The Witcher: The Alchemist Who Walked the Witcher’s Road Chapter 118 118: When You Stare at Cleavage, The Cleavage St

The day after the Glory Lane "inspiration tour," on a bright afternoon, inside the Seven Cats Inn a few miles east of Novigrad's Farcorners—

Bang!

A man reeled backward as blood sprayed from his nose. Two thugs hooked their arms under his and held him up. The face that had once looked vicious was now drenched in terror.

"S-sorry, my lord! I didn't know he was your friend!"

Boslaer didn't bother listening to the excuses.

Thud!

Another punch sank lovingly into the man's gut and dropped him to his knees, vomiting onto the floor.

Crack-crack—Boslaer rolled his neck. To him, this level of "instruction" was barely the warm-up. The unforgettable part ca later.

But when Victor lifted a hand to signal that this was enough, Boslaer had the thugs haul the limp "lucky man" upright and delivered the final lesson—more threat than sermon.

The Seven Cats Inn was a dark, battered place that drew a notoriously ugly clientele. If word hadn't reached them that the dwarven smith Fergus had been detained, Victor wouldn't have co here at all.

Victor stared at the dwarf smith, expression flat, saying nothing—until Fergus finally couldn't take it and lowered his head, guilt written all over him.

Truth was, Victor wasn't that angry. Fergus could be a little greedy and his horizon wasn't exactly wide, but he still had a soft streak that pushed him to help people. Otherwise he couldn't have partnered with Yoana for so long.

The real culprit was the short-bearded dwarf beside them—the one they'd seen two days ago when they entered the city, wrapped in a black headscarf and crying by the roadside. Right now his face was a ssy blend of joy, embarrassnt, and fear.

Joy—because the problem had, undeniably, been solved.

Fear—because the solution involved the underworld.

And embarrassnt—because embarrassnt was what you got when joy and fear had a child together.

The short version was this: two days ago, the short-bearded dwarf had gambled here, lost an important docunt belonging to his employer, and ended up sobbing helplessly on the street—where the Phantom Troupe happened to spot him.

And Fergus, out of solidarity for a fellow dwarf, couldn't stop thinking about it. Two days later he ca to help, got talked into "negotiating" with the other side, and was promptly kept here. Which forced Victor to make a trip with Boslaer to "pay the ransom."

Victor turned his head away, not even bothering to say anything to the short-bearded dwarf. On one side was a man who gambled, lost, and tried to wriggle out of paying; on the other was a seasoned cheat who made a living rigging dice. If this was a contest in being rotten, the short-bearded dwarf technically won—but only by a narrow margin.

All you could really say was that, this ti, he'd gotten lucky. He'd dragged Fergus—Victor's employee—into the ss, and in doing so had accidentally summoned so very strong, very effective help.

Victor patted Fergus on the shoulder in a brief show of reassurance, then left at once. The job of scolding or "educating" the dwarf could be handed off to Angoulê and Yoana. A boss's job was to solve the problem and keep his hands clean enough to still look like the good one.

Besides, Victor didn't have ti to waste. He needed to get back into the city and change—today's main event was performing poetry for Alonso and Alonso's friends.

…

As it turned out, what you wore didn't matter at all.

Everyone knew that, when most people bathed, they didn't wear clothes—so worrying about outfits inside a bathhouse was aningless.

Sigismund's Bathhouse, run under the na Sigi Reuven, was the most luxurious bathhouse in Novigrad. It preserved elven extravagance and refined taste to the fullest: an open space where over a hundred people could bathe together and socialize in a dozen different ways.

Today, the bathhouse was "closed for the day." Closed for the day aning: the whole day.

In the changing room, Victor slid his steel sword into an oak locker and pulled off his shirt.

"About the Seven Cats business… thanks, Boslaer."

"Don't ntion it. It's my duty—you're Mister Alonso's guest now," the white-haired elf replied, stripping off his trousers.

Bare like that, Boslaer's body was solid muscle and riddled with scars. You could tell he'd survived plenty of fights that were ant to be fatal.

Victor was built too—clean blocks of muscle—but aside from the four scars on his face, his front was almost pristine.

"You finally look like a proper bard," the elf said, speaking toward a full-length bronze mirror as he tugged his hair tie loose and let the ponytail fall. "When you're dressed, it's hard to imagine. When I first t you, I nearly thought you were a battlefield sellsword."

Victor only smiled.

The manservant in the corner, Happen, cut in smoothly. "Mister Victor is not only a Dragonborn Bard. He is also a strong sellsword, an apprentice witcher, and Vizima's fad 'drowner killer.'"

Happen—Sigi Reuven's servant—was bald and beardless, with a double chin and a pale, soft, harmless look to him. His voice, however, was thin and sharp, almost unnervingly so.

Victor glanced at the eunuch and raised an eyebrow. Figures. A spymaster's people had already dug his life up until it squeaked.

Sigi Reuven—forr head of Redanian intelligence, forr royal adviser. In the past, he and Philippa Eilhart had effectively sidelined Radovid V and steered Redania from the shadows.

Until power struggles turned them into enemies. When the sorceress sent assassins after him, he fled to Novigrad, changed his na, and went to ground.

Victor's past-life mories hadn't forgotten the bathhouse owner's brilliant scenes. With a little ntal filing, he confird what he'd once half-forgotten: Sigi Reuven's real na was Sigismund Dijkstra.

Victor accepted the towel Happen handed him and wrapped it around his waist, covering his little Victor. Then he and Boslaer followed Happen into the main bathhall.

…

High ceilings. Carved beams. Painted ornantation.

In the vast space, the central pool was about the size of a tourney yard. Around it sat eight dium pools partitioned by wooden screens, each big enough for roughly six people to splash and play in the water together.

The sign outside said CLOSED, but this was clearly a private booking. Laughter and flirtation floated through the steam—n and won mixed freely, the whole place bright with naked skin.

To emphasize the obvious: almost nobody wore clothing in a bathhouse. So n kept towels around their waists, but more didn't bother. Most of the won didn't bother at all.

Led inward by fully dressed Happen, Victor naturally felt countless eyes lock onto him. Like Nietzsche said, when you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back.

By the sa logic, when you stare at cleavage, the cleavage stares back.

And there was a lot of it—every kind imaginable, in every shape and size, high and low, soft and firm.

With all that attention drilling into him, Victor kept his expression perfectly calm… and stood at attention in a respectful salute.

Deeper inside, in a private VIP room, the Dragonborn Bard saw two n waiting at the doorway—both distinctive, both strongly built, each wearing only a towel.

The five of them faced one another through the drifting steam. Silence held for a beat.

Then Happen smiled, neither warm nor cold, and pointed first to the dwarf.

"Cleaver's man—Umutai, a rabid dog. He likes the sound a saw makes when it cuts through a human body."

Then Happen pointed to the other: dark-skinned, with blue striping tattooed from the corner of his eye to the tip of his ear, and more ink covering him in dense patterns that scread foreign lands.

"The Beggar King's guard—Babu Tabard, a brave warrior from Zerrikania.

If you make an enemy of him, keep your eyes on his saber at all tis. Blink once, and the floor will be painted with entrails without warning.

Of course, there's no need to be afraid. We're all unard today."

Behind them, the bathhouse continued to ring with laughter and splashing. Victor offered a polite smile, utterly at ease.

Finally, Happen waved a hand to present the boy himself.

"Victor of Bell Town, east of Zerrikania—Dragonborn Bard, and today's featured perforr."

Umutai crossed his arms and looked Victor up and down. "You've got a warrior's body. Wasting it on being a bard."

He stepped aside from the doorway and said no more.

Babu's eyes, however, were sharp as drawn steel. He spoke in a low, unpleasant voice.

"Strange. I've never heard of any Bell Town."

Victor hadn't even had ti to answer before Boslaer spoke.

"Babu Tabard… are you questioning Mister Alonso?"

The white-haired elf's voice carried naked killing intent. If either of them had a weapon, they would've drawn on the spot.

After a few seconds of eye contact, the saber warrior dipped his head and stepped back.

"No. I'm only saying I haven't heard of it."

Happen shrugged. "If no one has further objections… then please."

And with that, the eunuch pushed open the ornate, heavy wooden door of the VIP room.

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