Traveling in a dieval-esque world wasn’t exactly a joyride. To Su Ming, progress was snail-paced, and every few steps, rotting, stinking carrion beasts leapt from the roadside bushes.
These decayed monsters posed no threat. Their teeth and claws couldn’t scratch his armor.
But a toad jumping on your foot, even if it doesn’t bite, is still gross. The group had to stop constantly to clean up.
That wasn’t the worst delay. Geralt and Ciri had what seed like squirrel syndro—after every kill, they stripped monsters for materials before moving on.
This wasn’t a ga with one or two drops. In reality, those materials were part of the corpse.
A pack of a dozen ghouls? Collecting their bits took over ten minutes—longer than the fight. At this rate, Novigrad was a distant dream.
"Igni!"
Geralt bent down, grabbed a beehive from under a tree, swatted out small flas, and tucked it into his pack before remounting.
Becoming a master witcher required patience. Potions were essential for survival, so materials had to be stockpiled.
Geralt didn’t seem rushed, maybe preparing for the bruxa. He grabbed every alchemical ingredient he spotted.
Watching him yank weeds killed Su Ming’s interest in witcher alchemy.
Ciri wasn’t thrilled either, but she helped, her face as bored as a kid in theory class.
"Ciri, I talked to Geralt. I want to take you to a school in another world. What do you think?" Su Ming asked.
Ciri swayed in her saddle, giving him a weird look, pointing at herself. "? School? No way!"
Su Ming’s mouth twitched. Still anti-learning, despite her smarts. Couldn’t sit still.
"Not reading and writing—other skills, like fighting. You’ve been to other worlds. Never thought about learning their combat styles?"
Ciri touched her hair, thinking. "I’ve learned plenty, like from the Wild Hunt. But I won’t leave Geralt. I’m done with other worlds. This is ho."
Su Ming sighed internally. He was trying to help. If the Wild Hunt returned, those elves wouldn’t go down easily after their last defeat.
If Ciri stayed just to stick with Geralt, she’d waste her parents’ gift of multiversal travel.
He’d just fed the Red Room girls a pep talk about hope to gain trust. Now he needed to give Ciri a dose to spark so urgency—she needed strength to protect her people.
Geralt couldn’t always shield her. Alone against the Wild Hunt’s army, he’d be overwheld.
"What if the Wild Hunt cos back? Then what?" Su Ming asked, walking beside her horse, plucking a wildflower.
Ciri shrugged, sitting up in her saddle. "We fight. We beat them last ti."
"At what cost? The Northern armies were crushed, Kaer Morhen breached. Wolf School’s down to four, right? Even counting you, with that cat dallion."
Ciri touched the dallion. She’d taken it from a psycho who hunted witchers for fun, imprisoning her and training her as a gladiator.
She killed him, taking his wolf, cat, and snake dallions. The wolf went to Geralt, she kept the cat, and the snake was stashed sowhere.
Seeing her pause, Su Ming pressed, "Vesemir, a respectable elder. He didn’t have to die. If the Wild Hunt returns, who’s next?"
Ciri’s mind flashed to the old man who raised her, dying to protect her.
She couldn’t lose anyone else.
She’d spent years running, the Wild Hunt chasing her across worlds. They’d fought to end that endless fate.
Fights ant sacrifices. Last ti, Vesemir. Next ti, who?
Ciri wavered.
"Look, I’ve got a school where you’d be safe. The Wild Hunt’s a threat here, but not to us. Check this out," Su Ming said, pulling a pistol from his waist.
"What’s that?" Ciri’s attention shifted to the shiny new toy.
"A gun. Think of it as a special hand crossbow." He ejected the magazine, showing her the gold bullets. "These are its bolts. See those spiked fiends over there?"
In the distant village ruins, figures prowled. Too far for Ciri to see clearly without squinting.
They looked like human corpses—pale, rotted faces, sprouting red spikes. When losing a fight, they’d self-destruct, launching spikes like throwing knives. Nasty monsters.
Witchers avoided them without a contract—victory yielded only worthless guts.
"I see them. We’d steer clear," Ciri said.
"Tech changes everything. With a gun, those monsters are nothing," Su Ming said, raising his arm, calculating wind and trajectory, well beyond a pistol’s range.
To Ciri, it looked like he didn’t even aim. A sharp crack, a strange sll, and a monster’s head exploded like a pogranate. The others scrambled, searching for the attacker.
They found nothing, milling in frustration.
The gun fired again, dropping them all.
"Bullets. One per ghoul, cures any undead," Su Ming said.
Without a headshot, they’d heal by eating corpses, but marksmanship was a rc’s bread and butter.
Except for his cousin, whose skill points went to trash-talking.
"Amazing! You could harvest intact spiked fiend corpses!" Ciri said, eager to inspect the gun.
Su Ming smirked. Plan working.
He engaged the safety, twirled the gun, and handed it to her grip-first. "Yours. These are common where I’m from. Farrs have crates of them."
"Even farrs can fight monsters?" Ciri took the pistol, feeling its weight, turning it over playfully.
"Don’t point it at yourself or friendlies. Mind the trigger," Su Ming warned, stopping her from peering down the barrel. "If the Wild Hunt ca to my world, a farr might send them running. And guns? This is just the start."
He pulled an adamantine Gauss rifle from his silk pouch, its ornate carvings and artistry screaming it wasn’t ordinary.
Ciri gaped as he drew a weapon her height from a tiny bag.
"That was a pistol. This is a rifle—think hand crossbow versus siege crossbow. Rare materials, specially crafted bullets, all blessed with divine power."
"Gods? They’re real?" Ciri latched onto that.
"Gods are just stronger beings in so way. Your travel powers? Godly enough. When others wield pitchforks and knives, you’ve got a gun—you’re a god. When everyone’s got guns, you fly, invulnerable—you’re a god. When all can fly, you hop universes—you’re still a god."
Ciri’s eyes sparkled, confused but awed. "Don’t get it."
"Gods are mortal, just better at so world concept. Their existence doesn’t matter. The world runs on concepts," Su Ming explained.
"Still don’t get it," Ciri said, face scrunched, finally slumping on her horse, deflated.
"That’s why you need school. Hacking monsters with swords? Useless if you can’t shoot. And monster materials? You waste them."
"No way! Wolf School uses monster parts best," Ciri snapped, chin up.
Su Ming didn’t bite. World limitations. "Ever use monster bone powder for porcelain? Bone china’s gorgeous, sells big to nobles, could fund your school."
"Porcelain?" Ciri asked.
"See? Clueless. Last ti Geralt killed a griffin, he took the head and ditched the body. Wasted four roast legs, giant wings, and organs. That’s money."
Su Ming shook his head, feigning heartbreak.
"Griffins edible?" Ciri turned to Geralt, who’d sidled closer to eavesdrop.
"Didn’t know. No one’s tried. Witchers don’t eat monsters," Geralt said.
Ciri perked up. Why hadn’t she thought of eating griffins? Better than rats.
"Witchers are hunters. Lots of prey’s edible. Food chain, nature’s law. Ciri, you need biology class," Su Ming said.
So monsters, like ghouls, were inedible. But others? Detoxify and cook. "Wyverns, dracolisks, giant centipedes, crab spiders, gliding lizards—pri eating. My school’s principal’s a master chef. He turns wild stuff into delicacies."
"Wild stuff?" Geralt leaned in, curious about other worlds.
"Slis. Like black muck from a well. In his hands? A soup that boosts ntal strength."
Geralt grimaced, unsettled.
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