The following morning, the first rays of sunlight filtered through the thick foliage, casting a dappled pattern on the ground.

  Though the light couldn't reach deep into the cave from the corner of the entrance, the chirping of birds among the tree shades clearly reached Zelin's ears.

  He pressed his slightly dizzy forehead and slowly sat up.

  His half - open eyes scanned the surroundings. The campfire in the cave still spat out sparks.

  The blurred vision gave him a sensation similar to a hangover, despite the fact that he hadn't felt that way for ages.

  Alcohol numbed his nerves, and he didn't want to face enemies while drunk. Likewise, he avoided getting drunk in town taverns and making blunders.

  His gaze finally landed on the girl behind him.

  Sitting upright, she gripped a sword with both hands, having removed her cloak to reveal her attire to Zelin.

  The bright silver armor covered her front and back. Shaped to fit a woman's curves, the breastplate curved gently at the chest.

  There was a dark pattern on the abdominal part of the armor. Zelin guessed it was some kind of emblem or decoration, much like the crests knights emblazoned on their shields.

  Nobles usually prized their family crests, which made the girl's claims from the previous night seem a bit more believable.

  Under the armor, she wore a blue dress that reached her calves, revealing her iron boots.

  Layers of scale armor lined both sides of the skirt, offering protection without restricting her movement.

  This armor was clearly custom - made for her. Combining practicality and aesthetics, its creator must have been a master craftsman.

  As far as Zelin knew, perhaps only the master elven blacksmith Hattori in Novigrad could produce something like this.

  Noticing Zelin was awake, the girl nodded in response to his gaze and clapped her gloved hands.

  "You're up. Perfect. Let's get going. I want to return to Britain as soon as possible if I can. The Angles still threaten Britain, and I'm worried they'll attack while I'm away."

  "I'm eager to leave too. The villagers must be growing impatient," Zelin said, taking a deep breath. The cool air filling his lungs woke him up enough to walk without stumbling.

  "Before we go, could you tell me what happened last night? I don't remember drinking, but I can smell the Vizima Champion." Zelin rubbed the tip of his nose.

  A cool breeze wafted into the cave, yet the alcohol smell lingered deeper inside. He recalled having a bottle of Vizima Champion in his pack.

  Last month, when he played cards in a tavern and drew a crowd, the tavern owner gave him several bottles of fine wine as thanks for the business.

  In the end, Zelin only accepted the dwarf spirits and the Vizima Champion; the former could be used as a raw material for alchemical potions, and the latter was a personal preference, especially among those from Temeria.

  Under Zelin's suspicious gaze, a faint blush crept onto the girl's face.

  She turned her head away and stammered, "I accidentally knocked over the wine bottle last night. That's all. The wine spilled out."

  "But why did I fall asleep? I was supposed to keep watch," Zelin countered, crouching down to open his pack.

  The bottles and jars inside were neatly arranged, except for the empty spot where the ghoul oil had been.

  What caught his attention, though, was the noticeably deflated food pack next to the potion pack. Sensing the aroma of a roasted chicken leg, Zelin's eyes returned to Altria.

  In the campfire's glow, he noticed a small oil stain at the corner of her mouth.

  Surprisingly, the girl blushed even more at Zelin's question.

  He couldn't help but check his clothes. Thankfully, everything was in order, ruling out any mistakes he might have made while drunk.

  "You... you just passed out after drinking. Your tolerance is really low. You should work on it," she said.

  "Is that so..." Zelin scratched the back of his head, confused. He suspected the girl had eaten the food, but he didn't hold it against her.

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  He'd planned to share it anyway; a warm meal and a friendly face would help her relax. She was his only lead for investigating the Wild Hunt.

  If she stayed guarded and refused to tell him everything, the investigation would be impossible. But he didn't believe a little alcohol could knock him out.

  Generally, Witchers had a much higher alcohol tolerance than ordinary people. After all, many potions used dwarf spirits as a neutralizer, and their physical mutations gave them resistance in various ways, not just against viruses but also alcohol.

  It would take a large barrel of strong liquor to get Zelin drunk; he thought of wines like Vizima Champion as a post - potion treat.

  "Right," the girl nodded, but her lack of conviction made Zelin smile ruefully. He'd never met someone so bad at lying.

  He wondered if having such a king in Britain was a blessing or a curse.

  Before leaving the cave, Zelin scattered anti - magic dust inside. These violet particles could block the flow of magical energy in the air.

  Modern magical restraints for criminal mages were forged with this material, and Witchers' anti - magic bombs were filled with it.

  It would keep nekkers, foglets, and other creatures like griffins, werewolves, and ekimmas from making the cave their lair for a while.

  At least until the dust's effect wore off, the nearby villagers would be safe from monster attacks.

  Back in the village, Zelin found the village elder, Sigurd, in the fields nearby.

  The nearly fifty - year - old farmer was pleading humbly with two young soldiers and a tax collector.

  No one else was around. The villagers kept their distance. A few strong young men were angry and wanted to help the elder, but the older people nearby held them back.

  If they intervened, they might be seen as opposing the king. Even without such intent, they could be hanged by the roadside as a warning, with one out of every five people picked in the name of maintaining the king's authority.

  No one wanted to see their neighbors suffer such an unfair fate.

  Zelin told Altria to put on her cloak and stay behind the crowd. Her appearance could cause unnecessary trouble.

  Such fair skin was rare, mainly seen among the Nilfgaardians in the south. The northern kingdoms had long taught their people to hate the empire.

  If the girl showed her face, it was likely that some drunk "patriots" would rush over to cause trouble, using it as an excuse to show off their bravery to other women.

  Zelin told her to hang her sword outside the cloak. As long as others could see the weapon, no one would dare to start anything.

  Especially with the gemstone inlaid on the hilt; only nobles decorated their weapons with gold and silver. Even those looking for trouble would think twice.

  "Your village's tax this month, converted to crowns, totals seven hundred. Today's the last day—pay up," Zelin heard the tax collector's arrogant voice before he approached.

  "His Majesty has been generous, giving you seven extra days. But the month's almost over. In the name of His Majesty Vizimir, the great defender, if you don't pay now, you'll be punished with forced labor under Redania's glorious laws."

  "But, sir, we already paid twenty bags of grain at the start of the month..." Sigurd bent down as much as he could, his voice nervous.

  The farmer was much taller than the tax collector, so he had to stoop low to avoid towering over him.

  "His Majesty Vizimir's birthday is coming, and all his subjects must pay tribute. Don't you want to wish His Majesty well?" the tax collector pressed.

  This threat made Sigurd's legs tremble. A wrong answer here could mean the village would be surrounded by soldiers that night.

  "What's going on?" Zelin stepped between the tax collector and Sigurd and asked the elder.

  The tax collector frowned and sized Zelin up.

  When he saw the griffin emblem around Zelin's neck, he instinctively took a step back. Then, glancing at the soldiers behind him, he tried to regain his composure.

  But in Zelin's eyes, the man's attempt to straighten his back only made his beer belly more prominent.

  "Witcher, this is Redanian business. None of your concern," the tax collector shouted. "Stay out of Redanian affairs!"

  "Sure. I won't interfere." Zelin shrugged, traced a triangle in the air with his index finger, and placed it on the tax collector's forehead.

  "Now, apologize politely to this gentleman, then use the bribes you've embezzled to pay the village's tax. Then leave."

  "Um, I... I'm very sorry," the tax collector mumbled, suddenly acting dazed. He bowed his head to Sigurd and stumbled away. The two soldiers, confused, shot Zelin a warning look before following their superior.

  Axii, the only mental sign among the five major Witcher signs, had a wide range of uses.

  Zelin had used it many times to deal with unreasonable people he couldn't defeat with his steel sword.

  "Problem solved," Zelin said, turning to Sigurd. But the fear in the old man's eyes startled him. In an instant, Zelin understood.

  Sigurd wasn't afraid of the tax collector—he was afraid of Zelin. No matter how cruel the tax collector was, he was human.

  But Zelin was different. In essence, he was no better than the mutated monsters he hunted. Zelin could use Axii on the tax collector, and he could do the same to anyone else, including Sigurd.

  Zelin said nothing more; he was used to such reactions.

  "You won't have to worry about monsters for a while. Our deal is done."

  "Th - thank you, master," Sigurd stammered, still cowering.

  "But as you can see, the king's men took all our money. I'm afraid we..."

  "I don't want your money. Keep it," Zelin said casually.

  Taking a deep breath, he turned to leave.

  The scent of wheat in the fields cleared the last of his drowsiness.

  "Good luck."

  As the Witcher walked towards the crowd, the villagers wordlessly parted.

  They neither thanked him nor cursed him.

  What Zelin had just done didn't make them see him as a protector from monsters. Instead, it reminded them that he was a being whose power far exceeded theirs.

  No matter how powerful, even a king was, in essence, no different from the villagers—all human, subject to birth, aging, illness, and death.

  But Zelin, since surviving the Trial of the Grasses, was an otherworldly presence. Only when playing Gwent did these people forget his true nature and treat him like an ordinary person.

  Zelin no longer cared about their reactions.

  He wasn't needed here anymore, and he doubted the villagers would ever play Gwent with him again.

  Without the game, this place held no appeal.

  He waved to Altria, signaling her to follow.

  Altria looked at the villagers with her dark green eyes, clearly confused by their attitude towards Zelin.

  Meeting her puzzled gaze, Zelin simply smiled.

  Witchers were never heroes, and he had long accepted that fact.