The Witcher: Wolf School's Hunting Notes

The sorcerers unleashed their spells with precision, while the Wild Hunt seemed as if its mind had been scorched by flames, standing in place, merely defending and casting fireballs sporadically.

Over time, even the fireballs grew fewer and fewer, with defense becoming its primary focus.

The flames engulfing its body still burned fiercely, but they shifted from white-hot intensity to the dim red of smoldering embers.

The witcher knew then—the Wild Hunt was nearing its end.

The sorcerers realized this too. The frequency of lightning, gusts, and ice spikes slowed, becoming gentler, like a hunter cautiously ensuring a wounded beast's demise while avoiding its final desperate attack.

The witcher's gaze focused on the Wild Hunt's waist, studying the structure of its armor.

The four experienced sorcerers stood within their magical ritual circle, no longer holding out hope of killing Vilgefortz. They were now forced to think about how to quietly and efficiently seize the item guided by fate to their advantage.

Why had it been so easy for Sadia to follow fate's guidance and retrieve the fragment of the Gate of Ard Gaeth from Shaerrawedd?

Yet here he was, enduring trials upon trials, like a monk on a pilgrimage, before he could claim his destiny.

The witcher couldn't help but sigh. "If only the Wild Hunt could deal one last devastating blow to those sorcerers before it dies…"

As he lamented, the battlefield suddenly changed once more.

From within the encampment, a third voice joined the cacophony, distinct from the Wild Hunt's.

It was a voice of majesty and grace, each word like a sung ballad. Yet, to those who heard it, it also carried the clash of blades and the reek of blood, both resplendent and foul.

At the sound of this voice, the Wild Hunt snapped out of its frenzy.

The flames consuming its body extinguished abruptly, revealing a face charred and bloody, beyond recognition.

The sorcerers gradually ceased their casting.

It was undoubtedly a foolish move, but sorcerers are creatures of insatiable curiosity. When they hold the upper hand, their intrigue often overrides caution.

The Wild Hunt itself was an enigma, and its overwhelming power was undeniable. A single member had pushed these sorcerers—masters of the arcane—to the brink. Their eventual advantage stemmed more from its injuries and its strange mental and physical state than from their own prowess.

Any information they gleaned from the Wild Hunt could become a significant discovery, a stepping stone to wealth and power.

Even Vilgefortz, who rarely exhibited much interest in such things, redirected his wandering focus to the scene before him.

The witcher could not understand the exchange between the Wild Hunt and the mysterious voice. Initially, the Wild Hunt responded in a tone of surprise and reverence, as if as bewildered by the voice's presence as they were.

Gradually, its words grew fewer, its tone subdued. After a brief pause, it glanced at the corpse of the dead elven woman and murmured something that sounded like an explanation.

Then…

The majestic and elegant voice suddenly rose, like a stern reprimand.

Throughout their exchange, the voice seemed oblivious to its surroundings, as if the entire world should fall silent during this dialogue.

Only the Wild Hunt occasionally raised its head, casting fierce, hateful glances at the opposing side.

Suddenly, the Wild Hunt began to argue with the voice—or more accurately, plead.

"It's trying to escape!" the lead sorcerer shouted in alarm. "Be wary of that voice! Attack now!"

The sorcerers began chanting spells once more. The glowing runes and incantations on the magical carpet dimmed as the energy stored during the ceasefire was rapidly drained by the sorcerers.

The effects were immediate.

Lightning, snow, and storm winds surged toward the camp, roaring like an unstoppable tide.

And then…

The majestic voice stopped abruptly.

The entire forest seemed to hold its breath in fear.

The wolf medallion beneath the witcher's chest armor thudded violently, vibrating with an intensity it had never reached before.

"Neén!!!"

The Wild Hunt let out an anguished, guttural cry, turning its back to the incoming barrage without hesitation.

"What's happening?"

Amidst the chaos, the witcher deciphered the meaning of the Elder Speech word "neén," a vehement refusal—"No!"

The battlefield erupted in unexpected upheaval.

The corpse lying on the ground stood up.

"What?!" The witcher's mind reeled.

But what happened next shattered his imagination further.

The severed, graceful head of the corpse floated naturally back to its neck, twisting slightly to adjust its angle once reattached.

The resurrected corpse angrily shoved the grief-stricken Wild Hunt aside. A wave of powerful mental energy swept across the entire camp like a tsunami.

This indiscriminate psychic surge forced the witcher out of his concealment.

Even the Level 7 Aard Sign, reinforced on his mental defenses, shook violently as if enduring a true tsunami's impact.

"Fulfill your duty, coward!"

The figure—no longer "she," but now clearly "he"—rebuked with commanding authority. Without even raising his head, he casually waved his hand.

The incoming lightning, blizzards, and razor-sharp winds vanished instantly, as though they had never existed.

"How is this possible?!"

"What is that thing?!"

The sorcerers screamed in terror.

Even Vilgefortz staggered back a few steps, his face pale.

To nullify master-level spells as if by mere whim—such a feat was beyond even Hen Gedymdeith, the legendary Source of Magic.

What level of mastery over the elements and magical energy could achieve such a thing?

Could even Geoffrey Monck, the famed hunter of extradimensional beings, accomplish this?

The witcher noticed something as he crouched low, observing the battlefield.

The moment the corpse-wielding voice dismissed the spells, the skin of the Wild Hunt's female corpse visibly withered, growing desiccated. Even after the miraculous defense ended, the decay persisted.

"It comes at a price," he thought.

Yet, even with a cost, achieving such power was absurd.

Moreover, the ease with which it was executed…

"Who is he?" The witcher silently retreated a few paces, distancing himself from the battlefield.

The reanimated corpse, now wielded by the voice, still ignored the sorcerers. Instead, it turned its cold gaze to the Wild Hunt.

Only after the Wild Hunt gritted its teeth, staggering out of the battlefield and vanishing into the dark woods, did the figure finally face the sorcerers, who were braced for combat.

"W-who are you?" Miguel stammered, his redwood staff trembling as it connected to a thick line of energy reinforcing a cerulean magical barrier.

"My apologies," the figure bowed courteously, as though genuinely regretful. "I am Eredin Bréacc Glas. Of course, you may also call me by your human term…"

"The King of the Wild Hunt…" The witcher froze in realization.

He knew Eredin. Eredin was the ultimate antagonist of the games, the invincible knight in the original novels, and the leader of the Aen Elle's Red Riders—the Wild Hunt.

As for his strength…

To put it bluntly, he was the true general of the Aen Elle's Red Riders, who waged destruction across countless worlds.

Allen never expected to encounter him so soon, like a fledgling adventurer stumbling upon the endgame boss.

The witcher instinctively paused his quiet retreat, considering chasing after the injured Wild Hunt. Guided by fate, the wounded creature couldn't have fled far.

But facing this final boss—a mere glimpse of Eredin's immense power, even while possessing a mere corpse, had already outstripped his portrayal in both games and novels.

Casually nullifying high-level spells…

How had Geralt defeated such a monster?

With just a silver sword?

Eredin's lips curled into a chilling smile. "The Lord of the Wild Hunt…"

Wait.

Not the King of the Wild Hunt?

The witcher blinked, realization dawning.

Of course…

Eredin would only become the true King of the Wild Hunt years from now, after orchestrating the death of Auberon Muircetach, the King of the Aen Elle, with Ciri's unwitting assistance.

That would happen decades later, when Ciri was fully grown.

"The Lord of the Wild Hunt…" The sorcerers murmured, their voices trembling.

"Why do you seek destruction…"

"Shh—"

Eredin raised a finger gently to his lips, signaling silence.

But what silenced Miguel's emotional outburst wasn't the gesture—it was the sudden, overwhelming scent of iron that filled the battlefield.

It was the cold, metallic tang of blood and death, sharper and more chilling than the eternal snows atop the Blue Mountains. It brought with it a suffocating aura of killing intent.

Even the witcher could hear the chattering of teeth, a tremor of fear overtaking everyone present.

That included the mages, even the mighty Vilgefortz of Roggeveen.

Though the witcher had distanced himself from the main battlefield, he could still feel his teeth begin to chatter involuntarily, as if this primal fear had been seared into the deepest corners of his soul.

"Time is short," Eredin spoke softly, his voice a sharp contrast to the oppressive atmosphere. "Don't force me to kill you. I still require messengers to deliver my words."

Eredin seemed satisfied with the trembling state of the four mages before him and withdrew his overwhelming aura.

"The Red Riders greatly 'appreciate' your hospitality. We shall return in due course, bearing our 'gifts,' after two cycles of soul rebirth, to reclaim what is rightfully ours."

It was a declaration of war.

Everyone present, including the witcher hidden in the shadows, understood that instantly.

"Their treasure… what could it be?"

Miguel, unable to suppress his fear, instinctively voiced the question.

"Oh~" Eredin squinted at the mage, his gaze sharp. "You don't know?"

The witcher's muscles tensed instinctively.

Though it was unlikely that the King of the Wild Hunt would reveal the name of the Gate of the Elder Blood, any mention of it would complicate matters greatly.

"It seems you're nothing but insignificant pawns," Eredin remarked, shaking his head with feigned disappointment.

Pawns?

Miguel and the others froze in disbelief.

They were no mere novices. Three of them were arch-mages of the prestigious Ban Ard Academy, members of the Conclave of Sorcerers—among the most powerful on the Continent. Vilgefortz himself, though still young, was a rising star among sorcerers, already considered the future of their order.

Yet before they could protest…

"No matter." Eredin shook his head dismissively. "You're only messengers, after all."

His gaze flickered briefly, as if catching onto something. He paused for a moment, then sighed softly, muttering an enigmatic statement:

"Let's hope at least one of you manages to deliver my message to your masters."

With those words, Eredin's borrowed body—the corpse of Serra—suddenly collapsed like a toppled pile of wood.

Her body split apart cleanly at the neck, the severed edges revealing not blood and flesh but a dry, blackened texture resembling charred wood.

For a long while, the battlefield remained silent.

Eventually, Miguel, ever cautious, approached and dispelled his magical barrier.

"Wh-what did he mean by that?" Miguel stammered, looking to Vilgefortz.

The young mage merely shook his head. Then, his body tensed, and he pointed into the darkness beyond the camp, where the fleeing specter of the Wild Hunt had disappeared. "Should we… pursue him? He hasn't gone far yet—we can still catch up."

They hadn't found the object they were after, after all. Miguel nodded hesitantly. "We have to try. Vilge…"

"Absolutely not!" two other mages interjected, their voices loud and unified.

Miguel froze, confused. "Andeni… Jared…"

"Have you lost your mind, Miguel?" Andeni bellowed. "If he hadn't spared us as messengers, we'd all be dead right now!"

"But we haven't recovered the target… That thing must be with the one who escaped…"

"And why do we need whatever it is they stole?" Jared countered, answering his own question. "To uncover the source of the Wild Hunt's power? And yet…"

He briskly walked over to Serra's remains.

"We already have the perfect sample right here! A body, intact… No, this is the only corpse left behind by the Wild Hunt!"

"All we have to do is bring it back. It'll elevate us in the Conclave without any need to risk ourselves further, Miguel. No risk at all!"

An intact corpse? The witcher, eavesdropping from his hidden perch, furrowed his brow.

Could it be that during the Wild Hunt's previous assault, not a single body had been left behind?

How, then, had the mages prevailed in the first place?

He pondered this as pieces began to fall into place.

It seemed the Wild Hunt had been as shocked as he was when Serra was slain.

"Could it have been the result of the Witcher's Codex? Or perhaps my use of the Monster Hunt?"

He mulled it over carefully, filing the thought away for later. For now, he kept himself hidden, waiting for events to unfold further.

Meanwhile, the mages continued their argument. Or rather, two of them were busy persuading Miguel, while Vilgefortz remained detached, quietly observing.

Yet something about Vilgefortz's gaze troubled the witcher.

It lingered on Serra's body for too short a time.

Something wasn't right.

The witcher sank further into the shadows, preparing for whatever might come next.

Then, all of a sudden…

"Look out!"

Both Vilgefortz and Miguel cried out, their faces twisting in horror as they pointed at Jared—specifically, at something behind him near Serra's corpse.

.....

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374. Do Not Empathize with Your Enemies.

375. Another S-Rank Evaluation.

376. Absurd.

377. Ban Ard Is No Longer a Threat.

378. Could It Be He's Not the Child of Prophecy?