The Divine Hunter

The sun shone upon Marnadal. Blood-soaked Marnadal. Screams and shouts filled the air, and a gaunt figure was found darting through the corpses on the west side of the warzone. Quen covered his cloak, the look in his eyes as sharp as a falcon. He kept looking out for any magic signal that could appear.

A few hours had elapsed since he entered the battlefield, and Jerome had gone around the warzone twice. His clothes were drenched, and steam rose from the top of his hood. He managed to dodge countless bolts and even noticed the mages from Nilfgaard skulking across the battlefield, but Erland was still nowhere to be found.

“Did we decipher the mural wrongly?” A hint of disappointment filled his eyes. “Perhaps Erland won’t show up after all.”

A bolt whizzed past him, grazing his cheek, but Quen deflected it. And Jerome charged onward. “No, I have to go deeper.” As if by Destiny’s machination, a stroke of inspiration hit Jerome. The number. “The death toll. That must mean something to him. Don’t tell me he’s only going to show up in the thick of things. He’s going to show up where there are the most corpses, isn’t he?”

The fray was where death would descend on anyone at any time, but Jerome took a deep breath and steeled his resolve. He charged straight into the front lines, where Nilfgaard and Cintra were clashing the hardest.

The Nilfgaardian troops were trying to break through the wall of shields, but the moment they did, Cintra’s infantry would close in on them and take their lives with the stab of their spears. These soldiers were like beasts ensnared in the swamp. It was only a matter of time before they were devoured.

The battlefield was filled with weapons, armor, and horses. He could barely find any place to stand. Guess I have to do this. And so, Jerome leapt across the mountain of corpses like a dancer leaping across a stage made of blood and flesh.

A Nilfgaardian soldier attempted to stop him, but he didn’t even get to make a single move. Jerome shoved a Sign at him, and mana gathered in his palm before it charged toward the soldier in the form of an air current.

The soldier felt himself slamming into an invisible wall, and he toppled over. Jerome leapt over him and kept advancing into the fray. Just a moment later, a bunch of bloodied, armored soldiers tried to stop him. There was a split second when their attention was fixed on their real enemies, but that split second was all he needed.

Jerome crouched and weaved past the web of steel like an eel. After his second mutation, he could move at speeds faster than what the human eye could catch. The soldiers felt a grey silhouette zipping past them, but when they tried to have a closer look, there was nothing behind them.

The screams, the rain of arrows, the clashing metal, the corpses… None of those could stop Jerome’s footsteps. None could make him slow down. He naturally sustained a few injuries along the way, but he finally came to the center of the battlefield.

Nilfgaard had essentially turned their soldiers into a siege weapon. Their troops kept barging at Cintra’s line of defense, sacrificing their own with every attack. A path of blood extended far beyond that battle in the middle. Both sides had sustained casualties, countless corpses lying around them. Not an inch of empty space could be found.

Every time someone fell, another soldier would take their place. There was no way to retreat now.

Jerome had no place to stand, so he leapt onto the top of a Nilfgaardian soldier’s head and lightly tapped on his helm with his foot. Before he could feel anything, Jerome had leapt onto the head of another soldier. Just like that, he made his way across the death zone of the valley.

War was… cruel. Healthy men went in, and mangled corpses came out. The soldiers noticed Jerome, eventually, and they roared at him. The crossbowmen trained their weapons on him, for he was the perfect target to kill.

A rain of bolts came down on him, and swords were swung against him. Jerome managed to evade most attacks, but even the few that got through managed to break his shield. He was equipped with Kalkstein’s item, but even that was only enough to fend the attacks off for two seconds. And Jerome had already stopped making any Signs.

All he felt was the rain of arrows coming down on his back. First there was agony, but then there was nothing. He heard the murmurs of darkness echoing in his head, and exhaustion washed over him. He just wanted to let go of everything. To sleep. To sleep an eternal sleep, but the remaining drive in his mind kept him moving onward like a living corpse.

And then his medallion hummed. That woke him up from his stupor. Jerome felt his head freshen up, and a surge of life sprang forth in his body. He looked ahead only to see a silhouette in a purple cloak making his entrance. The silhouette stood among the troops, his cloak billowing in the wind.

Jerome couldn’t see his profile clearly, as it was covered by a hood, but the tense outline and wild amber eyes were familiar to him. He was the one Jerome had spent his life searching for. No matter what, Jerome would never forget him.

The cloaked man pushed his hand ahead, and a little earthquake rumbled the battlefield. A magnificent air current greater than anything Jerome had felt pushed away everything that stood between him and that cloaked man.

All the soldiers and horses in a ten-meter radius were blown sideways, clearing the immediate vicinity.

And then the cloaked man ran. Jerome followed closely, the gale almost cutting his face. The blood flowing from his wounds was creating a crimson path in his wake, and yet Jerome held on. He felt the crystal in his hand humming. Roy’s contacting me. But he let go of the crystal, refusing to answer. This is my destiny. I should face it myself.

“The code of our school? The virtue of knights and the mission to save the world. To make the world a better place.” Jerome asked, “So you traveled all these battlefields to achieve your goal? You’re the one who went to Haern Cadush, left the dog tag, opened the magic jar, and drew the mural?”

“Yes. Or to be precise, we did,” Erland confessed, but he didn’t elaborate.

***

“I’ll help you,” Jerome pleaded.

Erland kept his silence. A hint of disappointment flashed in Jerome’s eyes. He felt his strength leaving his body, and his mind was getting slower. “Am I not good enough to join you on your crusade?” Suddenly, he started talking about the past. “You’re right. I just graduated from the school a decade or so ago when my father managed to trick stupid little me and locked me up in his prison. I spent half my life in that hellhole, but when I finally got out, I didn’t know what to do.”

He held Erland’s hands tightly, worried Erland might disappear should he let go. He pressed his forehead against the back of Erland’s hands. Like a repenting sinner, he muttered, “My faith in the creed wavered, and I wasted my time like a fool. Decades of my time.” Blood trickled down his chin. “I’ve let you down. I’ve given up on the virtues of a knight.”

Erland listened silently. He passed no judgment on the repenting Jerome. All he had for him was acceptance. “No.” He held Jerome’s medallion. “All you need is time to heal, but Destiny didn’t give you that.”

Jerome sobbed, his negative emotions disappearing right away. The witcher fell forward and hugged Erland just like how he did the day he arrived at Kaer Seren. Just like how he did the day his brethren welcomed him with open arms.

He was muttering under his breath, his voice barely a whisper now. “I’ve given it a lot of thought, but the answer still eludes me. I did all the good I could’ve done, and yet misfortune still falls upon me. If that’s the case, then why do we put our faith in the creed? If justice does exist, then why do good people get punished, while the villains get to live their lives in comfort?”

Erland listened quietly, and then a gigantic cloaked man appeared behind Jerome. Erland shook his head.

“Did I do something wrong? Is that why the gods punished me so?” Jerome whispered into Erland’s ears. His pupils were starting to dilate.” Please, tell me.”

***

“Jerome, you are a Griffin. There’s no doubt about that.” Erland’s gaze pierced the woods and reached the valley of Marnadal. Then his eyes became bloodshot. It was almost like he could see the humans who were battling it out in the warzone, and that reminded him of something else.

Once again, he was reminded of that fateful night. The night where his home was buried under layers of snow. The night where he had to bury more than sixty of his brethren. He was reminded of the foolishness, the greed, and the grotesque malice shown by the mages, the church, and the peasants.

“The fault is not on you.”

Jerome finally got his answer, and tears streamed down his cheeks. A smile curled his lips, for he finally had closure. And that was his last smile. His pupils were dilated, his eyes losing their light. His head rested on Erland’s shoulder, but he was no longer breathing.

***

Erland held the battered, tattered corpse of his student, and a tear rolled down his cheek. The grandmaster put Jerome’s corpse down and raised his hand.

A crimson shard half the size of a human palm slept in his hand, its shape irregular. A gust of wind blew past the woods, and a sliver of black smoke rose from Jerome’s corpse. Then it housed itself in the shard.

“We shall realize the dreams of our school together, Jerome.” Erland opened a portal and leapt into it. His companion followed swiftly, then they both disappeared into thin air.

***

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