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Chapter 39 — Novigrad (2) (Edited) (Public)
🕑 Added 2024-07-06 05:16:10 +0000 UTCGuest: Oh, yeah, about Circuits. Leo’s Circuits follow the standards for Modern Magi which are weaker than what ancient human had, while the Body Branch Parameters are calculated based on Servants. It’s my way of balancing the two since Magecraft is incredibly versatile.
Triss exceeded all expectations.
Based on a magical simulation of my physiology, the Spell could accurately replicate the aging process down to the year, complete with an option for facial hair to boot!
After about a week, I managed to track down Phillip’s daughter—Tamara ‘Tammy’ Strenger, who was drinking with the local witch hunters at the time in hope of gaining their assistance.
As per our agreement, I escorted her home to see her parents, and the trip was, thankfully, not derailed by any unexpected, unwelcomed visitors this time.
After extorting more of the Baron’s hard-earned coins, I went to confront the maid, only to learn that not only was she responsible for poisoning my drink, she was the one who told Anna about the Crones… Apparently, the maid used to live in a village near Crookback Bog, which, while relatively more sane than the Crone Cultists of Downwarren, was unfortunately destroyed by a wandering Fiend.
This tragic event drove her and her siblings to Crow's Perch, where life has been anything but easy.
Desperate for help, the maid tried to seduce me, and when that failed, she turned to praying.
First, she prayed to the Gods, and was answered by naught but indifference.
Thus, she turned to the ‘Goddesses’, whom she knew would assist her… For a price, that is.
It just so happened Weavess was nourishing a major blood grudge against me.
All the dots just connected from then on…
Explains how Anna Strenger, who was essentially a sheltered lady, came to know about the Crones; how Weavess managed to spike my drinks—an impossible feat since the steady flow of Od Familiars require to operate couldn’t have possibly evaded [Mimir’s Eye].
The revelation, unfortunately, puts me in a bit of a pickle: “What should I do with you?”
Her actions almost got Ciri and I killed.
Allowing her to walk away without any punishment is impossible, yet I cannot burden the Baron with four more orphans.
This is a trying time; paying off his men is difficult enough.
Wealthy as he is, his resources are not limitless.
“Please, please!”
The maid crawls towards me, clinging to my leg, all jittery from crying. “Sir Mage, please spare me! I did wrong, I know I did wrong, but my siblings—they shan’t survive the winter, not without me!”
I want to kill her, I will not lie.
What she did was completely unwarranted…
Even I am not that fucking petty.
“She’s lying! The wench’s lying—!”
Behind me, the Baron bristles, and honestly? I can’t blame him.
She’s mostly responsible for Anna Strenger’s insanity after all. “Phillip—”
But, the maid’s not lying, not unless she somehow managed to resist the subliminal message I hammered dozens of times into her mind.
“Don’t yer ‘Phillip’ me! If not for her—”
“Phillip, please.”
I interrupt, glaring at him with such intensity it puts the shiver in the Red Baron.
Turning to the maid, I blink. “What shall I do with you? What punishment do you think you deserve?”
“I- I—” She stutters, terrified.
Then, to both my and the Baron’s surprise, the maid draws a rusty knife from her pouch and rests the blade against her tongue. My hand catches her wrist before she can slice off the appendage, wrenching the weapon free from her hand.
“My sinful tongue should be cut off; my poisonous hands left to serve until my death.” The maid sniffles, explaining with a calm—a decisiveness I had not expected from her. “I will slave away until I die to pay off this debt if need be, the Gods be my witnesses!”
“What you did, you did out of malice. I should have your head for that,”
My words seem to drain what little strength she has as she collapses in a heap.
“But on account of your siblings, let’s do it your way.” Fearfully, she takes up the knife, likely contemplating whether to take a shot at my life or not, then in one smooth motion slices her tongue off, sobbing to herself as blood pools in her palm.
“Every year, I’ll return and if I find that you’ve gone against your promise, I will skin you alive and bleed you to death, understood?”
Though the Baron doesn’t look pleased with the punishment and expresses his fear of something similar happening again, it’s nothing [Hypnotization] can’t fix. The maid’s a normal human with no mental defenses, all it takes is me associating betrayal with the same terror she’s feeling and a deep sense of shame; plus installing a tiny, teeny kill-switch in case ever does anything she herself considers betrayal to the Strengers and voila!
“Use this opportunity to show your daughter you’ve changed. Talk to her. She might not understand right away, but…”
Later that evening, after drinking with the soldiers, I spot Tamara stumbling into the courtyard, looking lifeless.
Looks like the Baron took my advice.
She sits silently in the corner of the clearing, her eyes dark and conflicted.
I did basically rob her old man…
“Dammit,” I think, as I take a seat next to her. Awkwardly, I ask, “You doing alright?”
“…Yeah.”
“Do you need anything? A glass of water or—”
“That.” She points at my cup of beer. “Give me that.”
I patiently wait for her to gather her thoughts. After a heavy, loud sigh, she speaks. “You’re a Mage, right? Keeper of Secrets? Seeker of the Truth? Can I ask you something?”
“You’re giving me too much credit, but go on.” I reply.
“What do you do when your whole perspective on life has suddenly changed? Up is down, right is left now.” She asks, uncertain… Afraid.
“Nothing.” I answer truthfully.
“That’s it, nothing?” Chuckling, Tamara swings her leg, the motion seizing midair, before dropping down.
“If everything you believe has been turned upside-down, you shouldn’t do anything. Any decision you make under such turmoil is likely to be reckless and most likely detrimental in the long run. So, just sit, reflect, absorb the information, and work around it…”
I pause before adding, “Or, you know, just cover everything up with humor.”
“That’s actually good advice.” For some reason, Tamara seems genuinely surprised.
Not that I don’t get why, but I’m choosing to be offended anyway.
“With your personality, I was expecting something like drink beer, sleep it off, or whatever.”
Snorting, I gasp and feign outrage. “What, me? No way! That’d be terribly irresponsible!”
Tamara’s hands tremble as she nervously pats her knees. “I’ve always wondered… How comes I look nuthin’ like Phillip.”
“I don’t think resembling Phillip is something to aspire to.”
I say, attempting to divert the course of the conversation to a more humorous aspect.
Unfortunately, Tamara sees right through me. “You know what I meant,” She says, her voice cracking; forcefully injected with calm. “You’re a Mage, is there—”
Finally, the girl breaks down, arms wrapped tightly around herself. “Is there a way to be sure?”
“Do you really want to know? Does Phillip?” I ask, my heart heavy.
Most men would crave such certainty, while others would choose to burry their head in the sand, clinging to the illusion of fatherhood.
Our dear Baron, sadly, falls into the latter category.
A fool, many would declare, but I pity the aging, drunken sot.
Knowing the fate that awaits him in the Game, I can’t in good conscience perform such a test without his explicit verbal request.
If Tamara Strenger is revealed to be Tamara No-Name, the shock could destroy Phillip, and I would share the blame.
“What if the test reveals he isn’t your father?” I ask. “What then?”
Tamara’s voice is barely a whisper. “I… I don’t know. But doesn’t he deserve the truth? Don’t I?”
“Phillip also has the right to not exercise that right.” I say gently. “And he won’t. Don’t push him, because I’ll have to part of the blame if he does something awful to himself.”
“Won’t he?” Tamara whispers.
“If he desired this knowledge, he would have sought it out long ago. Some stones are better left unturned.”
I linger for a while, engaging in lighthearted banter until a glimmer of her usual spirit returns. Then, I hurriedly make my excuses and depart.
There are other matters demanding my attention, like the temporary Workshop I’ve set up in Novigrad.
The ride back to the not-so-free city takes up the better part of a day.
At one point, I even find myself carrying the horse in my arms.
I couldn’t just abandon her in the wild, and she was moving far too slowly.
Judging from the whites of her eyes, she doesn't seem to appreciate the ride though.
I never knew horses could side-eye someone, but apparently they could! You learn new things every day.
Extending a peace offering, I mutter, nails grazing the mane on her neck, “Truce?”
The mare haughtily takes my gift, then swiftly covers my face in slobbery kisses.
Disgusting... Disgustingly adorable.
Forget cats and dogs, horse is the new trend, people! Get with the program.
Of course, unlike me, the rest of Novigrad is not in such good a mood.
Security has ramped up immensely.
It has to be, given the hundreds of witch hunters and Redanian soldiers I have taken out and stripped of their dignity by relieving them of their armor over the past month.
I’ve stashed the entire collection in a section of the collapsed sewer tunnel.
Once dismantled, those materials may prove invaluable for me in the future. Raw resources are scarce on Earth now… Unclaimed mines in particular.
Of course, as per custom, I send the soldiers back to Radovid, making them dance until they’re sweating their balls off.
It’s probably the most hilarious thing to see the Mad Dog lose his composure.
Be it day or night, I force the King of Redania to endure humiliation like never before.
By making a mockery of the enemy side, I can significantly erode their morale.
Once the ideology of the Eternal Fire and the Mad Dog’s name have been thoroughly dragged through the mud, I’ll destroy both.
They’ll make a comeback… It is inevitable, but it’ll take them a long time—decades, perhaps? Centuries if I’m lucky.
Furthermore, why do the deed myself when I can kill him with a borrowed knife?
Leading the mare back to the stable, I make my way to Triss’ hideout, offering the elderly couple a half-hearted wave as I dash up the stairs.
“You tryin’ to tear down our house or what? Keep it down, brat!”
“Sorry!” I shout casually, vaulting over the handrail to find Triss unpacking a pouch from her waist. “Triss!”
Startled, the Sorceress spins around, her hand to her chest, and greets me with a weary smile. “Have you seen Ciri?”
“You only have eyes for her?” The Sorceress teases, hoping to elicit a reaction from me no doubt. Fortunately, one of the perks of being an actor in a Ranger franchise is skin as thick as the Great Wall of China. That kind of low-level mental attack was never going to affect me.
“I have something to discuss with her. You know where she is?”
“She went to the local smith—Hattori, I believe his name was? Done a couple of jobs for him in the past.”
“Maybe I’ll catch up to her there.” With a destination in mind, I run downstairs again.
“Leo!” Triss’ sharp cry halts me in my track. Turning, I grab the handbook she has tossed in my direction midair.
Calling it a notebook is giving it too much credits.
It’s just a stack of parchments tied together by a string.
“This is…?”
“My research on the Witcher Trials. I’m trusting you to handle it responsibly.” The Sorceress replies, with a pointed reminder. As if I need one... There's no way I'm not going to squeeze, abuse and exploit the shit our of the Trials.
It will come in handy one day, I’m sure.
Now I’m starting to regret not leaving Whoreson alive… Could have used him and his men as test subjects.
Oh well, this is Novigrad; there’s no shortage of sinners for me to pick and choose from.
The streets of Novigrad are crowded as usual, but the tense atmosphere lingers like a curse.
Everyone’s giving everyone else strange, suspicious glances, while the witch hunters can be seen breaking down doors every building apart in search of the mysterious ‘Mind-Render of Novigrad’… When dear Ms. Merigold heard about the commotion I caused, she decided to take advantage of it.
To put it simply, I am the distraction that allows Mages, herbalists, and every person of mystical science to move freely within the city for a few hours.
It puzzled me at first why the Mages were being so chicken-shit given the immense power they could wield—as demonstrated by Yennefer’s shields and Triss’ literal rain of meteorites in the Battle of Kaer Morhen—but then I remember who they are.
Not just anyone can be invited to the Lodge.
These two are exceptional even among other Sorceresses—freaks with decades of experience and knowledge to rely on.
Meanwhile, most Mages without a teacher or formal education have to figure things out on their own or purchase tomes written by other Mages at great expense.
Of the entire population, maybe two or three can perform that fancy [Gate] Spell the Lodge loves to flaunt so much, but their version is so unstable the Gate will visualize one place and drop them in another.
And then there’s the issue of natural talent.
Most Mages I’ve encountered while accompanying Ciri on Triss’ behalf are barely better than Shinji Matou, which is a nicer way of saying ‘magically talentless and will never amount to anything in the practices.’
While Triss and Ciri shine like stars to [Mimir’s Eye], these Mages are barely any brighter than the average human.
Some of the persecuted also happen to be healers and alchemists who only tinker with magical objects and ingredients; they have not the ability to enact Mysteries.
Based on my estimation, considering Novigrad’s size and its population density, the actual number of Mages might round up to 200 at best. There probably used to be more, but… Well, then the burning happened. Powerful as Mages could be, they are just as susceptible to poison; blades and arrows.
“How long will this nightmare continue?!”
Ears perked, I carefully listen to the conversations happening around me.
“They took my family savings while investigating! How will we live now? How’re they different from the Mages?! At least them, we could reason with!”
The man to him hushes. “Shut it, yer bloody fool! Do you want to climb up the pyre next?!”
It’s as I expected.
The witch hunters and the Cult are essentially ragtag militias; their ranks are even less disciplined than the Baron’s men.
With such power thrust into their hands, how can they possibly resist the temptations? Although goodwill is cheap, good publicity is essential for any governmental body.
With their reputation being dragged through the mud day by day, it’s but a matter of time before conflict arises.
The Cult, the hunters, even Redania may present themselves as shining beacons, but actions speak louder than words.
Public approval for all three is plummeting by the second. The only way to salvage the situation would be to stop these unwarranted searches, but doing so would significantly weaken Radovid’s position—making him look weak, and the Mad Dog can’t afford that. His is a Kingdom ruled by fists and steels, the tinniest sign of weakness and his own people may turn on him.
To be stuck between a rock and a hard place… I really don’t envy his position.
He can only charge ahead in hope of catching me, then stabilize the situation afterwards, but as every soul in Novigrad can see, he’s having troubles with the ‘catching’ part.
Novigrad can simmer for a few more weeks. Once Triss secures the ships, Radovid’s head will be ripe for the taking.
My gaze snags on a head nearly as white as the Einzbern’s waiting outside
A long shot, perhaps, but maybe I can finagle an upgrade for my Swordspear. Looks like a detour to the Redanian Runewright is in order. And maybe a little something for Zireael while I’m at it. Ciri can be in charge of choosing.
“Leo, meet Hattori. He’s the local smith.”
“Charmed!”
I wave at the smith.
After waiting for Ciri to discuss Ziraeal’s maintenance, I summon Senza Esitazione and offer the weapon to the stunned elf.
He gasps, covers his mouth, then gasps again as he pokes at the Mystic Code.
“Which marvellous, splendid hands make this beauty?”
“No idea… A ruler gifted it to me.”
Unfortunately, Hattori claims he cannot work on the weapon; claims he’s not skilled enough.
Shame… Oh, well, the Mystic Code’s perfect as it is.
Grabbing a thin rapier off the table, I ask the smith to pack it up.
Ciri herself looks surprised I’d make a purchase, but I’m not buying it for me. With Zireael out of commission, she’s going to need another blade for self-defense. “Come back in three days.” Kicked out, Ciri and I begin our way back to the hideout.
This conversation is going to require her inputs as well.
It doesn’t take the two long to realize what I’m trying to do.
“You want to pit the Hunt against Radovid?”
Triss is naturally the first to address the elephant in the room.
“Why waste the effort when we can make our enemies kill each other?” I shrug, grinning menacingly.
With the two forces distracted, Triss can get her Mages and sail off into the sunset, Redania and, ideally, the Hunt will be weakened by the conflict, while I get to sip on a mug of beer and enjoy the show. Only problem is: “What do you say, she-witcher? Up for a little mischief?”
“Just a little?” Ciri grins cockily, forearm slung casually over her knee.
On the sideline, a Sorceress snorts teasingly, arms crossed. “All this tension, will you two just shag already?”
“Triss!” The Witcheress half-laughs, half-yells in reproach.
That evening, I took a quick trip to my Workshop, with Ciri tagging along, curious to compare Triss’s setup with mine. She will be disappointed. My Workshop is quite bare—just a chalkboard, a desk, and a few cupboards for storage.
“It’s… Nice.”
Chuckling, I shrug. “You don’t have to sugarcoat it—place sucks.” Never felt the need to decorate or fill up my apartment with trash and useless things. My living space has always been quite Spartan, one might say.
“What are you working on?”
Deflecting, the Witcheress points at the board which I’ve covered with tiny calculations.
“It’s a Spell, three that I’m trying to cobble together actually,”
I explain.
“I call the first one [Kinetic Theft], the second [Energy Conversion], and the third [Energy Storage].”
“What do they do?” I ask.
“The first drains the energy from motion,” I begin. It will soften the impact, but I’m aiming for more than just another defensive Spell.
And since there’s no feasible way to contain ‘kinetic energy’, I need to transform it to another type.
By definition, kinetic energy is the motion itself and thus can’t be boxed up or stored.
However, converting it to electricity or heat to be stored? That’s easily doable. Numerous machines utilize kinetic energy; it's literally the cornerstone of the modern world with a large base of data for me to work with.
“The second converts that motion into heat or electricity—”
“Electricity?” She interjects.
“Lightning essentially,” I elaborate. “The third is more of an Enchantment than a Spell.”
Although I have no idea what the Runic Formulae the Tohsaka use to store Od looks like, I know enough about the process that I can turn a gem into a storage for the converted energy. “From which I can release the energy in either form—heat or electricity.” There are problems though, because there always are.
She nods thoughtfully. “Sounds complicated… Have you tested it yet?”
“No.” Sighing, I turn to the board. “It’s only theoretical at this stage. I’ve been running simulations and small-scale experiments, but the Spell’s not yet at the point where it can be effectively used in combat. Both the Absorption and the Conversion need to be tuned for more efficiency. Currently, only a quarter of a strike can be absorbed, and the Conversion loses about 70% of the energy.”
Arms crossed in front of my chest, I gesture at the last few calculations.
“Charging the battery also loses around 24% or more of what remains in seven out of ten experiments. The other three preserve up to 30% to 38%. I’m trying to figure out what’s causing the numbers to fluctuate so much,”
I add wryly. Of course, I could pre-load the ‘battery’ beforehand or slowly charge it up during the fight like an Ultimate move, but the efficiency really needs to be improved sooner rather than later.
“Have you consulted with Triss?”
Chuckling awkwardly, I scratch my head. “Our ways of using Magecraft differ too much.”
While there are certainly many similarities, her Magic System is still half-stuck in the Age of Heroes, while my method has fully transitioned to the Contemporary Era.
“Magic’s complicated, huh?”
“Do you wanna learn more about the Elder Blood?”
I’m curious about her Sorcery Trait as well, just didn’t want to ask lest she gets unsavory thoughts.
“Should you not focus on what you’re doing first?”
“Shouldn’t you concentrate on your current task first?”
“When I hit dead ends, I prefer to switch gears. It helps break the tunnel vision and still lets me be productive.” I reply honestly, reaching for a vial and handing it to her. “Just a drop, please."
She hesitates, then reluctantly does as instructed, cutting a thin line on her finger.
“As expected…”
A glance and I can tell it operates using the Old System—Miracles, in other word.
Phantasmal Species possess inherent abilities that they can wield instinctively.
While they can refine and enhance these powers through practice, this process doesn’t necessitate any intellectual grasp of the underlying principles.
It's akin to muscle training for them… Just as it should be for Ciri.
Some Mages have these too—it’s what referred to as Sorcery Traits.
Mystic Eyes and lineage-linked, inheritable Noble Phantasm similar to Bazett’s can also be put under this category albeit loosely.
“What’s the diagnosis, healer?”
“It’s an issue of usage.”
I reply, putting the vial back on the shelf and hoping she won’t ask for it again.
Thankfully, Ciri doesn’t.
Perhaps I can infuse the droplet in the Emiya Crest when I finally acquire the latter.
“I haven’t had many opportunities to hone it.” She admits.
It’s completely understandable, given the army of elves hounding the Witcheress every time she so much as [Blinks].
It’s… Strange that she even feels the need to clarify though. “My Workshop’s available to you if you would like. Not today though, I need to experiment with different Bounded Fields—see which can contain all the ripples and distortions your Sorcery Trait causes.”
Which is probably what the navigators use to pinpoint her location.
Blocking whatever signals the Elder Blood releases during usage should be achievable; it’s just a matter of the right materials and time. “Really? You’d do that for me?”
“Why not?” I shrug, taking my seat and projecting another for her. [Projection] is so much easier to use in this Universe. “Your Sorcery Trait’s fascinating. I bet other Mages would pay good coins just to see you use it.”
“Is it?” Ciri leans against the desk rather than taking a seat, her fingers tapping out an odd rhythm on the surface. “Is it more fascinating than me?”
“It’s the ability to manipulate and mess with the fabrics of the Universe,” I respond, starting to work on the Bounded Fields. "I'd assume it’s more fascinating than most people and things.”
Catching a sigh, followed by chuckles beside me, I see her hand leaves the desk.
“You’re quite the charmer, aren’t you? Guess I’ll leave you to your work then.”
I even detect a hint of resentment in her tone. Odd… “Wait, were you flirting with me?”
“You’re the Mage, Leo, run simulations on it!” Playfully, Ciri replies.
As I watch her retreating figure disappear, I scratch the back of my head.
Might’ve gotten tunnel-visioned again. “Ah, well…”
Romance can wait.
For now, I have the Witcher Trials to dissect,
A Bounded Field to create, and a faulty, experimental Spell to figure out, none of which will be easy.
— [Infinity] —
Scouring the sewers for the third time this week, Triss sighs.
She never thought she’d return to a life of hiding and scurrying in the sewer like a rat just to get by, but here she is and there’s very little she can do to alter the situation.
Abandoning her people was never an option, and she doubts she can change Radovid’s mind, especially after what Philippa ‘allegedly’ did to him and his family.
Who’s she kidding? Philippa absolutely did everything she was rumored to have done… The woman was about as ruthless as she was ambitious.
If anything, Triss was more surprised that’s the full extent of her crimes.
Even if she could, what difference would it make? The snowball is already rolling.
With or without Radovid, the Cult of the Eternal Fire will continue to gain momentum.
She has witnessed such mass hysteria numerous times over the years and understands that the chaos will eventually subside.
But Mage-kind must survive until then, whatever the cost.
A sudden chill snaps the Sorceress out of her contemplation.
Spinning around, she throws up her hands, a wall of fire between them as a soldier stumbles into view—his posture rigid, and his actions all unnaturally stiff. He’s sick, she realizes. “What is it that you want?”
“Me- Message…” The words escape his lips a tortured rasp, ripped from his vocal cords.
Though cautious, the Sorceress allows the tension to drain from her appendages; hands lowering, but still bathed in dancing flame.
“Speak.”
Comments
Ano Nymous
Took a bit of time... I'm editing previous chapters. Cut out certain parts so the pacing doesn't feel sluggish.
Hoang Nguyen Bui
Bro is back!
