Vesemir had the same question Letho did.
Aelin's first real battle hadn't been long ago. Back then, his form was serviceable. His stance was solid. Promising, sure—but nothing to raise eyebrows.
But this?
This wasn't promise.
It was change. And not the slow, earned kind.
The way he shifted his weight now—measured, minute—like he wasn't thinking it through, just... doing. The way pressure slid off him like rain down oiled steel. Footwork that barely left the ground, but flowed.
Not progress.
Transformation.
Any half-trained swordsman could've seen he'd improved. But to someone like Vesemir, a man who'd survived a hundred winters with blade in hand... the difference wasn't just clear. It was alarming.
If he had to give a verdict?
At least in terms of swordwork, Aelin had already crossed the line.
He was fighting like a Witcher.
"Can the Witcher's Eye really be that powerful?" Vesemir muttered.
Letho glanced over. "What was that?"
"Nothing."
The older Witcher waved him off with a grunt. His gaze shifted to the First—still silent, still watching, still unreadable. Then back to Aelin.
The boy's breath was ragged. Shoulders rising and falling like a forge bellows. He took a few steps back, eyes never leaving the drowners clawing their way upright.
Not good.
Without Hunter's Sense, fighting monsters with steel was like trying to punch through wet bark.
You made a dent. Maybe.
But it wouldn't stop them.
If the Wolves' sword hadn't just leveled up...
Aelin pushed the thought aside.
He inhaled through his nose. Let it out slow.
Steel slid into its sheath with a soft rasp.
He drew the silver.
Two of the drowners were already moving. The third still writhed, stunned from the last blow.
Their faces twisted into that mindless hunger. Clouded eyes, unblinking, fixed.
They didn't hesitate. Neither did he.
His grip tightened.
And when the first came into reach—he moved.
No thought. No fear. Just movement.
Feet to hips, hips to shoulders—one fluid chain. His pupils blew wide, slitting open like a cat's just before the strike.
He spun.
One breath. One stroke.
The silver sliced a gleaming arc. A head tumbled free. The second drowner's claw was halfway raised before his follow-through lopped the hand off clean.
Still, he didn't stop.
Didn't blink.
He stepped in.
Pivoted once more.
The third drowner's head dropped like fruit from a tree.
It hadn't even seen him coming.
Thirty seconds later, it was done.
Three corpses. No damage taken. Not even a scratch.
Aelin exhaled through clenched teeth. A flick of his wrist sent black blood arcing from the silver.
[Monster Group "Drowners" Lv. 2: Eliminated]
[Reward Calculation:
Base Grade: D
+1 – Outnumbered Victory
+3 – Execution Efficiency
+2 – Emergency Mission Bonus
Final Rating: B]
[Loot Obtained:
Drowner Heart Extract ×3
Small EXP Gem ×9
Drowner Chest ×4]
[Timed Quest Complete: You All Come At Once! (3/3 Killed)]
[Reward: Small EXP Gem ×10, General Chest ×1]
A windfall.
That was the first thing that passed through his head—
not triumph, not pride, just that cold flicker of profit.
The sound of chimes filled his ears. Soft, clean. Mechanical, but almost... musical. It felt warm, grounding, like a rope catching him just before he fell too deep into the adrenaline.
Bless the drowners.
He sheathed his sword and turned.
"Apprentice Aelin!"
He looked up—instinct first, mind second.
Something flew through the air. He caught it reflexively.
Smooth. Cool.
Sunlight kissed the surface, scattering rainbow shimmers across his palm.
Vera's illusion charm.
He blinked, confused. "But… I used silver."
"I know," the First said, smiling faintly.
It wasn't warmth. Not exactly.
More like... approval. That quiet satisfaction a craftsman feels when the steel he's forged doesn't crack under heat.
"Reckless courage earns nothing. But calm in the face of fear?" His smile didn't widen, but it deepened. "That deserves reward."
He held the pause for just a beat. Then, simply:
"The charm is yours."
Another pause. This one longer.
"And," he added, "because of your performance today, all apprentices will receive custom-fitted leather armor before the mountain trials."
He didn't wait for thanks.
Didn't linger.
He turned, exchanged a few low words with Vesemir—likely compliments on training technique—then walked off toward the gray keep, long coat dragging a whisper in the wind.
Aelin stood there, staring down at the charm.
His fingers curled around it without thinking.
Was he wrong?
Had he misjudged the man?
Witchers didn't usually reward students. Not unless they were trying to keep them alive for something worse.
Then again... it wasn't unheard of.
But still—
Something itched in the back of his skull. An unease that didn't quite have words yet.
According to the old records, Witchers were fading. Ghosts in armor. Forgotten by kings, ignored by courts, just barely surviving in their crumbling strongholds.
So why, in 1179, was the School of the Wolf giving out enchanted artifacts like candy?
Where was all this funding coming from?
It didn't make sense.
He looked away from the keep.
Hughes—silver-haired, green-eyed, eleven, and utterly starstruck—bounced in circles around him, grinning like an overexcited puppy.
The two injured boys nearby gave him small nods—grateful, not reverent.
For them, a decent set of armor wasn't some badge of honor.
It was the difference between surviving the trial... or becoming another name etched into the mountain's frozen stone.
Vesemir and Letho lingered off to the side, quiet satisfaction on their faces. But even they weren't saying anything anymore. Not about the Witcher's Eye. Not about Aelin.
And especially not about how fast he was growing.
The other Witchers had already trickled off, but a few remained, watching from the shadows of the pillars. Their expressions weren't sharp. Not suspicious.
Just... quiet. Distant.
Something like hope.
Maybe even mourning.
Sunlight speared down through the gaps between towers, slicing golden blades across the yard.
One hit Aelin's face just right, catching the gleam in his eyes—those unnatural, bright blue cat eyes.
And for one fleeting, fragile second...
he felt like a hero.
Then—
"Enough."
Vesemir's voice cut through the yard like a knife. Sharp. Final.
He clapped once.
"Aelin. Hughes. Stay."
He pointed at the others.
"Injured students, report to the alchemy lab. South tower. Second floor. Get patched up. Eat something."
They moved without question.
Aelin and Hughes followed Vesemir toward the heap of drowned corpses Letho had already stacked. The scent hit them halfway there—wet rot, fish, blood, bile.
"Time to learn how to harvest monster parts," Vesemir said, drawing a curved skinning blade. "Watch closely. I'll only show this once."
"Shouldn't we wait for Bont and the others?" Hughes asked.
Vesemir didn't even blink. "These are your kills. Not theirs. Don't talk. Watch."
He knelt, and the knife flashed.
"Drowner tongues and brains are both valuable in alchemy," he began, voice dry as sand. "Water-aspected organs. Good stabilizers. Keep volatile mixtures from exploding."
The knife opened the skin with practiced ease.
"They look similar. But you prep them differently. Very differently."
His tone never changed. Flat. Almost soothing in its dullness.
After a few minutes, Hughes was already nodding off against Aelin's side.
Fatigue crept into Aelin's limbs too. Not the sudden kind. Just the slow seep, like warm water into boots. The comedown.
"…Most people, even mages, think Witchers survive on silver and Signs," Vesemir went on. "They're wrong."
He slipped a hand into the drowner's skull. Pulled the brain free, no hesitation.
"Potions are weapons too."
"Witcher potions are brewed from spirits. Drowner brains. Mushrooms. Dandelions. Cheap stuff. Everywhere."
One word caught in Aelin's head. Wouldn't let go.
"Witcher" potions?
He frowned. "Master Vesemir... are those the only potions we use?"
"Of course not."
Aelin's shoulders relaxed a little.
That made sense. In the game, there were dozens—hundreds—of potions.
No way they'd all just vanish.
Vesemir kept talking.
"If you've got coin, sure. Go buy the fancy mage stuff. Nightvision. Strength boost. Invisibility."
The sarcasm in his voice wasn't veiled.
It was carved deep.
Aelin felt the silence stretch. But he pressed anyway. Just in case.
"So... Witchers only brew Witcher potions themselves?"
"Exactly. Simple. Reliable. That's all we need."
Aelin looked down at his hands.
His grip had tightened on the illusion charm without realizing it.
No.
This wasn't the world he remembered.
This wasn't his Witcher world.
Not anymore.