The Witcher: Wolf School's Hunting Notes

After the witchers, it turns out that elves and sorcerers are monsters too?

Allen sighed at the irony as he traveled through the kaleidoscopic "Gap."

The "Gap," referring to the space between two portals, was terminology used by sorcerers. However, its origins might trace back to the era of the Aen Seidhe empire, as much of magic was passed down from the elven sages.

Witchers often speculated, sometimes with a hint of malice, about whether the elven sages who taught magic to humanity ever regretted their decision, seeing how their "good disciples" forced their descendants into hiding.

Then again, perhaps not.

Elven sages, said to understand the past and the future, might have foreseen some fragment of this eventuality in their crystal balls. For some reason, though, they allowed humanity to rise to its current dominance.

Was humanity simply too useful?

Were the ties between elves and humans so entangled they became inseparable?

Or perhaps, for reasons unknown, the sages deliberately withheld the truth?

Speaking of which, even the Wild Hunt—the Aen Elle—enjoyed employing humans. It's said they often raided the witcher world to abduct humans.

In the original tale, Ciri encountered hooded human slaves in the city of Tir ná Lia, the capital of the Alder Folk.

"Dh'oine," the name they gave humanity, seemed laden with condescension and disdain, as inferred from Ciri's rejection of it at the time.

Intelligent life, it seems, always seeks to live nobly at the expense of others.

Perhaps the relationship between humans and the Aen Seidhe began similarly.

But human nobles, obsessed with purity of bloodlines and their own lofty origins, were unwilling to acknowledge that their ancestors were once slaves—even if it meant bearing the label of ingratitude.

Lost in thought, Allen felt he had edged closer to the truth.

Though such musings were of little practical use to him now.

Well…

Perhaps not entirely useless. At the very least, the idle speculation kept his wandering mind from being drawn to the overwhelming, surreal sights of the Gap, helping him maintain clarity of thought.

This was crucial.

After all, portal magic—even among master-level spells—was of the highest tier. Only about thirty sorcerers across the Northern Realms could use it properly, a testament to its complexity and danger.

Allen had only managed to learn it thanks to the Witcher's Journal.

The infusion of memories and physical enhancements made the skill feel almost innate. Yet, even so, he could sense the Journal's power activating every time he used a portal. Thus, even without the "Eldritch Gaze" fixed upon him, the Gap remained perilous.

He needed to tread cautiously, ever vigilant.

This had never been an issue before. However, now—injured and weakened from blood loss—exhaustion weighed heavily on him. With the system's notification confirming his safety, the sheer weariness hit him all at once, his eyelids growing unbearably heavy.

To combat it, Allen forced himself to stay occupied, much like one might make small talk during a long night's watch.

Alas, there was no one else here, so he muttered to himself instead.

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A piercing screech jolted him back to focus.

"CAW!"

It was a warning cry from a griffin.

Above him hung the red moon, casting its cold light over the rustling forest. Somehow, he had crossed through the portal.

"Am I… there?"

Allen stumbled and fell to the ground, barely managing to rise again.

"It's me, girl," he called, raising a leaden arm in the direction of the familiar aura nearby.

"CAW~"

The griffin responded warmly, swooping down with affection. Its hardened beak reached out, aiming to nuzzle him.

But even before the beak touched him, the wind from its powerful wings sent him tumbling like a ragdoll.

"Easy, girl. Don't mess around…"

Allen groaned, trying to steady himself. Just as he was about to stand, he suddenly felt weightless.

The griffin carefully gripped him in its beak and gently placed him on its broad back.

"Rustle~"

The beast's thick, bristly mane enveloped him, its wild scent tinged with iron filling his senses—a strange but reassuring comfort.

"Good girl," Allen murmured weakly.

"Caw?"

"Take me to the Temple of Mellitele."

"CAW!"

The griffin cried out and spread its wings. With a powerful beat, the grass below flattened, and the trees swayed violently.

Feeling weaker than ever, Allen turned his head slightly, peering through gaps in the griffin's mane. In the distance, two pillars of smoke—one large, one small—rose into the dark northern sky.

Just then, the system finished calculating his rewards.

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[Ding! Target defeated: Monster group "Aen Elle" LV93, "Sorcerer" LV73.]

[Rewards calculated: Basic rating: D; Over-level kill: +3—C; Decapitation intimidation: +3—B; Wolf Among Sheep: +3—A; Against All Odds: +3—S.]

[Final rating: S (Reward multiplier: x3)]

[Loot acquired: Eternal Ones' Memory Crystals x6, Sorcerer Memories x30, Experience Orbs x45, Aen Elle Treasure Chests x18, Sorcerer Treasure Chests x18.]

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S-rank!

A jolt of exhilaration surged through Allen, momentarily dispelling his exhaustion and numbing his pain.

Since gaining the Witcher's Journal, he had completed countless hunts, but this was only the fourth time he'd achieved an S-rank evaluation.

Not only had his meager stock of experience orbs been replenished, but the treasure chests—36 in total—were the real prize.

Thirty-six chests!

And from enemies as formidable as Aen Elle and sorcerers, no less.

This alone could let him shamelessly request another Harvest Blessing from the goddess Melitele.

What's more, the six "Eternal Ones' Memory Crystals"...

He refused to believe they wouldn't hold some clue about the White Frost.

The fact that these weren't labeled as Aen Elle memories but as "Eternal Ones' Crystals" hinted at additional value.

Perhaps beyond knowledge and skill, they might provide unexpected benefits. But all that would have to wait until he returned to the Temple of Melitele and fully recovered.

Wait…

He'd also need to figure out how to learn Elder Speech.

If he couldn't understand the Eternal Ones' language, using their memories would be a waste.

"Hopefully, those thirty sorcerer memories include Elder Speech," Allen thought wryly.

The White Frost—a mystery that had haunted him for so long—might finally begin to unravel.

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"Caw?"

Sensing his emotions, the griffin tilted her head and let out a soft cry. The motion caused a gap in her mane, letting icy wind whistle through and snap Allen's overheated mind back to focus.

Exhaustion overtook him once more, even heavier than before. His mind grew foggy as he instinctively clung to her mane.

"It's fine, girl. Keep flying."

He reassured the griffin mentally before surrendering to the fatigue, his eyes closing.

Before unconsciousness claimed him, two thoughts crossed his mind: "Ten sorcerers dead… Does this mean Ban Ard's mages are reduced to just two?"

And…

"I… won't fall from this height, will I?"

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The world spun as the witcher, high above in the freezing night air, succumbed to the darkness.

"Caw?"

"CAW—"

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In the northern forests of Burned Ruins of Ban Ard, i

"How could there be nothing left?"

"Lord Miguel…"

"How is it possible that nothing remains?"

"Miguel!"

A man, tattered and scorched, kneeling in the dirt, his body covered in burns, suddenly lifted his head from the blackened soil. Desperate, he clung to the robes of another sorcerer standing nearby as if clutching a lifeline.

"Vilgefortz, they were here! Why is nothing left? Why?"

Vilgefortz, though in slightly better shape, was no less disheveled. He glanced down at his torn and charred star-embroidered robe, frowning almost imperceptibly. Taking a deep breath, he looked at Miguel, whose twisted features and bloodshot eyes were filled with despair, and spoke softly:

"This was the epicenter of the explosion. The heat was greater than a dwarven forge. Nothing could have survived—"

Miguel interrupted, veins bulging on his forehead, his fist clenched tightly.

"You mean to say that I led eleven men here, lost ten of them—three senior mages, the backbone of seven factions—and I can't even bring back a shred of explanation?!"

Vilgefortz remained silent, his expression impassive as he watched Miguel.

"Huff—huff—huff—"

Miguel's breathing was labored, like a wounded beast.

It took a moment before he realized his outburst, his fiery glare at Vilgefortz gradually softening.

He looked around in a daze.

But all he could see was the barren wasteland, the remains of devastation.

"My god… What have I done?"

"How can I report this to Sunny? How can I face Dean Hen Gedymdeith, Vilgefortz?"

Miguel's spirit seemed to collapse entirely. With a thud, he fell to the ground, defeated.

Vilgefortz offered no reply.

Not because he lacked answers, but because Miguel wasn't looking for one. The answer was already clear to him.

The man before him, as if having lost everything, was merely venting. Nothing more.

"Quinn might not be dead," Vilgefortz said suddenly.

"No," Miguel muttered without lifting his head, "Quinn wouldn't run from a fight."

"Perhaps he's merely unconscious?"

Miguel shook his head but didn't elaborate further.

For Vilgefortz, time seemed to crawl unbearably.

He didn't care about the fate of these radicals. He didn't even care about the survival of Ban Ard.

But Ban Ard Academy was crucial to his plans. These people, indispensable.

Even as his focus shifted to new strategies, and even as Ban Ard seemed to be abandoned by fate itself, spiraling into decline after calamity upon calamity…

Three senior council members. Seven mid-level.

Perhaps half the radical faction's entire strength…

No! After Ban Ard's recent losses in the Sacking of the City, it was undoubtedly more than half.

Still…

As long as Hen Gedymdeith lived, Ban Ard would remain the heart of the Brotherhood of Sorcerers.

The radicals' ideology aligned with the prevailing currents within the academy. No matter the losses this time, they would soon recover.

After all…

Who among the sword-wielders would willingly bow as dogs to mortal nobles, enduring their commands? And as for the so-called divine nobility of their bloodlines…

Who would know better than the mages themselves?

This was the tide of destiny!

Thus, even as the radicals seemed at their lowest point, Vilgefortz saw opportunity.

As for the looming threat of the Wild Hunt…

"Chaos is a ladder."

Such thoughts churned through Vilgefortz's mind.

He looked down at Miguel.

As Sunny's close friend and confidant, Miguel, no matter how great his blunders, would eventually regain his status as the heart of the radicals once the storm passed.

And truly, was this defeat even his fault?

"Perhaps…" Vilgefortz began, feigning hesitation.

"What?"

"Perhaps there is still a way to find something worthwhile."

"What!" Miguel jumped to his feet before Vilgefortz could finish, his bloodshot eyes brimming with hope as though he'd found a lifeline.

"If the Hunt risked everything to steal something from the academy, it likely hasn't truly been destroyed in the explosion."

Miguel frowned. "You mean?"

Vilgefortz raised his hand, gesturing behind Miguel.

"I don't believe that Eredin, that so-called lord of the Wild Hunt, retreated to the woods just to wait and die with us."

"Yes!" Miguel's throat tightened as his eyes sparkled with sudden clarity. He muttered to himself, "Complete your task, coward. He had a task… He had a task…"

Miguel began pacing back and forth, his hands gesticulating wildly in excitement.

"It might not be there," Vilgefortz cautioned, tempering Miguel's growing fervor. "But… we can try. What do you think, Lord Miguel?"

"I understand." Miguel took a deep breath, steadying himself. "Thank you, Vilgefortz."

"It's my duty." Vilgefortz smiled faintly and began chanting. With a swing of his metallic staff, a glowing orb of light appeared.

Although the Hunt had incinerated itself in the fiery blaze, obliterating all evidence…

Its traces were etched across this desolate wasteland.

The Ithlinne's Star Phantoms swiftly gathered the residual energy it needed, floating towards the shadowy depths of the forest.

Out of caution—or lingering fear—the two sorcerers fortified themselves with their strongest defensive spells before proceeding. Step by step, they advanced cautiously.

After half an hour, the trail led them to a birch tree.

"An exquisite spell!"

"That creature surely wove illusions here, but even so, it couldn't escape your miraculous magic!"

"Finally, we have something to report to Sunny."

Miguel, staring at the glowing illusion, solemnly promised Vilgefortz:

"At the year's end council, we will support your bid for the high council seat… not just wholeheartedly. I'll leverage my own connections as well. Even though we belong to different factions, we both have friends within the academy…"

Vilgefortz offered measured words of gratitude, his gaze returning to the spectral image of the Hunt.

They watched as the specter buried a stone in the ground.

Miguel's eyes gleamed. The moment the illusion faded, he knelt down, ready to dig out the stone.

However…

Just as his hand touched the soil, he froze.

"What's wrong?" Vilgefortz asked.

"This place… It's been disturbed already…"

.....

📢20 advanced chapters on p@treaon📢

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376. Absurd.

377. Ban Ard Is No Longer a Threat.

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

379. Spiral! The Witcher Who Commands Time and Space!

380. Source LV1.