Witchers are not heroes, and they never have been.

  They are willing to take on any dirty and arduous task.

  Their only demands are fair compensation and at least some respect for the Witchers' unbreakable rule: never harm humans, but only slay monsters.

  From the moment of their creation, their physical structures and functions were destined to be different from those of ordinary people.

  As a result, Witchers are born with no risk of getting sick, but only a tiny fraction of young candidates survive the process.

  When they are still children, they must undergo the Trial of the Grasses, enduring excruciating pain that even adults would find unbearable.

  Those who pull through may become excellent Witchers; otherwise, they pay with their lives.

  Only three out of ten make it to the end, and the rest perish with regret.

  The extremely low success rate of the Trial of the Grasses has a reason.

  The candidates drink various potions.

  For ordinary people, these potions are no different from deadly poisons, and the same applies to the young trainees.

  When they consume the potions, their hearts stop, organs fail, and brains are damaged.

  Their bodies are eroded by the potions, and only those who survive this ordeal are strengthened.

  Mutations also bring about sequelae, such as the iconic beast - like pupils.

  To outsiders, the process seems like nothing but drinking poison.

  Drink the first bottle and survive? Then drink the second. Survive the second? On to the third.

  Of course, most die after the first bottle.

  Zelin is one of the three out of ten who survived. He often marvels at his good fortune.

  Only one in ten trainees becomes a real Witcher, and among ten Witchers, some die during the trial to obtain the badge, while others perish on their first mission.

  Those who live to the end are extremely rare. Most meet their end in battles with monsters or fall victim to a dagger in the dark.

  Many people are unfriendly, even hostile, towards Witchers. But when they encounter dangers they can't handle, they have no choice but to seek the Witchers' help.

  "So, you're the one who placed this commission?" In the village tavern, Zelin met a man reeking of alcohol.

  The brown coarse linen clothes clung to his body. The wine stains on his cuffs had darkened from lack of washing.

  His dark - green trousers were covered in dust, and the cuffs were tied up with ropes to keep mud off during farm work.

  Hearing Zelin's voice, the man put down his wine glass and turned around unsteadily.

  "Are you Sigurd, the village elder here?" Zelin's slender, beast - like pupils sized up the drunkard.

  He dressed like a typical northern farmer, with calluses all over his fingers. Arduous farm work had dulled his eyes, and the heavy burden had hunched his shoulders.

  Wrinkles covered his face, and malnutrition made him look emaciated.

  "I'm Zelin from Temeria. I saw what you posted on the notice board outside." "Oh... oh, it's an honor to meet you, Master Witcher." When Sigurd saw Zelin's eyes and the griffin badge around his neck, he quickly stood up, flustered yet respectful.

  The friend who had been drinking with him got up and left the table, keeping a distance.

  Not just them, but other tavern patrons also distanced themselves from Zelin, as if he carried a contagious disease.

  Zelin could feel their fear and disgust, but he didn't hold it against them. Mutual hostility between different races had long been the norm on the continent.

  Humans are hostile towards elves, and the elves, especially the Scoia'tael, are even more so.

  Dwarves are regarded as second - class citizens and despised in many cities, and they respond in their own way.

  Gnomes have almost vanished from the continent, and creatures like doppelgangers and succubi are even rarer.

  It's not just between different races; ordinary humans also dislike mages and sorceresses among them, seeing them as omens of bad luck, plotters, and instigators of wars.

  There's even a church called the Eternal Fire that hunts them down in the name of protecting humans.

  Although Witchers were once human, their mutations still make ordinary humans fearfully call them mutants.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  "You said in the notice that there are... in the nearby forest," Zelin lowered his eyes, glanced at the commission slip in his hand, and after confirming its content, he asked doubtfully, "Ghosts? Are you sure?" Based on Zelin's experience, many clients don't know exactly what kind of monster they've seen.

  It's not just farmers; even educated nobles in castles can't tell a Nekker or a Gnome. Except for Witchers, no one studies monster lore.

  More than once, a client has sworn before Zelin that a demon killed his livestock, but after investigation, he found it was just a few ghouls feasting on the corpses.

  "Master, I did see the shadow of a ghost. I swear it's true," When it came to the commission, Sigurd raised his hand as if taking an oath.

  "I saw the shadow flash by in the forest many times. I didn't dare get close. You know, master, ghosts are ruthless killers. If I died in the forest, my wife would be heartbroken. "

  "I still have children to support, so when I saw the shadow, I..." Sigurd's face suddenly turned red.

  "I didn't dare go over... But please believe me. Other villagers also saw the ghost's shadow. That's why we pooled our money, hoping someone could help us deal with it."

  "There's no need to be ashamed. Not everyone has the courage to face a ghost and live," Zelin shook his head indifferently and stuffed the commission letter into his pocket.

  "Tell me where you last saw... the ghost you mentioned, what harm it's caused, or rather, when you first discovered it. Tell me everything you know."

  When handling a commission, a Witcher must never overlook any detail.

  Only by deducing the target's true identity from the traces it leaves can Witchers make full preparations before battle.

  They can apply sword oil effective against the enemy and drink appropriate magic potions or decoctions to temporarily boost their combat power.

  Inexperienced young Witchers often meet their demise due to misjudgment.

  They might assume their target is a giant ghoul, apply the corresponding sword oil, and set out to hunt it down.

  Only then do they discover that what lunges at them is actually a werewolf.

  In response to such situations, Zelin can only hope that his fellow hunters are skilled enough. After all, two legs can never outpace four.

  "The last time was in the forest north of the village, five days ago in the evening. I noticed one of the village cows was missing. "

  "We only have three cows in total, and one is sick. Losing another would drive our lads to the point of exhaustion," Sigurd began to recount what he had witnessed.

  "I followed the cow's tracks into the forest and finally found its carcass. Its head was severed, and a large chunk of meat was missing. "

  "I was furious, master. I initially thought it was the work of cattle thieves. These are turbulent times, after all, and anything can happen."

  "But just as I was about to search for the thief's whereabouts and gather people to teach him a lesson, I... I saw that shadow. It was terrifying. I'd never laid eyes on such a creature before."

  Even though several days had passed, fear still laced the village elder's voice as he recalled the incident.

  "The monster was feasting on the beef when it spotted me. I turned and ran for my life. Thankfully, it didn't give chase, allowing me to make it back alive."

  "Maybe it thought your meat wasn't as appetizing as the cow's," Zelin quipped with a dry joke. But Sigurd didn't find it amusing. He merely forced a laugh in response.

  Seeing this, Zelin dropped the humor. Crossing his arms, he asked Sigurd earnestly, "I'll head out to deal with that ghost right away. But first, I need to know my pay."

  "How much do you want, master?" At the mention of money, a shrewd glint flashed in Sigurd's eyes, as if the word had sobered him up instantly.

  "Nobles care about prestige, the church cares about piety, and everyone cares about money." This proverb, which circulates across the continent, has clearly withstood the test of time.

  Zelin used to be the type who'd solve problems first and discuss payment later.

  That was until one occasion when, after clearing water wraiths harassing the paddy fields, he found that the local villagers not only refused to pay the reward but also reported to the witch hunters of the Eternal Fire Church, claiming there was a mutant robbing people on the road.

  Consequently, Zelin had to work as a bodyguard for foreign merchants, earning enough for bread while keeping a safe distance from that area.

  Witchers can defeat well - trained soldiers and slay creatures that ordinary people can't handle.

  Yet, they also need to eat, and they can die from excessive blood loss, just like anyone else.

  "Two hundred crowns. Half in advance, the rest upon completion," Zelin proposed. "You must understand that, in any business, an advance payment is a sign of good faith."

  "Hmm... master, if you can eliminate that monster, we'll pay you two hundred crowns," Sigurd agreed after some deliberation.

  Perhaps he deemed the monster's threat more pressing than the cost, or maybe he knew he might not find another Witcher willing to take the job for less.

  Of course, this all hinged on the village surviving until a new hunter arrived.

  "Very well," Zelin nodded, taking the money bag from the village elder.

  He weighed it in his hand. Seeming about right, he tied it to his belt. "I'll be back by tomorrow evening at the latest. Let's meet here."

  Having set the time, Zelin turned to leave the tavern. Just then, a belligerent voice rang out from the other side.

  "Damn it! This freak doesn't deserve all that money! Just waving a sword and raking in the cash—he's no different from a robber! Shouldn't monsters just kill each other? Paying him is a waste!"

  The outburst silenced the tavern.

  Everyone, including Zelin, turned towards the source of the commotion.

  A barefoot, drunk man with rolled - up sleeves stood there.

  His blue, coarse clothes were stained with spilled wine, and a nauseating stench of sweat and alcohol emanated from him.

  People quickly moved away, afraid of getting caught in the crossfire. Some of his friends tried to stop him.

  "Shut up, Arko! Witchers are dangerous. There are no soldiers here. Provoking him will get us in deep trouble," one friend whispered, but Zelin's heightened senses picked up every word.

  In his ears, their whispers were as loud as Arko's shouts.

  "What are you scared of!" Arko, clearly drunk, mumbled as he stood up and staggered towards Zelin.

  "What are you looking at? Just because you have two swords? What else do you have that's better than me? "

  "You're good for nothing but swinging those blades! Once all the wild monsters are gone, it'll be your freaks' turn!"

  Zelin closed his eyes and smiled faintly. He slipped one hand into his coat pocket. "If you truly feel that way..."

  "What... what are you going to do?" Arko flinched at Zelin's movement, a cold sweat sobering him slightly.

  Only then did he realize that, before Witchers were eradicated like monsters, Zelin could easily kill him with a single sword strike, and the soldiers wouldn't defend him for his recklessness.

  Witchers are masters of the sword, especially those from the School of the Cat, renowned for their assassination skills.

  No military commander wants to cross a living Witcher. After all, they can accept contracts to kill monsters, and they can also be hired to assassinate enemy commanders.

  Zelin scanned the tavern. Some looked worried, while others were eager for a show.

  Regardless, everyone awaited his next move. Would he punch Arko in the nose as a painful lesson, or draw his sword and make an example of him?

  "Then..." Zelin pulled something from his pocket.

  It wasn't a sword or a dagger, but a deck of playing cards.

  "Then let's play a game of Gwent!"