"Bang~"
The wooden door was gently closed.
In the deep darkness, Allen stood quietly behind the door for a moment.
It was only after hearing Vesemir and Claral return to their rooms that he let out a long sigh and walked over to the wooden table in the hall.
"Snap~"
A snap of his fingers.
The spark of an Igni Sign flared, lighting the candles in the room.
The dark red master set of the Wolf School hung on a coat rack. Elsa was carefully drawn from its scabbard, and a piece of soft brown deerskin cloth was used to gently wipe away the dust from the guard down along the blade.
A slightly yellowed cotton cloth, dipped sparingly in clear linseed oil, was then used to coat the entire blade.
After letting it sit for a moment, the process was repeated.
This ritual was performed three times a day. Doing it carefully could take up to half an hour.
Two swords meant an hour.
If there had been combat that day, the maintenance time would extend depending on the intensity of the battle. But no Witcher—no matter how young or newly trained—would ever neglect it.
Swords were both hard and sharp, yet fragile and delicate. If you didn't treat them with care and respect, they would "throw a tantrum" at the most dangerous and critical moment—using your blood and life as the price.
Thus, this was a mandatory lesson for every Witcher from the moment they passed the Trial of the Grasses and learned the Wolf School swordsmanship.
Of course, emergencies were an exception—unexpected battles, unconsciousness, or severe injuries. But as soon as they could move normally, every Witcher would make sure to catch up on their routine.
Or rather, precisely because one never knew when danger would strike, this habit had to be ingrained into them.
Even if it meant wasting expensive linseed oil, deerskin, and fine cotton cloth.
"Sss~ Sss~"
The cotton cloth rubbed against the silver-white blade, the faint sound of friction blending with the sound of breathing, as if a silent conversation between man and sword—creating a sense of peace and tranquility.
To be honest, the long hours spent maintaining his swords were never difficult for Allen. In fact, he enjoyed the process, using it as a time to clear his mind, free from thinking about other matters.
But tonight, he found himself unsettled.
His mind kept circling back to Claral's question.
"Are Witchers monsters?"
Vesemir and Allen didn't hesitate to answer this question at the time. They outright denied it, and with solid reasoning.
"A person born as a human, who fights for humans, and even dies for humans—how could they not be human?"
The thirteen-year-old Claral naturally accepted this logically flawless response.
But Allen and Vesemir both knew the real issue.
Claral wasn't actually questioning his origins—he was questioning society's perception of Witchers.
In the eyes of the common folk, nobles, sorcerers, and even kings across the Northern Realms…
"Are Witchers monsters?"
That was no small question.
If one followed this train of thought further, it led to an even sharper question:"Why do Witchers fight? Why do they exist?"
If the very people for whom Witchers fought, bled, and sacrificed their lives saw them as monsters and outcasts…
Then was there any reason for Witchers to fight for those who were different from them?
Clearly not.
The foundation of the Wolf School's neutrality would collapse.
The same would happen to the Griffin, Viper, and Manticore Schools.
Perhaps the Bear School, with its mercenary-like pragmatism, could survive, and the Cat School—who already saw themselves as inhuman and hunted people for coin—might even thrive.
But an organization driven solely by profit, without any belief or conviction, would inevitably fall apart over time.
It had happened before.
The Bear School's split into the Viper and Manticore Schools was likely caused by greed.
After all, profit alone was a weak foundation for an order that required its members to endure extreme suffering and constant life-threatening battles.
Just like the future of the Wolf School.
Could Vesemir and Geralt have restored the Wolf School?
Of course they could.
They had the formulas, the techniques. The Northern Realms had no shortage of orphans.
There were even plenty of sorceresses who could cast stabilizing spells for the Trial of the Grasses. And the world itself was constantly at war…
So why didn't they rebuild it?
Was it because they didn't miss the glorious past of the Wolf School?
Or did they simply enjoy the desolation and ruin of Kaer Morhen in the dead of winter?
The high mortality rate of the Trial of the Grasses was one factor, of course.
The remaining members of the Wolf School—Vesemir, Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert—were all good men.
That much was undeniable.
But at its core, the Wolf School had no foundation left for continued existence.
When the entire world saw Witchers as outcasts, hated and rejected them…
Why should Witchers fight for the world? Why should they continue to exist?
"The world doesn't need heroes—it needs professionals."
That was a lesson the future Vesemir would teach every new Witcher. But the Vesemir of today had never said such a thing to Allen.
He was still pursuing the path of an honorable Witcher…
That being said, it wasn't just the fate of the Wolf School.
The Chief of the School, deeply wounded by his "adopted son" Henselt, also seemed to be struggling with the collapse of his beliefs.
Perhaps Henselt was just the trigger.
But the murky future of the Wolf School—looming like an unseen storm—was something that their Chief must have sensed, even if only subconsciously.
"Sigh~"
Allen thought of the chief Sol, now so much more weathered and weary, and couldn't help but sigh.
Of course…
Claral hadn't thought that deeply.
Allen figured he had likely been influenced by Vesemir's recounting of Alzur's speech, or perhaps by their experiences traveling south from Kaedwen.
"Hmm… That priest apprentice from the temple must have played a big role," Allen mused, his lips curling into a knowing smirk. "Young love always makes people overly sentimental… afraid of loss…"
After all, why weren't Erni, Clay, Ice, Hughes, and Spencer asking if Witchers were monsters?
They were still too young to care.
They probably wished they were powerful monsters—capable of destroying and saving the world at the same time.
"Tsk tsk~" Allen clicked his tongue as he slid Balmur back into its scabbard, listening to the satisfying hum of the blade.
"Ah, young love… so naive and beautiful…"
Speaking of the priestesses at Melitele's temple…
"It's been a while since I've seen Lysa."
Allen stroked his rough chin, pondering for a moment.
Ever since their return from driving out the dark god, he hadn't seen her around. Lately, he had been busy hunting down the remaining necrophages, simplifying the battle roar technique, and planning the future of the Witcher Corps.
There simply hadn't been time to pay attention.
"Forget it," Allen decided. "I'll ask Ian… or Nenneke tomorrow. Hopefully, nothing's wrong."
Thinking of the mischievous old priestess, he quickly changed his mind.
"Thud, thud~"
He stepped over to the table and blew out the candle.
"Are Witchers monsters?"
It was a crucial question—one that held the key to the Wolf School's revival.
But to Allen, it wasn't difficult to answer.
Whether by choice or by the pressure of the White Frost, he was already taking action.
The people of Kaedwen might hold mixed feelings about the Wolf School. But the people of Ellander would never see Witchers as monsters.
"The Age of the Winter Wolves… it might just be the best era for Witchers."
"But…"
He sighed in the darkness.
"But what about the White Frost that follows?"
In the empty room, naturally, no one would suddenly appear to relieve his worries.
Standing quietly in the darkness for a moment, Allen shook his head and stopped thinking about a future that, for him, was still too far away.
He removed his inner armor, climbed onto the bed, and leaned his back against the carved wooden headboard, closing his eyes in a meditative posture.
"Thump~"
"Thump~"
His heart beat rapidly with a unique rhythm.
The surging blood, like a rushing river, suddenly felt "heavier."
The golden energy lingering in his blood began to emerge in specks, mixing with the four-colored magic that converged with it, rushing upward.
But then—
"Hngh~"
Allen furrowed his brows and let out a muffled groan.
That vast energy did not follow its usual path—rushing to the magic node beneath his tongue, then struggling to turn back and form a cycle.
Instead, before even reaching the magic node, it was forcefully suppressed and unwillingly pushed back.
The power of the Beast's Roar returned to his blood, and the four-element magic was absorbed into his mutated organs. Yet, his heart continued to beat with that wild, ancient rhythm…
No!
Allen raised an eyebrow.
As everything returned to its initial state, the rhythm remained unchanged, but his heart pounded with even greater force.
It seemed… angry.
The golden specks of energy seeped from his blood once more, blending with the four-colored magic. But just as they neared the magic node, they were abruptly and violently stopped again, forced to retreat.
"Swish~ Swish~"
His blood surged wildly, like the Pontar River during the flood season. But under Allen's firm control, it could only obediently accept the energy.
"Hngh!"
As the last trace of the Beast's Roar power returned to his blood, Allen let out another muffled groan.
The veins on both sides of his forehead bulged instantly.
Again!!!
Allen roared in his mind.
The power of the Beast's Roar seeped from his blood, fused with his magic, and surged toward his throat!
If Vesemir, Erni, or Claral—any of the young Witchers—had been there, they would have recognized that this scene was almost identical to when they were initiated into the Battle Roar during the day.
Only this was grander, more powerful.
Before the fusion power even reached the magic node, an eerie wind swirled inside the small wooden house.
In the other rooms, all the young Witchers who had followed Allen's orders to practice the "Way of the Battle Roar" were jolted awake by an intense tremor at nearly the same moment.
It felt as if a primordial beast—something that had lurked in the darkness long before humanity had ever set foot on the land—was watching them.
A beast baring its sharp, bloody fangs, reeking of raw death.
Vesemir's eyes snapped open, his dark golden pupils contracting into molten slits, trembling slightly.
"Allen!"
He didn't know why.
Even though danger seemed to lurk in every shadow, as if a monster was hiding nearby, the first thing Vesemir did upon opening his eyes was not to reach for his silver sword.
Instead, he turned his head toward the wall beside him.
Somehow, he instinctively knew this disturbance was caused by Allen.
Recalling the eerie presence from last night, Vesemir's expression shifted. Bracing his hands on his knees, he was about to get up and check on Allen.
But the next second—
"Yir…"
A wild, overpowering roar rang directly in his mind, not from the real world.
It stopped him in his tracks.
"Al—"
Vesemir's face suddenly changed as he bent his knees and sat back down abruptly.
Because he realized—
His "blood energy" was stirring, urging him forward.
"Allen…"
Vesemir's expression flickered uncertainly. He pressed his ear to the wall and listened to Allen's steady breathing before allowing his body's instincts to guide the blood energy.
Meanwhile, in the next room, Allen was completely unaware of the disturbances in the other chambers.
The third surge of the Beast's Roar power felt like an unstoppable tidal wave, crashing through everything in its path.
The moment it gathered in his blood, it roared and howled, indomitable and overwhelming.
After fusing with the four-element magic, it thundered forward and, in an instant, broke through the magic node beneath his tongue.
At that moment—
"Yir…"
A towering golden-furred giant appeared in Allen's mind.
Its furious roar exploded in his ears, wild and primal.
The fusion energy of "Beast Roar: Berserk" surged forth like an unstoppable flood.
Unlike before, Allen didn't have to painstakingly circulate it through his body—it now flowed on its own, completing an entire cycle in less than two minutes.
Then a second cycle… until it reached the third, his previous limit, where it slightly faltered.
But with a small push of willpower, Allen broke through again.
A warm current rushed through his limbs, filling his entire body with immense strength.
"This feeling… this feeling is…"
He could hardly contain his excitement as he opened his Witcher's Journal.
[Name: Allen]
[Health: 100%, Stamina: 850/850, Magic: 1190/1190]
[Attributes: Strength 95 (+1), Agility 79, Constitution 85, Perception 88, Mystery 119]
As expected!
His Strength stat had increased!
And not just that—as the "Berserk" power continued circulating, the numbers on his translucent status panel kept climbing.
Third cycle — Agility +1, Constitution +1…
Fourth cycle — Strength 96, Agility 81, Constitution 87…
His body was improving across the board, making him feel as if he were soaking in a scalding hot spring, nearly moaning in pleasure.
And the improvements weren't stopping.
Until…
Seventh cycle — Strength 99, Agility 84, Constitution 90.
Allen stared at his Witcher's Journal. Seeing his Strength reach 99 without any adverse effects, he finally let out a breath of relief and chuckled at himself for lacking composure.
As a child of miracles, he should naturally have miraculous traits.
An unlimited stat cap was clearly one such miracle.
But in the next second—
"Boom!"
Like a giant bell being struck, the steadily circulating berserk power suddenly slammed into an immovable barrier and came to an abrupt halt.
"Ding!"
A cold system notification rang in the Witcher's ears.
"..."
.....
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