After leaving Perwel Village, I traveled south along the mountain path, entering the heartland of Toussaint.
This is a land blessed by the sun and the god of wine. Hills stretch endlessly, grapevines cover the slopes, and wineries are scattered everywhere. The air is filled with the sweet and sour scent of Grape skins, the mellow aroma of oak barrels, and the unhurried tones of people's voices. Poets say this land belongs to the goddess, but I know that what truly rules this land is wine and crowns.
I walked along the main road of Beauclair, where street vendors hawked their wares and bards played lutes, singing of a certain knight's legendary deeds. Sunlight spilled onto the red-bricked square. Passersby, seeing me with my two swords, quickly moved aside, while children stole glances at me, their eyes sparkling with a mix of excitement and fear.
I pulled my hood low, pushed through the crowd, and arrived at a horse training ground.
“Are you a Witcher?” The horse dealer looked up at me, a tobacco leaf tucked in the corner of his mouth. “I heard something happened in Perwel Village. Did you take care of it?”
“I did,” I replied.
“Tsk, impressive. Here to pick a horse?”
“Sturdy, strong endurance, the kind that can move through forests.”
He smirked, leading me to a grey-maned horse: “How about this one? Six years old, eats little, runs fast. Just completed a patrol of the North Mountains last month.”
I walked closer and gently patted its neck. It stood still, alert, but didn’t shy away.
“What’s its name?”
“No name, only brought back a few months ago. If you like it, you can name it yourself.”
I nodded: “Grape.”
The horse dealer whistled. “Even Witchers give horses such interesting names?”
I pulled out one hundred and twenty crowns and slapped them into his palm: “Whether the name is interesting or not doesn’t matter. What matters is that it’s obedient.”
“Extremely obedient. It’s yours now.”
I led Grape away from the horse market, securing my satchel to both sides of the saddle. It stood quietly, not even twitching its neck.
Next, I entered an alchemy materials shop by the market. The owner was a middle-aged man in a purple vest, wearing a monocle, his eyes seeming to appraise every customer.
“A Witcher? Oh, welcome, welcome! Toussaint doesn’t see your kind every day.”
“I need celandine, drowners’ brains, bryonia, calcium... and a few empty potion bottles.”
He immediately turned and rummaged through the wooden shelves, muttering about recipes and precautions: “Some materials are high-priced in Beauclair. Are these for personal use or batch concoction?”
“Personal use. I’m not interested in blowing myself up.”
He smiled. “One hundred crowns total, a discounted price. I don’t overcharge customers like you.”
I packed up the materials and left, holding the reins.
The sun was just right. I led Grape to the “Lion and Rose” tavern by the street. Every tavern in Toussaint has a notice board, and Witchers know: the closer to the scent of wine, the easier it is to approach the stench.
I approached the wooden board, my fingertips tracing over the parchment sheets:
— “Duchess lost earring, willing to reward with gold ornaments”;
— “Old cat missing, suspected poaching”;
— “Blackvine Winery troubled by monsters, seeking a Witcher.”
The last paper had curled edges, and a red stamp indicated official registration. I tore it off and flipped it over to check the details.
“Which one interests you?” a gentle voice asked from beside me.
I turned my head. A man in a winery steward’s uniform stood in the sunlight, in his early thirties, with handsome features.
“Are you the client?”
“I am Renard Pierre, the steward of Blackvine Winery. Our master sent me to post a bounty, and I didn’t expect a Witcher to appear so quickly.”
“Tell me the situation.”
He led me aside: “In the south slope’s vineyard area of our winery, abnormal plant growth began appearing in the past week. Two workers have already gone missing. Someone saw a vine drag a goat into the ground.”
I frowned. “Has that area been disturbed recently?”
“The estate owner once hired outsiders to improve the soil, using a batch of ‘bio-fertilizer’ which supposedly mixed animal tissue and fungal spores.”
“Very fertile, even monsters have grown out of it.”
His face turned pale. “Do you know what kind of monster it is?”
“Most likely a mutated Giant Thorny Tree. It actively hunts and sprays corrosive sap.”
“Can you deal with it?”
“I need to confirm at the site.” I put away the note. “Payment?”
“Two hundred crowns, paid upon completion of the task. Plus ten bottles of our winery’s Beauclair White Wine, worth at least twenty crowns a bottle on the market.”
He handed me a letter: “This is an introduction letter from the winery owner. With it, the guards will let you into the estate.”
I swung onto Grape’s back. Grape neighed, and we set off onto the gravel path.
“You heard that too, my friend,” I murmured, “Looks like another late night.”
Blackvine Winery was located on the south hill of Beauclair, vast in its expanse. The trellises on the slope undulated like green waves, and the main manor, like a jewel embedded in the sunlight, quietly overlooked this fertile land. But as I approached, I smelled not the aroma of Grapes, but a hint of cold, damp air, like a rotten mold growing from the earth, seeping into my nostrils.
“Sir Witcher.” The estate guard recognized the letter in my hand and immediately opened the iron gate. “Steward Renard is waiting for you in the main house.”
I led Grape into the estate, as if stepping into the gap between two worlds: one, a champagne-colored afternoon; the other, a land drained of its vitality.
Renard stepped forward: “You’ve arrived just in time. The monster is near the south slope’s trellis area.”
“Is anyone guarding that area?”
“We have ordered people to evacuate and sealed off the area.”
“I need to go in and see.”
“Of course. This is a rough sketch the foreman drew this morning.” He handed me a crude drawing: in the picture, a vine as thick as a bucket emerged from the trellises, its end spiky, and the surrounding weeds were all withered.
I put away the drawing and murmured, “I need an old cloth, an oil lamp, and the fertilizer you recently acquired.”
“They’re all here.” He motioned for a servant to hand over the items. “Anything else?”
“No one to disturb me.”
I took the supplies and walked towards the south slope vineyard, while Grape remained quietly waiting by the distant grass. The trellis area under the sun looked calm, but in reality, it was a diseased patch. The grapevines were dark grey, their leaves blackened, and some had already rotted and fallen off. The soil was soft, like skin soaked in blood for too long.
I crouched down, picked up a pinch of mud, and brought it to my nose—a mixture of rotting flesh and fungal scent, along with a strong hint of plant toxins.
“It is indeed a Giant Thorny Tree,” I muttered to myself.
I mixed phosphorus powder, fertilizer, and oil, saturating a strip of cloth repeatedly, then tied it to an iron nail and hammered it into the edge of the trellis. The wind blew, the cloth fluttered, releasing an enticing scent.
“You smell it, don’t you?” I whispered, “I’m here.”
The ground trembled slightly.
In the distance, the vines swayed in the light, and a huge shadow slowly emerged from the depths. It didn't “grow” like ordinary plants; it “moved.” Every inch of land was controlled by its roots, every leaf sniffing out prey.
I retreated, drew my silver sword, and quickly drew a Quen Sign in the air with my right hand. A golden rune appeared, enveloping my entire body.
The next moment—
“Crash!” A vine suddenly burst from underground, a thorny tendril sweeping towards me.
I rolled to dodge, my blade striking its main root, but I only heard a “clang,” and the blade failed to cut it completely. It quickly retracted, then shot out another thorny vine, stabbing fiercely from behind.
I dodged sideways, simultaneously casting the Igni Sign. A stream of fire erupted from my palm, igniting its outer skin. The plant roared and retreated, the air filled with a mix of burnt and fishy stench.
I seized the opportunity to rush forward, my silver sword slashing down hard, severing a thick vine at its waist. Green sap spewed out, highly corrosive, and instantly produced white smoke when it landed on my shoulder guard.
“I need to end this battle quickly.” My heart tightened, and I pulled out a Dragon's Dream bomb, lit the fuse, and threw it.
Boom!
The bomb exploded at the monster's base, and reddish-brown flames quickly spread, instantly setting the vines ablaze. I took the opportunity to leap, stabbing my sword into its core root nodule.
The Giant Thorny Tree let out a low roar, as if the entire hillside was groaning. It thrashed its remaining tendrils wildly, trying to coil around me, to entangle my legs. I pulled out my sword and leaped back, rolling upon landing to create distance, then cast a second Igni.
The flames scorched the vine's surface, leaving it powerless to resist. I rushed forward, gripping the sword with both hands, and plunged the entire silver sword diagonally down through the root nodule—
—Pfft!
The sword tip pierced through the vine's core, sap splattering. It let out one last tearing wail, and its tendrils twitched, collapsed, and black sap flowed into the mud.
Silence, finally descended.
I knelt, panting, the Quen Sign shattered. My chest armor had a crack, and my skin was red, but not broken.
I stood up, confirmed there was no further movement, then wiped my silver sword clean and sheathed it on my back.
“The monster is dead,” I murmured.
Upon returning to the main house, Renard was waiting at the door. Seeing the fresh bloodstains on my sword, he immediately stepped forward.
“Is it over?”
“It’s over. It was a Giant Thorny Tree, catalyzed by corpse fertilizer. I’ve destroyed its root core.”
He sighed in relief. “The workers can sleep soundly tonight.”
I handed him a small sample of the root nodule I had collected: “Burn this land, and don’t use ‘improved’ fertilizer again before replanting. Otherwise, next time, it might not be plants that grow.”
He nodded, handing me a thick pouch: “Two hundred crowns, and five bottles of white wine are being packed, to be delivered shortly.”
I took the crowns, my tone calm: “Well done. I hope next time I come, it’s for a drink, not to kill monsters.”
Renard smiled in thanks: “Our Blackvine Winery will always welcome you.”
I mounted Grape and slowly descended the mountain path. The mountain breeze carried the scent of wine and earth, mixed with the lingering aftermath of battle.
The sun was setting in the west, the sky like an overturned pitcher of blood wine. I looked up, and in the distance, Beauclair’s bell tower and castle intertwined in the golden light, like the boundary between dream and reality.
“Let’s go, Grape,” I whispered, “We still have many places to go.”
Grape neighed and began the journey home.
And the commissions on the notice board continued to update.
