[Monster "Drowner" Lv2 defeated!]
[Battle rewards: Base rank D; Overlevel kill +1—D+; Decapitation intimidation +3—C+; Main quest completion +3—B+]
[Final rating: B+]
[Loot acquired: Drowner's Heart Essence, Small Experience Orbs ×10, Drowner's Chest ×4]
[Main Quest completed: The Path of the Witcher (1/1 monsters slain)]
[New ability unlocked: Appraisal Lv1]
The flood of information hit Aelin like a tidal wave, crashing over him with a force that made his head spin. The system's notifications rang in his mind, each one a sharp, discordant chime—like a bell ringing too many times, too loudly, drowning out everything else.
And then, his body betrayed him.
His [Witcher's Insight] skill had drained him completely. He could barely hold himself upright before everything went black, the cold, lifeless body of the drowner becoming an accidental cushion as he crumpled to the ground.
For a long while, he just lay there, unmoving, staring into the emptiness. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, and his head throbbed painfully, as though the weight of his own thoughts was too much to bear. The stillness was suffocating, pressing down on him from all sides.
Then, after what felt like an eternity, he forced himself to his feet. It was hard to say whether the effort was physical or mental.
When his blurry vision cleared, he found Vesemir standing only a step away. His face was unreadable—cold, impassive, the expression of someone who had seen far too much to be surprised by anything.
Aelin felt something in his chest tighten. A vengeance of sorts? The thought flickered briefly, like a shadow crossing his mind.
The training yard was small—only eight or nine meters from one end to the other. If Vesemir had wanted to intervene, he would've had more than enough time. Aelin had no doubt he could've reached him before he even hit the ground.
But he hadn't.
Aelin's breath caught in his throat.
Was this some kind of test? A lesson in humility? Or something worse?
"How… did you do it?"
The voice that broke through the tension was Letho's, rough and low, tinged with disbelief. He was standing beside the decapitated corpse of the drowner, holding its severed head like some twisted trophy.
Aelin and Vesemir turned toward him, their eyes meeting the grotesque sight with mutual shock.
The weight of the moment hit him like a physical blow.
A steel sword. An apprentice. A decapitation.
The impossible had happened.
Letho's expression morphed into one of utter astonishment. His disbelief was palpable. This wasn't just an impressive feat—it was a miracle, something no one, least of all an apprentice, should have been capable of.
Aelin's heart was racing, the blood pounding in his ears. He looked down at the still-warm body at his feet, watching the blood pool and spill out, staining the earth around it. He had done this. Him. Impossible.
The witchers around them had begun to gather, their stares heavy with curiosity, shock, and perhaps a trace of envy. Aelin realized, too late, that the silence between them all wasn't just awe. It was something darker. Something questioning.
Then, as his mind scrambled for an explanation, a voice deeper than the rest of them cut through the air, steady and commanding.
"Witchers are not all the same."
The crowd parted like the sea before this voice. A path opened, and from it emerged the figure of a man who seemed to belong to the very stone and shadow of the castle. His presence was imposing, not with any overt physicality, but with the sheer weight of something ancient and inevitable.
The man's eyes were gray, like the dead sky before a storm, distant and unreadable. His dark hair fell in long strands, and his skin, pale as stone, carried the marks of time. There was something unsettling in his gaze—as though he could see every secret you kept, every thought you buried.
As he moved, the witchers around them lowered their heads in silent acknowledgment.
"First," they murmured.
Aelin's chest tightened. The First. The leader.
This man had the weight of an entire School behind him. And somehow, he was looking at Aelin—looking at him like he had just stepped into the middle of something far greater than himself.
The First's eyes briefly flicked toward Aelin, and then, without pause, he spoke again.
"In our earliest records," his voice was low, almost too quiet, "there are tales of apprentices who, after undergoing the trials, experienced... mutations."
"Mutations that gave them the Witcher's Eye."
Aelin blinked, the words catching him off guard. Witcher's Eye. He had heard the stories, of course, but to have it mentioned so casually—so matter-of-factly—made his heart thud painfully in his chest.
A Witcher's Eye? That couldn't be what…
The First turned his gaze to Letho, his expression softening just slightly. "Those who possessed this ability could see the currents of chaotic magic that protect monsters."
He nodded, almost as if confirming something Aelin hadn't even known to question.
Aelin's pulse quickened, the realization settling over him like a dark fog. Had I... awakened it?
Letho shifted, the tension in his stance evident. The disbelief hadn't faded from his eyes, but there was something new now—something darker, more contemplative. His gaze moved between Aelin and the First, like he was trying to figure out some puzzle that didn't fit together.
Aelin's mind spun. How could this be real?
The weight of the First's words pressed down on him, the responsibility of them a suffocating weight on his chest.
The First continued, his gaze now turning back to Letho, his voice carrying a quiet authority.
"Letho," he said, almost gently, "even after passing the Mountain Trial, knowledge should never stop being pursued."
Letho flinched. It was subtle, but Aelin saw it. He could almost hear the words cut into him, even though the First's tone was calm.
"Yes, First. Of course. I'll head to the archives after this," Letho's voice was tight, too eager, like a student who knew he'd been caught slacking.
Vesemir's mouth twitched slightly, the flicker of frustration almost imperceptible. He stepped forward, his gaze cold and steady.
"Apprentices," he muttered, as if the word itself was some burden. "They never stop surprising you."
Letho stiffened, his hands tightening around the severed head of the drowner as if it could shield him from Vesemir's gaze.
Aelin could feel the awkwardness in the air. The unspoken tension between them all. Then, Letho's voice broke the silence, his words aimed squarely at Vesemir.
"Vesemir," he asked, his tone deliberately casual, "was there some... deal you made with Aelin?"
The question hung in the air for a beat, and then the eyes of the other witchers were upon them, intense, searching.
Vesemir's lips pressed into a thin line. Aelin's heart sank.
Before Vesemir could answer, Aelin jumped in, his words spilling out faster than he could stop them.
"It's nothing," he said quickly, his voice a little too loud, too forced. "Just a joke."
The tension in the air didn't ease, not really. It lingered, thick and heavy, as Vesemir drew Elsa from her scabbard with deliberate slowness. The silver sword gleamed as he held it out toward Aelin. The gesture was strangely intimate, like an offering of something precious, something irreplaceable.
Vesemir's voice rang out, low and certain, his words laced with the weight of something unspoken.
"An oath, Aelin," he said. "A Witcher's oath is more binding than his sword."
The sound of his voice reverberated in the still air, echoing off the cold walls of the training yard, and for a moment, Aelin felt the truth of it sink into him like a stone settling in water.
The First watched, silent, as Aelin took the sword. The weight of it was overwhelming. It was more than a weapon; it was a symbol of everything he was about to become. As Aelin gripped it carefully, avoiding the scrape of the scabbard against the ground, the room felt smaller, the world itself feeling a little more suffocating with the responsibility it brought.
The First nodded once, and his voice was firm.
"Take it," he said. "It's yours."