Geralt lowered his hand, retrieving his swords from the grass.
"A man in full heavy armor, hiding in a tree like a Scoia’tael," he said.
The newcor removed his helt, revealing a young but authoritative face.
"Relax, I’m not an elf. Pure human."
Ciri was inspecting the werewolf’s body. It wasn’t dead—just its skull and brain crushed, healing slowly.
"That kick crushed a werewolf’s skull. Those are tough as stone. Even a warhamr struggles to break them," she said, keeping her distance from Su Ming, circling back to Geralt.
She stayed wary. The heavy armor reminded her of the Wild Hunt. No skull mask, but the glowing red eye was unnerving.
"Now you’ve seen it," Su Ming chuckled. "Slade of New York. Nice to et you."
"Harvest the werewolf’s materials. We’re fine here," Geralt told Ciri, sheathing his swords. To Su Ming: "I’m Geralt of Rivia. Never heard of New York, but you’re definitely human."
Ciri might’ve known, but Geralt didn’t connect New York to "New York."
His adopted daughter, Ciri, had unique powers, able to traverse universes and tilines with a thought.
Her abilities were imnse, crossing not just worlds but ti itself. She’d been to Earth, even glimpsed a chanized future.
That’s why the Wild Hunt chased her. Those militaristic elves once had multiversal travel but lost it. They wanted Ciri’s Elder Blood to reclaim it, to wage war across all realities.
Su Ming was in the Dark Horse Comics multiverse, ho to classic comics and, recently, ga characters’ stories.
The Witcher, Halo, Tomb Raider, Fallout, Call of Duty, The Last of Us—all big-na gas.
His old PC could barely handle World of Warcraft on low settings. Other blockbusters? He’d watched playthroughs online. Ahem.
But Su Ming’s to-do list here was long.
First, earn gold. Orens were easy money here—even farrs and bandits carried them. The Witcher world ran on a gold standard. Novigrad’s orens were worth 100 coppers each.
Second, learn from Ciri, a known multiversal traveler, about ti and worlds—not local Conjunction nonsense, but higher-level intel.
Third, test the "saddlebag," a storage item that worked across space. Would it function across worlds?
Finally, if possible, snag the Wild Hunt’s Stargate-like portal tech. It was broken, but if he could get it to Ancient One or Adjutant for study, a fixed version could let him travel with more people, supplies, even vehicles.
The Wild Hunt’s world was unknown. Best bet? Stick close to Ciri.
The tiline was late—Ciri carried two swords, aning the ga’s story was over. She’d chosen witcher life over Nilfgaard’s throne.
Her blue, gem-like eyes showed she hadn’t undergone the Trial of the Grasses.
The Trial was how witchers trained successors.
Human bodies struggled against monsters, needing potions for strength.
But those potions were toxic. Trainees built immunity by sampling poisons from childhood.
At around ten, if the ntor deed them ready, they faced the Trial.
The "Grasses" decoction, made from rare monster parts, wasn’t grass. It transford the body—strength, endurance, speed, reflexes, lifespan—all superhuman.
Surviving the Trial let witchers use alchemical potions safely in small doses, enhancing specific abilities with monster-derived mutagens.
But the decoction was brutal. Only two or three in ten survived. Those who did lost pain sensation, gained snake-like eyes, grew cold, and beca sterile.
Hence, witchers often bonded with sterile sorceresses, their long lives fostering "friendships."
Ciri didn’t need the Trial. Triss and Yennefer taught her magic, and her Elder Blood enabled wild feats.
Blink-and-backstab was a nightmare for monsters.
Her downside? Injuries required normal herbs and rest. Regular witchers could chug a Swallow potion and be fine.
The Wild Hunt wouldn’t die out. A new king would rally them, drawn to world-crossing power.
To show good faith, Su Ming sat by the fire, helt on the ground. Sumr or not, the forest night was chilly.
"No big deal if you haven’t heard of New York. Small place. I’m just passing through, headed to Novigrad," he said.
Geralt sat opposite, tossing branches into the fire to stoke it, while Ciri worked on the werewolf amid Jane’s retching.
"No horse?" Geralt asked.
"I walk fast. But that’s not important. Fancy a ga of Gwent?"
Su Ming grinned, pulling a deck of cards from his pouch.
He’d been in this world a while, learning the language—a must every ti. To blend in, he’d bought a Gwent deck and built a set.
He’d played across the world, earning cash and seeking a white-haired man or woman.
He’d learned Nilfgaard was half-dead, the North now run by a forr spymaster, and so on.
In Velen, he heard of white-haired figures heading to Novigrad. He’d followed.
Geralt’s eyes lit up at the cards, pulling his own deck from a pocket.
"Stakes?"
"Got fine liquor—Thunderbrew from Dun Morogh, or my homade Skywalker," Su Ming said, placing two bottles on the grass.
Geralt studied them, then tossed twenty orens beside them.
"Draw!" they said in unison.
Ciri sighed deeply as they spouted cringe-worthy lines, possessed by the ga. She’d heard Geralt never stopped playing Gwent while hunting her and the Wild Hunt, even earning the useless title of Gwent Master.
She was exhausted.
The ga was tight. Geralt’s deck was better, but Su Ming’s mind was sharper. They were evenly matched.
Su Ming threw the last round on purpose, losing.
The liquor and cards were for bonding. Geralt had few hobbies—booze and Gwent were two.
As Geralt drank, he forgot the oddity of eting a stranger at midnight.
Thunderbrew, from World of Warcraft, was dwarven beer—strong stuff.
Skywalker, from Su Ming’s stock, wasn’t cheap either.
Witchers tabolized alcohol fast, barely feeling it, so Geralt’s taste leaned toward the strongest stuff, like the troll.
"This is good. Can’t say if Toussaint’s better or your hobrew," Geralt said.
Su Ming sipped from another bottle, casually asking, "How’s Toussaint these days?"
"You know my story. Toussaint’s the sa," Geralt said, staring at the coals. "Those sisters live like a fairy tale. I’ve got an orchard there."
Su Ming nodded. Blood and Wine was done, aning years had passed since the ga. The Wild Hunt could strike anyti.
If they did, he wanted a live one.
Their Stargate-like portals, though damaged, made them appear ghostly here. Their navigators pinpointed worlds—Su Ming was curious.
"We’re headed the sa way. Let’s travel to Novigrad together. Safer," Su Ming said, offering his hand.
Geralt shook it firmly. "Sure. We’ll have ti for more Gwent."
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