I first saw the village of Pelwe when the morning mist had just cleared.
The mountain wind snaked down from the Rethia mountain range, carrying the scent of Grape blossoms and the fresh dew of grass and leaves, sweeping over the narrow stone houses and winding paths from above, slipping into the sweat hidden in farmers' coarse cloth shirts and the lingering ammonia smell in the animal pens.
The first rays of golden sunlight fell on the old oak tree at the village entrance, and the dew quietly dampened the leather of my boots.
This was a typical Toussaint village: no walls, no soldiers, only the faith between the land and its people.
But something in the air felt wrong.
I sniffed slightly, my throat tingling.
A faint smell of decay mingled with the floral and earthy scents, elusive.
It wasn't manure, nor the putrid smell of a swamp… it was blood, dead flesh, the lingering scent after ghoulish creatures had prowled.
“Are you a Witcher?” a voice interrupted my assessment.
I turned my head.
An old man stood by the roadside, leaning on a cane, his white beard spread out like white moss from a wine barrel, but his eyes were as sharp as an eagle’s.
“Yes, a Griffin School Witcher, Jerome Morlu.
I saw your request.”
“Witcher Master, follow me,” he beckoned.
“Something has happened to our wheat fields… if you don’t help, our entire harvest this year will be buried in that land.”
I followed him along the cobblestone path.
Wooden windows on both sides of the houses were quietly pushed open, then quickly shut; children's cries were muffled in their mothers' arms, and the animal sheds were empty, not even a chicken clucking.
“When did these monsters start appearing?” I asked.
“Two weeks ago,” he sighed, his cane tapping a soft rhythm on the ground.
“At first, we only found torn bones, and we initially thought it was some wild dog gone mad.
But then the sheep died, and the cows died.
Last week, little Tommy saw with his own eyes… something crawl out of the ground, kill a cow, and then burrow back in.”
“Wild dogs don’t burrow like that.”
“I know,” he said softly.
“I’ve been village chief for fifty years; I can still tell the difference between ordinary beasts and monsters.
But people are timid; they don’t even dare to say the word ‘monster’.
I could only post a notice and secretly invite someone.”
“You did the right thing.
I need to prepare first.”
“What do you need?
Although our village is poor, we will give you anything we have.”
“bear fat, and moon rose petals.”
He frowned in thought: “bear fat… the hunter Pierre has a jar at his house, and the moon roses must be picked in the forest.
I’ll go with you.”
We walked through the Grape vineyards at the edge of the village and entered the oak forest to the north.
The forest wasn't large, but it was eerily quiet.
There were no birds chirping, no squirrels jumping on branches, only the faint rustling of the wind passing through dry branches, like someone gasping for breath.
“Was this forest always so quiet?” I asked.
“No, it used to be where children caught beetles,” he said, then realizing something was wrong, his voice dropped.
I bent down and rummaged through the bushes; a streak of blood caught my eye, so faint it was almost swallowed by the color of the grass.
I followed the spots for a few steps and found the remains of a fox under a fallen tree.
Its internal organs were completely gnawed out, the wounds shriveled, yet not a single fly was to be seen.
“This area is also contaminated,” I said.
Finally, I found a moon rose by a patch of moss.
Its pinkish-purple petals trembled slightly, covered in morning dew, like the corner of a little girl’s eye after she had cried.
“Is this enough?”
“It’s enough.”
I nodded.
“Time to render the oil.”
We returned to the village entrance.
I borrowed an iron plate and an old pot, setting up a small stove by a pile of stones.
The bear fat melted in the pot, giving off a slightly sweet and viscous smell; I added the crushed moon rose petals, simmering them gently until the liquid took on a grayish-green luster.
The air gradually filled with a pungent herbal smell, and nearby cats detoured around it.
“You’re brewing…” Village Chief Marlo squatted down and asked.
“A sword oil effective against ghoulish creatures,” I replied.
“Applying it to a silver sword can improve the efficiency of slaying them.”
I unfastened my silver sword from my back, dipped a linen cloth in the oil, and carefully wiped the blade inch by inch.
The metal made a faint sizzling sound, as if whispering.
“Done,” I stood up.
“Take me to that field.”
The wheat field should have been golden.
But the field before me was only dead black.
The wheat ears were scorched and withered, the leaves curled like dead hands.
Flies buzzed and circled in the air, and several piles of rotting flesh in the center of the field nourished their offspring.
By the field, a black hole cracked open at the thick roots of an old elm tree, like a creature’s gaping mouth, waiting for prey to approach.
I walked to the edge of the field, picked up a handful of dirt, and looked up at Marlo: “See?
Not an ordinary hole, but a nest.”
“How many?”
“At least three, adult ghouls.”
“Are you going alone?”
“No problem, you should leave first.”
After Marlo left, I took a deep breath and drew a golden triangular rune in the air with my left hand.
A golden Quen shield appeared, attaching itself to my entire body, encircling me like a second skin.
The air became heavy.
I drew my silver sword and slowly approached the hole.
“Gurgle… gurgle…” A low, hoarse breathing sound came from the hole, as if someone was chewing rotten apples in the mud.
Then, a thud.
The first ghoul suddenly leaped out, covered in filth, with undigested intestines hanging from its abdomen.
Its blood-red eyes stared fixedly at me, filled with hungry madness.
I rolled to the side, dodging its pounce, and plunged my sword into its abdominal cavity with a backhand.
It shrieked and retreated, blood splashing onto my cloak.
The second one lunged almost simultaneously.
I seized the moment it opened its mouth to sever its forelimb with a single slash, then kicked it back towards the hole.
“Come on, you beasts,” I muttered.
“Time to try out today’s sword oil.”
The third one finally showed its head.
It was sturdier than the previous two, with protruding bones and an unhealed scar on its chest.
This was the nest master—the old ghoul leading this pack of beasts.
I charged forward, my silver sword flashing with a cold gleam, slashing across its back.
It roared and retaliated, a claw tearing through the armor on my shoulder.
I rolled to dodge, using the momentum to break its jaw with the flat of my sword.
Wounded, it fled towards the edge of the wheat field.
I pursued relentlessly, driving my sword into its spine.
It tried to struggle, but I stepped on its neck bone, and with a flash of silver, its head flew off, staining half the wheat field crimson.
The remaining two beasts fled in terror.
I raised my hand and unleashed an Igni flame, burning one of them, which rolled on the ground, howling.
The last one rushed towards the forest, and I threw my silver sword, pinning it to a tree trunk.
Silence, finally, returned.
I leaned against the tree, gasping for breath.
Quen was broken, and blood seeped from the wound on my shoulder.
I took out a “Swallow” potion from my waist, drinking it in one gulp, bitter as gall.
The medicine surged into my blood, the wound stinging like needles, then rapidly began to close.
I walked back to the hole, pulled out a beehive bomb.
I ignited it with Igni and threw it into the hole.
“May you not even enter hell.”
With a loud boom, black earth exploded, and the cave collapsed.
The sun rose higher, and the wheat field lost its stench of corpses, leaving only char and lingering smoke.
After collecting my spoils, I walked out of the field.
Marlo and several strong men were waiting at the edge.
Their eyes were filled with shock and fear.
“It’s resolved,” I said.
His lips were pale: “Did they… eat people?”
“Not villagers,” I replied.
“They were outsiders—five skeletons, with crossbow bolts and leather armor.
I suspect it was a team of bounty hunters.”
His expression changed: “They said they came to hunt… are you saying…”
“They never left this field,” I said coldly.
“The monsters smelled blood and built their nest here.”
Marlo was silent for a long time, then reached into his in arms and pulled out a cloth bag, handing it to me.
“Forty crowns.
May they bring a season of peace.”
I took it, no more, no less.
“Burn this field completely.
Do not approach it for seven days.”
He nodded, his voice low: “We will do as you instructed.”
I slung my sword on my back and left the village.
The sun shone on my back, and the smell of scorched earth and blood still lingered in the air.
I knew, this was just the beginning.
