The Witcher: Wolf School's Hunting Notes

"Wrong tool?"

Nenneke took the surgical knife, held it carefully in his hand, and examined it closely. "No mistake. This is scalpel number four."

"I'm not saying the model is wrong," Ianna gestured toward Allen, who was lying face down on the operating table. A white mark the length of a finger stretched across the Witcher's back, like a scratch accidentally made with a nail. "I mean, has this blade been used by some priest or healer and not maintained or sharpened?"

"The coagulated blood must be completely drained before we proceed with the next step of treatment. But this blade is so dull it can't even cut through the surface layer of skin."

"Maybe it is," Nenneke shrugged and retrieved another slender scalpel from a cold iron box nearby. He held it over the flickering lamp flame to sterilize it again. "I'll ask Bena about it tomorrow. Someone's likely been careless…"

"Make sure to check properly," Ianna said, her tone frosty as she took the sterilized scalpel from him. "This isn't a minor issue."

"Today, it's unsharpened tools. Tomorrow, what will it be? Unboiled gauze? Miscalculated salve proportions? Missing the timing for childbirth?"

Her reprimand trailed off abruptly when she saw yet another white mark appear on Allen's back.

This time, the mark was even fainter than the first.

Ianna frowned and ran the blade along the muscle alignment again, this time with more precision.

Screech.

The sound of a dull blade scraping leather was piercing and unpleasant.

Even with greater force, the expected wound didn't appear. Instead, another white mark was left on Allen's purplish, bruised back.

"How careless!" Nenneke barked in frustration. "Tomorrow, I'll make sure those priests and apprentices are properly disciplined…"

He retrieved yet another blade, sterilized it, and handed it to Ianna.

Ianna didn't take it immediately. Instead, she placed the scalpel she was holding flat in front of her eyes, inspecting it carefully before accepting the new one.

Creak.

Still, no break in the skin. Allen grunted softly as the pressure from the bruising worsened.

Even Vesemir, the seasoned Witcher master, noticed something was off.

"Archpriestess, there are only three number-four scalpels in the iron box…"

"It's not the scalpels," Ianna interrupted, waving him off. She turned her attention back to Allen.

Apart from the bruises that covered nearly his entire back and a few scars from training and trials, Allen's body was one of the most balanced and healthy she'd ever seen. Yet, externally, it still seemed entirely human.

No dragon scales, no troll-like rock plates—just skin as smooth as a newborn's.

Why?

After a few moments of thought, Ianna motioned for Vesemir to approach.

"Archpriestess Ianna?" Vesemir asked, concerned. "Is Allen alright?"

Ianna shook her head. "Not sure yet. Let me see your hand."

"My hand?"

Instinctively, Vesemir raised his right hand.

"Don't flinch…"

A flash of cold light.

The blade slid across Vesemir's hand.

Out of trust for the Melitele Archpriestess and concern for Allen, Vesemir didn't move. Besides, the strange blade that couldn't even scratch Allen wouldn't hurt him either.

Sure enough.

Vesemir didn't feel any pain, and the blade withdrew.

Not even the faintest cut appeared on his hand.

"Hm?"

Vesemir's eyes widened.

A second later, a thin cut appeared where the blade had passed. Beads of blood seeped out, delayed.

This wasn't dullness. This was sharpness at an extreme, creating delayed wounds.

But… but Vesemir had clearly seen this very blade pressed hard against Allen's back, leaving only white marks.

"That doesn't make sense…" Ianna murmured as she summoned golden light to heal Vesemir's hand instantly. "A number-four scalpel can slice through tough cowhide and shave bone thinly. It shouldn't struggle to break a Witcher's skin…"

The scalpel was used lightly across Allen's body.

The blade pierced flesh but failed to open any actual wounds. Within moments, the skin recovered as if it hadn't been touched.

Allen let out a few instinctive groans of pain but seemed otherwise unaffected.

That's when Ianna noticed the peculiar looks from Vesemir, Nenneke, and Lysa. Especially Lysa, who looked both indignant and amused.

"Ah, right…"

Ianna awkwardly pulled back the scalpel, hesitated for a second, and asked, "Have you Wolf School Witchers been modifying the Trial of the Grasses formula?"

Vesemir furrowed his brow.

"If it's a secret, you don't need to answer," Ianna added, though her sharp eyes betrayed curiosity.

"It's not exactly a secret," Vesemir replied, shaking his head. "There were adjustments to the process, but that all happened after Allen completed his trials."

"As far as I know…"

The Witcher master adjusted the brim of his wide hat, thinking back to encounters with Cat School Witchers. "Others who passed the trials with him can still be injured by normal blades."

"What about Allen?" Ianna pressed.

"Allen…" Vesemir murmured thoughtfully. "Allen…"

Upon reflection, Vesemir realized that while Allen had suffered injuries—nearly dying together during an encounter near Pontar River—he'd never seen the young Witcher wounded by a sharp weapon.

During the Cat School ambush, Allen had single-handedly taken down seasoned assassins. Later, in the apprentice combat tournament, Cat School initiates—despite doping themselves—couldn't touch him, even in groups.

Even Vesemir and Aristo, ranked in the top three swordsmen of the Wolf School, were no match for him.

He was extraordinary.

"Sorry," Vesemir shook his head. "I've never seen Allen hurt by a blade. I don't know what's happening…"

"Not even once?"

The three priests of varying ages but increasing heights, all dressed in gray robes, crowded around the prone and shirtless Allen, their eyes wide in disbelief.

The scene looked almost comical.

But Vesemir didn't laugh. After pondering for a moment, he affirmed, "Before the Trials, I'm not sure. But since then, Allen has been my journeying apprentice. He's been with me most of the time, and no, I've never seen it."

"Incredible! Truly incredible!" Nenneke murmured. "No wonder he's called the Hero of Kaer Morhen... the Blue Death…"

Lysa didn't speak, though her bright eyes lingered on Allen.

"Impressive. Not even Zerrikanian steel could do this," Ianna added in admiration. But then she looked at the scalpel in her hand, shaking her head with frustration.

"But if we can't break his skin, how do we drain the bruises and treat his injuries?"

"Even with a Witcher's healing ability, blood clots impede circulation and muscle recovery. This could be fatal…"

The room fell into an uneasy silence.

While Ianna prepared another spell, Vesemir hesitated to voice the absurd solution forming in his mind.

Suddenly, Allen stirred.

"I…"

"Allen spoke!" Lysa stood up straight.

"What?"

Everyone held their breath. Ianna leaned closer to hear him.

"E-E…lsa…"

After listening carefully, she looked up, puzzled. "What does 'Elsa' mean?"

"It's Elsa… Elsa!" Lysa interrupted eagerly. "That's the name Allen gave his sword. His silver sword—the one he named after slaying many great monsters…"

Allen named it?

Vesemir's theory was confirmed. Just as he was about to speak, Lysa's comment froze him in place.

"I've heard of it," Nenneke nodded slightly. "The Blue Death from the North, composed by the bard Ymir. Many wounded Witchers like singing it…"

"…The fourteen-year-old Kaer Morhen knight, who named his beloved silver sword, Elsa…"

Nenneke softly hummed a few verses.

Even a bard wrote about it?

Vesemir's lips twitched as he tightened his grip on his wide-brimmed hat. The brim wrinkled under his fingers.

He opened his mouth, planning to clarify that Elsa was actually his sword—a blade forged with his life savings, and the name was his idea.

But on second thought…

How could he explain that 'his' silver sword was now famed across the Continent thanks to Allen's feats?

Ah!

That was my sword!

'My sword!'

"Silver sword…" Ianna raised an eyebrow, glancing at the two sheathed swords leaning against the wall. Among them, the one with the most elegant curve and a silver hilt caught her attention.

"So Allen means to use his sword…"

"The silver sword can cut through his flesh." Vesemir's face was pale, his lips twitching slightly. After an internal struggle, he decided Allen's situation took precedence.

Clang!

He stepped to the corner, skillfully drawing Elsa.

For reasons he couldn't quite explain, after not wielding this sword for a long time, it felt strangely foreign in his grip.

The hilt's icy touch seemed to reject him.

"But the silver sword… if I remember correctly, isn't that—" Nenneke spoke with a peculiar tone, her eyes fixed on the boy lying on the treatment table.

Vesemir remained silent, staring at the gleaming silver blade.

"Let's try it, Ianna," Lysa interrupted the awkward atmosphere in the treatment room. "If Allen says it'll work, it must be right."

"Then we'll try." Ianna exchanged a glance with Nenneke.

Witcher swords are heavy. Crafted to fully utilize the enhanced strength of mutated bodies, they are designed to cleave through the toughest of bones. They are even heavier than a knight's longsword.

The older and more skilled the witcher, the heavier the sword they wield.

As a master witcher over a century old, Vesemir's beloved Elsa naturally weighed far more than Ianna, now in her twilight years, could possibly handle.

Nenneke and Lysa couldn't wield it either.

Thus, the task fell to Ianna to mark the location, depth, and force needed, while the witcher master precisely maneuvered the blade to carve suitable incisions—like etching patterns on a fruit core—on Allen's back and the necrotic areas of his limbs.

Fortunately.

Vesemir was not just a master swordsman but also an expert in dissecting monster materials. Over the years, his extensive injuries and long-standing experience had granted him an unparalleled understanding of witcher anatomy.

In truth, the temple of Melitele did have silver daggers.

But the ones they possessed were ceremonial—either made of soft pure silver or entirely unsharpened.

Shk~

Shk~

Dark, putrid blood sprayed from the small incisions like crimson swords.

In the blink of an eye, the entire treatment room was filled with the thick stench of iron.

Tears welled up in Lysa's eyes as she breathed heavily, unable to bear the sight.

Instinctively, she wanted to turn her head away from the gory scene.

"A witcher is either fighting a battle or walking the path toward one," Ianna remarked flatly, noticing her reaction. "Allen is no exception, perhaps the most extraordinary of us all. Watch closely; you'll need this knowledge one day."

The slowly rising and falling flesh was riddled with bleeding incisions, and the once-white bedsheets were now entirely stained red.

Lysa had no choice but to suppress the unsettling weightlessness in her chest and force herself to watch the gruesome sight, her eyelids trembling.

She knew Ianna was right.

Realizing this filled Lysa with an acute sense of dread, forcing her to widen her eyes even further.

She suddenly understood that since her parents' passing, the person she could least afford to lose wasn't Ianna, her aunt, Nenneke, or Sadia, but the boy lying before her, younger than herself.

Even though he was hailed as Ellander's hero, the scourge of deadly specters, the youngest master witcher, the Blue Death who spread death with his silver sword…

Death was still death.

Her father's unwavering adherence to knightly virtue hadn't spared him from the Reaper's scythe…

Nor could a victorious hero avoid lying weak and pale on blood-soaked linens, his fragile breaths seeming as though they could cease at any moment.

A witcher is a profession closest to death in all aspects.

Every single one of them…

An inexplicable sense of urgency surged within her.

As if missing these fleeting seconds would doom her to lose him someday—next time, or the time after that—through some oversight or cowardice born of this moment.

Though…

She never truly had him to begin with.

The treatment ended with Ianna casting a warm golden light.

Allen's breathing steadied. Aside from looking pale from excessive blood loss, he was out of danger. All that remained was rest and recovery.

"Ah…" Ianna exhaled deeply, wiping the sweat from her brow.

"Such a troublesome child," she scolded Allen playfully. "Disturbing people's sleep in the dead of night. Who knows where he went to get into a fight this time…"

Lysa was carefully applying green medicinal salve to his wounds and securing them with bandages. Hearing Ianna's words, she defended Allen: "Allen isn't like that. He must have had a good reason… Allen, what are you saying?"

Mid-sentence, Lysa froze.

From Allen's bloodstained lips, faint whispers emerged.

She leaned closer.

Everyone in the treatment room stopped what they were doing.

In the silence, they all heard it clearly:

"Ban Ard… will never be a threat again."

Both Vesemir and Lysa felt their hearts tremble at his words.

.....

📢20 advanced chapters on p@treaon📢

For advance chapters: [email protected]/Uchiha_Itachi007 (replace @ with a)

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

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

380. Source LV1.

381. Allen, What Are You So Anxious About?

382. The Blue Death.