“You locked me in the abyss, but you forgot, the abyss also forged me.”
— Jerome Morlu, Spring 1250, Retia Mountains
I woke up after I died.
In that moment, all I remembered was the cold, rainy night, the screech of brakes, screams, and my unhesitating lunge towards the child standing in the middle of the road. The world plunged into darkness instantly. Pain didn't come, only a violent tearing sensation, like my soul was being ripped from my body.
When I opened my eyes again, I was surrounded by thick steam, the cold gleam of metal, and the pungent smell of alchemical potions.
I lay in a strange metal container, my limbs bound by chains. Tubes extended from my arms and spine, connecting to pulsating alchemical sacs on the metal walls. A bone-chilling cold invaded my limbs; my body was undergoing the agonizing pain of a complete transformation, while in my mind, two memories clashed and intertwined.
One was my original identity: an ordinary person on Earth. A nine-to-five office worker, constantly rushing between the subway and the office, living on instant coffee and phone notifications. My only solace was games — The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt. I knew Geralt’s journey well, understood the styles of every Witcher School, and could recite Gwent card decks backward. I had fantasized about what kind of Witcher I would become if I could transmigrate to that world.
I never thought it would become reality.
The other memory, like an undercurrent surging from the deep sea, slowly swallowed me. I saw a life, strange yet real—
He, or rather, I, was named Jerome Morlu, a Griffin School Witcher.
From being taken away as a child, through training, mutation trials, completing quests, and slaying monsters, up until that fateful reversal. He was imprisoned by an alchemist named Thomas Morlu—who was also his father—in a secret laboratory deep in the Retia Mountains, attempting to “cure” his mutated Witcher body.
I inherited this body, and I also inherited his name, his past, his scars, and his hatred.
“Geralt… this is your name, and my new identity,” I murmured, my voice hoarse and low, like an echo from a stranger.
Around me was the silence of cold iron. Only the low gurgle of alchemical devices, the heavy footsteps of golems slowly moving in the corner, and a Latin inscription carved on a stone wall accompanied me:
Nulla Salus Extra Mutationem
— No salvation without mutation.
Who exactly did Thomas Morlu want to save? Was he trying to “save” me? Or was he saving his own guilty conscience?
I didn't know, and I didn't want to know.
My body recovered much faster than expected. I tore through the restraints and broke free from the experimental apparatus. Although it was difficult to even stand at first, the power born from mutation and pain began to awaken: my muscles seemed to move at will, my reactions were agile and swift, and my vision was so clear I could count the wingbeats of tiny insects.
I… was stronger after the mutation than the original Geralt.
Three days. I spent three days adapting to this body, organizing the remaining notes and equipment in the laboratory. Before Thomas left, he left behind many alchemical journals, experimental records, and some golden crowns, over two hundred of them.
Most importantly was the mark on the map — Crane Mountain.
That was where Jerome Morlu had left behind Griffin School Witcher blueprints and weapons, and it was my first necessary destination.
I donned the slightly damaged Witcher's cloak and stepped out of the laboratory.
Sunlight streamed through the cracks in the Retia Mountains, reflecting off the snow in a dazzling silver-white. The mountain wind, mixed with ice shards, struck my cheeks, but for the first time, I truly felt the pain of freedom. Every breath carried the scent of blood and snow — a real scent.
The question resurfaced in my mind: “Why me?”
I was just a corporate drone who worked late into the night, relying on takeout to survive, an ordinary person of no distinction in the real world. Why did fate drag me into this world of swords and monsters? What made me worthy of being chosen?
No one told me the answer.
“You have no choice,” I told myself. Since I was already here, I could only move forward.
I walked along the mountain path, each step like treading on the spine of an alien world. My body's instincts guided me: how to listen to the wind to judge hostility, how to adjust my steps to maintain balance, how to sniff out the scent of rotten blood and poisonous herbs.
I was no longer just the player standing in front of the TV, controlling a Witcher. Now, I was the Witcher.
Three days later, I arrived at the old site of Crane Mountain. Once a manor, now only crumbling walls remained, with moss covering the Witcher's emblem. The underground vault was still relatively intact, and there I found a Witcher's silver sword and steel sword, Griffin School Witcher armor and weapon blueprints, and a few old notebooks.
At that moment, I stood before a broken bronze mirror, gazing at my reflection:
Long silver-white hair was tied back, my face was stern, and my pupils were golden vertical slits. Several intersecting scars on my face seemed to carve a war history I had not personally experienced.
I reached out and touched the mirror: “Is this really me… No, it's him, and it's me.”
At night, I sat by the ruins on the mountaintop, a bonfire blazing. The flames danced, and I flipped through the notebooks. The names of monsters leaped off the pages: ghouls, drowners, werewolves, Vampire Birds, vampires…
Once, I had slaughtered countless of them in games; now, I would confront them with flesh and blood.
“This isn't a game, there are no save points. Only by surviving do you earn the right to tell the story.”
I closed the notebook, tapping my fingers on the scabbard, listening to the familiar, steady echo.
Just then, the mountain wind blew in a few sheets of dried parchment, which, like old newspapers, were caught in the fire. I instinctively grabbed one; the ink was still clear:
Monsters are rampant, bodies are torn, fields are barren. Seeking a true Witcher. Bounty of forty crowns, first come, first served.
— Pelwe Village, Elder Marlo
I gazed at the lines on the paper, a strange stirring in my heart.
This was my first real commission.
I tucked the paper into my clothes, pulled on my cloak, and stood up. Dawn broke on the eastern horizon, and the thin mist, like a dream's curtain, gradually receded.
“My first commission, let it begin with you,” I murmured, a faint smile playing on my lips.
The path down the mountain was winding and steep, but each step became familiar. My muscles instinctively adjusted speed and strength, my feet gripping the ground firmly. My senses extended to the startled birds in the distant forest, and I could even hear the leaping fish in the stream at the foot of the mountain.
At a rock platform, I stopped, overlooking the outline of the Retia Valley.
This world was far vaster and far more brutal than I had imagined. But because of that, it was worth fighting for, worth surviving in, worth finding an identity more meaningful than “office worker.”
The old me had died on that rainy street. And now, I was reborn amidst silver swords and alchemy.
“I am Jerome Morlu, a Griffin School Witcher.”
“From now on, destiny will no longer write me; I will write destiny.”
