, asking reflexively.

But when he saw the Hand of the King's expression, his pale, sweat-dappled face instantly flushed red.

"Are you advising me to end the war?!"

Demavend II halted abruptly, scanning the surrounding ministers.

He noticed that even the typically silent intelligence minister was lowering his head, saying nothing.

The military minister, who usually scoffed at any suggestion of negotiation, stood silently staring at the stone walls of the corridor as though they held the secret to Aedirn's conquest of Kaedwen.

"Your Majesty, the losses are still manageable. Kaedwen hasn't realized yet. Missing this opportunity would be disastrous!"

The Hand of the King stumbled forward another step, imploring him.

Demavend II stared at him, his eyes wide, but said nothing.

"This place is too dangerous. Let's leave, Lord Mars," a royal guard interrupted.

At that moment—

"Caw!"

The oppressive cry of the Royal Griffin suddenly echoed near the corridor's windows.

"Danger! Get down!"

Everyone instinctively crouched, pressing against the walls.

"Whoosh~"

The wind in the corridor intensified, lifting their robes and hair. But it lasted only a moment before dying down again.

"That… that creature, did it fly away?"

A young, rash knight peered out the window, astonished.

"What?!"

Once the danger had passed, the group cautiously approached the corridor windows.

The familiar, loathsome figure of the Royal Griffin soared in the clear sky, flapping its wings as it flew westward.

"What's that? Is the Royal Griffin carrying something in its talons?" someone asked curiously.

"Two horses, two black horses!" the military minister confirmed. "And they're alive!"

At that moment, Demavend II noticed the intelligence minister's sudden reaction—a look of disbelief crossing his face as though he had pieced something together.

The Royal Griffin's figure gradually disappeared into the distant sky.

"It's gone. Do we… still need to leave?" someone asked.

Everyone exchanged glances. After the earlier chaos, they were all disheveled. The minister in charge of the royal treasury had only one shoe on his foot.

Yet no one laughed or joked. They were all equally embarrassed.

"Let's go," Demavend II sighed. "If the Royal Griffin comes back, are we to flee a second time?"

Refusing assistance from his attendants, he led the group toward the underground chambers.

Though it lacked a grand name like the "council chamber," the room itself was tastefully furnished—adorned with expensive court paintings, high-backed chairs carved with Aedirn's founding myths, and a soft burgundy carpet.

Other than the damp and dim atmosphere, it was even slightly larger than the council chamber.

"Clap~"

The door shut.

The king and his ministers sat in silence for a long time before finally beginning to discuss the matter with the Vivaldi Bank. But their minds were elsewhere.

Until—

"Clap~"

The door opened.

A young man entered, whispered a few words to the intelligence minister, then left.

"The commotion in the city has already subsided. Other than a few people getting injured at the beginning, there's not much damage."

"And nothing was destroyed…"

The middle-aged man paused before continuing, "The Royal Griffin… it seems to have just passed through…"

"Passed through…" Everyone in the basement found this absurd.

Never mind whether a Royal Griffin would act so human-like; over the past month, this monster had angrily shown up every morning without fail, more punctual than the ministers discussing state affairs.

With such a display of hatred, even if it were humanized, it should at least stomp around and spit before leaving.

"Could it be a different griffin?" someone asked.

"It's the same one," the middle-aged man confirmed. "The feathers on its wings, its size and shape—everything matches."

The group fell silent.

Not because they had nothing to say, but because there was too much to say, and they didn't know where to start.

"No losses is always a good thing," the Hand of the King tapped the table with his finger and then looked at Demavend II. "But Your Majesty still needs to think carefully and make a decision soon."

Think about what?

Everyone in the room knew, but none of them spoke. They didn't even dare look at Demavend II sitting at the head of the table.

Bright candlelight flickered in the darkness, casting overlapping, wavering shadows on the walls.

"I will think about it carefully," Demavend II let out a long sigh, waving his hand in exhaustion. "Dismissed."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Everyone stood, bowed, and left.

"Creak—"

The door opened.

"Kurt, stay behind," Demavend II said.

The middle-aged man in charge of intelligence froze mid-step as he reached the doorway.

The Hand of the King and the Minister of War exchanged a subtle glance.

"Bang—"

The door shut.

The candlelight wavered silently for a moment.

Demavend II stood up and positioned himself before an oil painting. The painting depicted a crowned king astride a horse, pointing a sword skyward.

Before the king stood a ferocious elf with long ears, and behind him were human knights cheering.

"Do you think we should cease the war?" Demavend II asked without turning around.

"Your will is my will, Your Majesty," the middle-aged man replied, placing a hand over his chest.

Demavend II nodded, as if seeing the man's respectful demeanor behind him.

His gaze shifted to a small, inconspicuous corner of the painting—a man in nondescript gray with an indistinct face.

"The Monton family has been loyal for generations. I trust you," Demavend II paused. "When that monster attacked, what were you thinking? Why did you seem surprised?"

The middle-aged man raised his head in astonishment, hesitating for a moment before replying, "A baseless, unfounded guess…"

"What guess?" Demavend II turned around.

The middle-aged man hesitated for a few more seconds. "The griffin was carrying two black horses…"

"Yes, and then?"

"The group of mercenaries suspected to be Witchers of the Wolf School—their two leaders were also riding black horses. Moreover…" The man paused again. "The direction the griffin flew was exactly where I had sent people to track their movements."

"You think the monster's unusual behavior is because of the Witchers?" Demavend II's eyes lit up as he stepped closer.

"No," the man shook his head. "It's just that we were discussing those Witchers earlier, so I was suddenly reminded…"

"That's it," Demavend II began pacing excitedly in the basement. "Otherwise, how could that damned beast have just passed through without destroying or taking anything?"

"It didn't even kill the two horses, did it? For such a violent and stupid creature, why wouldn't it kill those two black horses?"

"Could it be…"

Demavend II's eyes grew brighter and brighter.

"Could it be that the Witchers tamed that damned beast?"

"Your Majesty!" The middle-aged man couldn't help but raise his voice to interrupt. "Your Majesty, such a thing has never happened before. No one has ever tamed a large magical beast, not even sorcerers, let alone Witchers!"

"Just because it hasn't happened doesn't mean it's impossible. How could those damned sorcerers compare to the masters of the Wolf School?"

"Your Majesty, they've even been avoiding the people we sent, deliberately hiding their whereabouts…"

"The Wolf School adheres to neutrality, but the atrocities Kaedwen's despicable sorcerers and nobles committed against them are well known. They're just avoiding unnecessary trouble caused by those damned sorcerers and nobles… That's it… It must be!"

"Your Majesty!"

"It must be the Witchers! It must be the Witchers!" Demavend II's bloodshot eyes looked ferocious, like a wounded beast, as he roared at the middle-aged man.

The dim candlelight flickered timidly, the shadows trembling with fear.

The middle-aged man remained silent, merely watching Demavend II quietly.

"My apologies," Demavend II took a deep breath, patting the man's shoulder.

"I just… I just…" He looked at the painting of the king astride his horse, sword pointing to the heavens. "It's been twenty years. My father, my elder brother, my uncles… your father… Kaedwen killed our kin. I want revenge… revenge… This is the only chance. If we miss it, it's gone forever. Do you understand, Kurt?"

Listening to the king's near-delirious voice, feeling the increasingly strong grip on his shoulder, the middle-aged man sighed softly. "Your Majesty, I will bring the Witchers back. I will. For certain."

Demavend II was silent for a moment before asking, "Is it really impossible?"

The middle-aged man shook his head. "If something has never happened before, what else could it be but impossible—unless… a miracle occurs."

"A miracle…" Demavend II sighed again, gazing back at the painting, at his invincible ancestor.

"A miracle indeed…"

--------------------------

Meanwhile.

Allen was aware the Royal Griffin's flight would cause unrest, but he hadn't expected it to almost prompt a ceasefire between Aedirn and Kaedwen.

Even if he had known, there wasn't much he could do.

The Royal Griffin wasn't like a modern airliner with radar and a navigator.

Allen needed to fly low along rivers and cities with recognizable landmarks to find his way back to the inn. High-altitude flying wouldn't work, as everything on the ground would look like a blur.

Perhaps in the future, the Royal Griffin would memorize a few key locations and navigate on its own, but for now, it wasn't possible.

"Good girl, wait for us here," Allen patted the griffin's beak after landing in the woods mentioned in Vilgefortz's provocative letter.

"Caw—"

The Royal Griffin nudged Allen gently, causing him to stagger and almost fall over.

Vesemir chuckled softly as the two Witchers dismounted and led their horses out of the forest.

The reason they didn't ride was not due to the terrain being unsuitable, but because the horses were trembling too much to be ridden.

Both Witchers cast Axii signs to calm the animals, allowing them to leave the forest smoothly.

Before long, they returned to the village where the inn was located.

But as soon as they entered the village through its ramshackle wooden fence, Allen and Vesemir simultaneously raised their eyebrows.

"This place… feels off…"

.....

📢20 advanced chapters on p@treaon📢

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356. The Purpose of Vilgfortz.

357. The Next Conjunction of spheres.

358. If Only You Were My Child.

359. How to Deal with Ban Ard?

360. Kaedwen, the Omen of a Fallen Kingdom?