Once life settled into a routine, Victor stopped asuring ti in mornings, afternoons, and nights. Instead, it jumped forward in days. Put simply: every other day he made a run to Vizima Cetery to clear out ghouls, and when he was done, he went to the Eager Thighs to wash up.
On the days he didn't go to the cetery, he took rcenary work in the swamp forest, searching for five missing villagers. First he found three sets of torn, ruined clothing near the remains of several cursed trees—proof enough that the owners had been eaten by monsters.
As for the other two villagers, after so questioning the Scoia'tael admitted they were responsible. The bodies had already been buried. Victor could only pay out of his own pocket for two new sets of clothes to trade with the elves for the old garnts they'd stripped off at the ti, then carry a total of five bundles of rags to complete the village elder's contract.
The boy had expected wailing and grief loud enough to shake the roof beams, but surprisingly, the "forr widows" only reddened around the eyes while confirming the clothing, then regained their composure and left in silence.
He went to an old friend—a bald fence—to ask what was going on, and only then did he understand: with monsters everywhere and so little room for ordinary people to survive in the wilds, a commoner's disappearance in this era was quickly treated as death. Their mourning had already been spent long before.
In truth, most of those won had already remarried last week. There was no shortage of "cheerful lumberjacks" willing to settle down in Murky Waters, and taking on a child that wasn't theirs wasn't exactly unthinkable, either.
Shaking his head at how little he'd seen of the world, Victor took a boat again the next day to finish the wolf contract. With the Scoia'tael lending a hand, he solved the problem of ten wolf pelts easily, and sent the down-on-his-luck nobleman Jean-Pierre on his way from the Murky Waters tavern in high spirits.
Victor didn't care what the man planned to do with the pelts. What mattered was the two hundred orens he'd earned, and the bit of good reputation that ca with it.
…
The pelts were sold. The wolf at was "processed" by the elves. The wolf fat he'd scraped off, anwhile, replaced dog tallow—mixed with celandine, it beca an important material in necrophage oil, which he sared onto bear traps to build his position and push his line forward.
With supplies coming in steadily, the Corion Line ant to block the ghouls' spread in Vizima Cetery had, by the apprentice's fourth night of work, advanced from the outer periter of the crypt all the way to the crypt's entrance.
The next day, after repeated assurances and a hefty reward to tempt brave fools, Victor hired a blacksmith and several workers to enter the cetery in daylight and install a solid iron gate, sealing the entryway tight. At that point, the ghoul-spread crisis in the cetery could be considered contained.
As for exploring the crypt itself, without a strong enough incentive and without full confidence, he decided he'd at least wait until Angoulê returned before even considering it.
Then there was the Rams. After taking his potions, they had to deliver. The blasting powder wasn't sothing they could buy in bulk the way they could back in Ban Ard, but they still managed to top up his Dancing Star stock a little.
His bomb-making speed also improved as his mind grew stronger—down from eight hours for two bombs, to seven hours for two.
"Taking too long" was his biggest headache with this unbelievable alchemy. Anything even slightly complex—or truly powerful—started at six hours and only went up from there. Thankfully, fine food or furniture, because of the deep, stubborn impressions they already held in his mind, could often be produced in under two hours.
Finally, regarding the alchemical ingredients for Blizzard and Thunderbolt, the Rams promised that if they spotted any signs of kikimores or endregas, they'd notify the witcher apprentice imdiately.
So the boy's life grew even easier. Every day, aside from cooking sothing delicious, drinking at the Hairy Bear, bathing at the Eager Thighs, and occasionally walking Shani ho, he threw himself into the research and experints he loved.
With such leisure, ti passed even more absurdly—leaping forward in "weeks" at a ti. And so, before Victor even noticed, the fifteen-day deadline he'd agreed on with Angoulê arrived.
…
During curfew, following the note Angoulê had pinned to the tabletop, Victor crossed silent, empty streets and ca to the embanknt by the city wall. According to her ssage, choosing this place for the talk would keep prying ears away.
Under the starlight, the girl wore armor and carried her sword. Arms crossed, she leaned against the battlents and stared up at the sky. Hawk Catherine stood nearby, proud and alert. From a distance, girl and hawk looked like they'd stepped out of a painting.
Unfortunately, in Victor's eyes the condition for that "dashing scene" was simply idiotic.
"Are you an idiot?" he blurted. "Dragging soone out to the water in the middle of the night to talk—if you want to avoid prying ears, we've got basents!"
The spell broke instantly. Angoulê stomped up to him, cheeks puffed out, and glared in silence.
Victor couldn't help laughing. "So what did you actually drag out here to say?"
"The fifteen days are up. I've investigated everything about Mikul, and now I'm reporting to the captain," she declared loudly.
Her brown eyes weren't darting around like they usually did. Instead, they were bright and steady. There was a firmness in them—an eye that had gone out, asked questions, found answers, and was prepared to take responsibility for what she was about to say and do.
But for Victor, because Mikul had been reassigned to guard another gate and he hadn't seen him after several trips through the South Gate, his mind had already shoved the man into so forgotten corner.
Only now did he realize fifteen days had truly passed. He yawned.
"So it's that business. Fine, fine—Angoulê Corion, begin your performance. Let's hear the tale of this 'Mr. Mikul'!"
Angoulê ignored him. For those peculiar phrases he tossed out every ti—then grinned to himself like an idiot, thoroughly pleased—so Bell Town slang from east of Zerrikania, she'd already built up a considerable resistance.
Catherine stood steady on her bracer, her expression solemn. Girl and hawk stared at him.
Embarrassed under their gaze, Victor put away his flippant look and attitude. "All right. I'm ready to hear your report," he said again—this ti in a much more serious tone.
"I'll start with the conclusion. My view hasn't changed. I'm going to eliminate him," she said flatly, with absolute certainty.
Victor sniffed once. "Understood. Then let hear what you found—and the plan you settled on."
Angoulê went quiet for a mont to organize her thoughts.
"Mikul was born in the outskirts by the East Gate. He's lustful, a gambler, and lazy. But he's widely respected out there, because being a city guard gives him authority. The locals generally believe he's worthy of respect—one of the community's 'distinguished citizens.'"
Victor rembered being stopped outside the city gates. The Eternal Fire priest had seed to demand that he win the approval of several distinguished townsfolk. If he'd actually gone to do that… would he have run into Mikul earlier?
Angoulê continued. "There's a woman in the outskirts who claims she's a witch. After actually speaking with her, she's just an herbalist nad Abigail. She said a woman called Ilsa was raped by Mikul. And based on her testimony, I found Ilsa's remains in a crypt outside the city—she couldn't bear the humiliation and poisoned herself."
"Hold on." Victor frowned and cut her off. "Who told you to go into a crypt? Don't you know there've been ghouls lately?"
Angoulê covered her mouth, awkward. The captain had ordered her not to go anywhere dangerous. Even if the ghoul trouble was inside the city cetery, an outside crypt couldn't exactly be called safe.
"Uh… hardly anyone's died out there lately. I went down during the day, I checked first and didn't sense any danger. And there really weren't any monsters inside…" she explained softly.
Victor waved his hand for her to continue. What was done was done—any reckoning could wait until after he'd heard the whole report.
"The next victim was Hela. They say she was the daughter of an Eternal Fire priest. After she was gang-raped by Mikul and others, she beca pregnant. But the priest believed the attackers' story—that his daughter had been indecent and had tempted them. In fury, he cast her out, letting her drift on the streets."
"…," Victor said nothing. He rembered that priest's stiff, old-fashioned face—it really was possible he'd choose his pride over his own daughter. And then Victor thought of Tomira in White Orchard, and the pain of being driven away by your own parents…
"What happened to Hela afterward?" Victor couldn't stop himself from asking.
Angoulê shook her head. "No idea. She was thrown out with a child in her belly—who knows where she could go? I suspect she died out there in the wilds…"
"The next was…"
"And the one after that was…"
Angoulê spoke for a long ti. Victor listened patiently. When it was all put together, the conclusion was this: Mikul was strongly suspected in multiple cases of group sexual assault, but it was all passed around by word of mouth and he was never formally convicted—because most of the won he targeted were the kind who feared for their reputations and didn't dare make it public.
And the thod Angoulê had prepared to send him to his grave was tailored to his habits. A gambler coming ho late at night, "slipping" and falling into the water, was perfectly normal.
After hearing it, Victor finally understood why Angoulê had chosen to make her report on the embanknt.
Because if Victor nodded yes, then at this hour they could leave imdiately and finish it.
He thought for a mont, then said, "Angoulê, I don't have your instincts. So I've never approved of using 'intense hatred' as a 'motive for action.' But I have seen, more than once, how your instincts can work."
"So half a month ago, I allowed you to investigate. And this result is obvious—if the world loses Mikul, it won't get worse. It might even get slightly better. And your plan is complete."
"So… I agree…"
"You may go carry it out. Now."
Angoulê's face flashed with shock. She'd expected she would have to explain much more to persuade the captain to let her strike. She hadn't expected him to agree as soon as he'd heard her account.
"But I have to warn you," Victor said, his expression stern. "The Phantom Troupe are rangers—and only rangers. Don't start believing you represent justice. We're not any closer to justice than Mikul is."
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