Witchers never really distinguished between day and night when traveling.
Especially when time was of the essence.
Night was dangerous.
Even in the streets of London, you might get mugged by some back-alley thugs. In a world crawling with monsters, the dangers only multiplied.
But their luck wasn't too bad—they didn't run into anything particularly dangerous, just a pack of Neckers.
Neckers were among the most common monsters.
They were small, humanoid creatures, roughly the size of a house-elf, though their ears were less pronounced, small and pointed, drooping down like little horns.
They weren't especially dangerous.
A single Necker could easily be handled by a farmer with a pitchfork.
But…
The problem with Neckers was never their strength; it was their numbers.
One Necker was nothing. Five Neckers were annoying. Ten Neckers? Even a Witcher could fall if he was careless.
Of course, for Harry and Hermione, it was hardly an issue.
Magic proved incredibly effective against swarms of weaker creatures. A single Glacius spell from Hermione froze them all solid.
Harry didn't forget to collect materials from their bodies.
Neckers were weak creatures.
But their hearts were a key ingredient for making White Raffard's Decoction—a potion that could rapidly heal wounds.
Even if he didn't need it, Snape might find it useful for research back at Hogwarts.
The appearance of these monsters actually made Hermione feel a bit more at ease.
Riding on the horse, cold wind whipping at her face, she turned her head and asked, "So those humanoid corpses we saw by the roadside… were they actually these things?"
Harry shook his head. "Hermione, you're still picturing this world too kindly."
So they really were human corpses.
Hermione didn't say anything, just gripped her wand a little tighter.
Her idea of danger still fell far short of the reality of this world.
By the time evening of the next day rolled around, they finally arrived at a village.
It seemed to be built on a small island in the middle of a lake, surrounded by deep, flowing waters.
"We're here," Harry announced, recalling the details from the map.
They dismounted.
Walking along the leftmost path, they eventually arrived at a gate—a massive iron grate, crisscrossed in a grid pattern that blocked their path.
Two guards stood at attention, eyeing the pair warily.
They didn't seem too nervous, though. Harry looked young and weaponless, and Hermione was clearly no warrior.
"Halt," one of the guards raised his hand, his tone stern. "Who are you?"
Harry stopped. "I want to see the Baron."
The guard raised an eyebrow. "You? And who exactly are you?"
Harry looked past him.
Pasted to the wall on the other side of the iron gate was a wanted notice, with the sketch of a young girl's face.
"A Witcher," Harry replied, turning back to the guard. "I think your Baron might be in need of one right now, isn't he?"
Harry didn't bother to hide his gaze.
The guard followed his eyes, glancing back at the wanted poster. He didn't turn back immediately. "Open the gate!"
"Sergeant Adar, we've got a Witcher wanting to see the Baron."
With a loud clank, the iron grate rose.
"Don't cause any trouble, Witcher," the guard warned, his tone layered with meaning.
Harry's voice was calm. "If you don't provoke me, I think we'll get along just fine."
Adar led them through.
Harry didn't bother with small talk. He followed in silence.
The stern-faced sergeant led them through the village, up to the grandest house at the center, climbing all the way to the top floor and stopping at a heavy wooden door.
"Wait until you're called in," Adar instructed, glancing back.
But Harry didn't wait.
The moment Adar stepped through, Harry walked in right after him, Hermione at his side.
"What are you doing?" Adar gritted his teeth. "I told you to wait—"
Harry waved his hand dismissively. "I don't have time for this nonsense."
"And since when did soldiers start learning the petty manners of nobles?"
Adar squinted his eyes but said nothing.
Inside the room, a rotund man stood up from his desk, his eyes scrutinizing Harry with some surprise. "A Witcher?"
"I thought it'd be the white-haired one."
Harry looked back at him. "Ciri's already been here?"
"You're looking for Ciri too?" The man's gaze grew more guarded, eyeing Harry's empty back.
It was clear Harry was a Witcher—those eyes were unmistakable.
But typically…
Witchers always wore a medallion around their neck, a symbol of their school.
"You must have heard of me from Ciri. Harry of the Wolf School," Harry said, noting the wariness in the man's eyes and deciding to introduce himself.
"Snake-tongued Harry?" The Baron raised an eyebrow. "The Wolf School Witcher who always gets mistaken for Viper School?"
Of course, Ciri had mentioned him. But… this Witcher was far younger than he had imagined.
Harry's tone remained steady. "How long ago did Ciri leave?"
The Baron waved his hand.
Adar understood the signal and stepped out, closing the door behind him.
"First time meeting, it's only polite to introduce ourselves," the Baron said, glancing around the room. "I'm Phillip Strenger, though most around here call me the Bloody Baron."
"Now where the hell did I put my vodka?"
Harry's voice remained calm. "How long ago did she leave?"
"Why don't you sit down and have a drink with me? We can talk all about it," the Baron replied casually, grabbing a bottle. "Ciri stayed here for quite a while. It's not something I can just explain in a few sentences."
"And besides, Velen's a big place. Swamps, forests, monsters everywhere—if you want to find—"
Harry interrupted him again. "Baron, I know what you're going to say."
"You want to use information about Ciri to blackmail me into finding your daughter, don't you?"
The Baron froze, his hand still on the bottle. "Not bad for a Witcher. You're sharp."
"But let's not call it blackmail," the Baron corrected, composing himself. "It's a contract. I'm offering you information about Ciri in exchange for a job."
Harry's gaze was unyielding. "I know more than you think, Baron."
"I know where your daughter is, who she's with."
"I know where your wife is."
"And… I know whether she really miscarried because of your violence."
The Baron's fists clenched, his eyes burning with disbelief. "Who the hell told you that?"
No matter how perceptive a Witcher was, there was no way one would know that much.
And this was their first meeting…
"Did they?" Harry smiled faintly.
"Where are Anna and Tamara?" the Baron demanded.
Harry stared right back at him. "How long ago did Ciri leave?"
Their eyes locked in silence.
"You really know where they are?" the Baron asked, his voice low and searching.
Harry's voice was soft. "I'm a Witcher. A Wolf School Witcher."
The Baron collapsed back into his chair, visibly struggling.
He didn't want to believe that a Witcher he had never met could know the biggest secrets of his life.
But… it was Ciri's friend. Harry the Snake-tongue.
"Fine, you win, Witcher," he muttered. "Ciri left here almost a month ago."
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Powerstones?
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