Aelin avoided Vesemir's gaze like dodging a blade in the dark.
Pretending not to notice, he bowed his head and studied the ornate carvings on Elsa's scabbard, as if those etched runes held the secrets of the cosmos.
Vesemir sighed, shifting his weight as his eyes swept across the hopeful faces of the Wolf School's future.
Platinum. Crimson. Emerald.
Three sets of round cat-like eyes locked onto him with all the pressure of unspoken expectation.
"No one said a mentor had to pay out of pocket," Vesemir thought bitterly.
The odds of a second apprentice slaying a drowner with a steel sword were laughable.
But... what if?
He didn't have a second Elsa to hand out.
And breaking the oath? Even a Cat school witcher wouldn't stoop that low.
Before he could think of a way out, the First spoke.
"You can."
The voice was calm. Too calm.
"If you manage to kill a drowner with steel, the silver sword is yours."
"But there's only one sword," Sius blurted, brow furrowed. "There's three of us."
The First smiled.
"Then whoever lands the kill first gets it."
Sius opened his mouth to protest, but the others had already surged forward, jostling for position in front of Vesemir.
He exhaled, a faint trace of gratitude flickering across his face as he nodded to the First. The crisis had been neatly sidestepped. Another moment, and he might've unsheathed Letho's sword himself.
With the farce over, training resumed.
Seeing the others now focused on the arena, Aelin allowed himself to relax—barely.
Then, silently, he whispered in his mind:
"Panel."
The translucent interface unfolded before him, rows of cold, sterile system messages blinking into view.
He stared at the reward breakdown. The structure felt oddly familiar—like a post-battle screen from some MMO back on Earth.
Materials. XP pearls. A loot chest.
Cheap. Gamey. Like a budget mobile title.
He let out a soft breath.
For all its horrors, life as a corporate drone back on Blue Star had been safe—draining, but safe.
Here? In the world of witchers?
Who knew what awaited tomorrow?
A monster? A sorceress? Or a farmer's pitchfork shoved between his ribs?
Aelin shivered.
He pushed those thoughts aside and focused on the present. Whatever logic the system used to rank drowners, the reward summary painted a clear picture.
Each monster hunt was evaluated based on several criteria:
Kill confirmed? Base points.
Level disparity? Bonus.
Efficiency? More bonus.
Final loot scaled with overall score.
But—
Drowner Heart Extract?
What the hell was that good for?
Then came the pop-up.
Use Drowner Heart Extract?
Aelin blinked. Wait. Use? As in—consume?
He hesitated. For all he knew, it could melt his organs. Or turn him into a fish.
But then again... this world didn't play by Earth's rules.
He tapped "yes."
The reaction was immediate. A cold rush slid down his throat, then warmed in his gut, pulsing outward through every vein.
The ache in his limbs vanished. Fatigue dissolved like mist.
His body didn't just feel refreshed—it felt... better. Sharper.
He opened his character panel again.
Name: Aelin
Age: 13
Title: Child of Miracle
Level: 1
HP: 94%
Stamina: 54/54
Attributes:
• Strength 5.2 (+0.1)
• Agility 5.3
• Constitution 5.4 (+0.2)
• Perception 6.9
• Mystery 3.1
Special Skills:
• Monster Hunting LV1
• Appraisal LV1
Combat Skills:
• Wolf School Two-Handed Sword LV1 (0/100)
Rating: Weak. Pathetic.
His eyes widened.
Strength and constitution had increased—just a little, but enough to notice.
Only 0.3 points. But drowners were the most common beasts in this world.
Nine out of ten witchers started their careers elbow-deep in their putrid corpses.
0.3 per kill... ten kills meant 3 stat points.
And drowners? They were everywhere.
Kill twenty, thirty of them... maybe the Trial of the Mountain wouldn't seem so fatal.
That thought doused his rising excitement like a splash of freezing river water.
The trial was outside Kaer Morhen. And he couldn't leave. Not yet.
Still... tangible growth. Aelin's hand clenched.
For the first time, the trial didn't feel like a death sentence.
He turned back to the panel.
Odd. His swordsmanship hadn't gained any experience.
Was it because he'd only fought briefly?
Or could it only level through XP pearls?
The system gave no answer.
Makes sense, he thought. The original Aelin trained with a greatsword for nearly a decade and still only hit level 1. No way a single skirmish would push that further.
Shrugging, he used ten small XP pearls in succession.
Wolf School Swordsmanship: Level Up.
A faint tremor passed through his muscles. His mind stirred—memories that weren't his flitted by.
Like he'd spent years sparring under a true master, sweating through lessons, surviving brutal duels.
His body felt more aligned, his movements more precise.
He'd grown.
Level up: 2.
"Ah!"
A sharp cry broke his focus.
He looked up.
A steel sword clattered to the dirt.
The first apprentice had fallen.
Letho walked over in silence, dragging the defeated student by the collar.
The boy's face, smeared with dust and disbelief, looked like a painting of humiliation.
His right arm dangled limply—dislocated.
"Aelin..." Sius murmured, nervously scratching the ground beside him. "How... how did you do it earlier?"
Aelin was about to deflect when Vesemir's voice cut through the air.
"Next—Bont."
Aelin turned.
Vesemir was... toying with the drowner.
Not fighting. Toying.
He hadn't even drawn his sword. With only his footwork, he evaded the creature's swipes while keeping its attention locked on him.
Master witcher indeed, Aelin thought.
Then—an idea.
Appraise.
Name: Vesemir
Attributes:
• Strength: 46
• Agility: 57
• Constitution: 65
• Perception: 70
• Mystery: 41
Aelin's breath caught.
What the hell...
His lowest stat—strength—was still nine times Aelin's.
And Aelin's body wasn't average. Not anymore. After surviving the Trial of the Grasses, his physique easily surpassed that of most adults back on Earth.
And yet... he was a worm beside this man.
He scanned more witchers.
Name: Letho
• Strength: 28
• Agility: 34
• Constitution: 57
• Perception: 61
• Mystery: 15
The pattern held. Adult witchers were monsters in their own right.
Even the weakest had strength over twenty.
Aelin narrowed his eyes.
Were witchers this powerful in the game...?
And if so... how the hell did they still die to something as mundane as a farmer's pitchfork?
The thought lingered like a splinter in the mind.