The Divine Hunter

The temple’s silence was broken. A saw of flames flew in the courtyard, burning the carriage, charring it. Snow on the ground evaporated, turned into mist. Sunlight shone through them, and rainbows formed. The statue of Lebioda was tilted, gleaming from the shine of the flames. A stallion lay on the snowy ground, neighing in pain, despair filling its eyes.

Not a word was exchanged. The witcher and monster were battling to the death. A Dragon’s Dream exploded beside the werelion, and slithering snakes of flames licked the tattered clothes and golden fur of the beast. A furious roar tore through the air, and the walls around rumbled. The beast leapt high into the air, its hair raised on ends, its claws pointed at the witcher.

Flowers of flames danced in the howling winds, but they were extinguished by the air spraying out of the beast’s pores. Carl leapt away like a matador pulling a piece of red cloth away from a rampaging bull. With his left leg as a pivot point, the witcher quickly spun, and the werebeast crossed him just like that.

Still, being a feline creature, Rumachi acted fast enough, lashing its claws out the moment he passed the witcher. Quen shattered, and Carl staggered. The werebeast quickly turned and craned its neck. It opened its maw wide and snapped its poisonous incisors shut. They were only an inch away from the witcher’s throat, and Carl could smell the pungent breath spraying onto his face.

The young witcher leapt backward and shoved a blast of Aard at his enemy. The werebeast was blasted away, leaving a line on the ground, but the werebeast was as agile as it was strong. Once again, it pounced ahead.

Carl crouched, purple Yrden lighting up underneath him, and he pointed his blade at the werebeast’s heart. The flames and sun shone on the steam drifting in the air. Carl’s face was covered in black veins, and there was determination in his eyes. He faced the towering silhouette pouncing down at him, standing up to the intimidating attack.

And the witcher darted ahead, thrusting his blade at his enemy. Metal clashed with claws, and sparks rained like waterfalls from the point of impact.

The fighters split, but Carl staggered backward by three steps, and he almost lost his bearings. The werebeast barely took a step back.

Next moment, the fighters once again launched into another round of attack. The werebeast swung its arms shut, riling up winds. It tried to catch the small witcher in its arms, but the countless evasion and Yrden practice saved Carl. He crouched and darted from the werebeast’s underarms to its back, like a ferret escaping a lynx.

The witcher’s muscles tensed, and he thrust his blade ahead. Blood splattered. Half the sword was buried in the lower back of the werebeast, but the tough muscles stopped it from going any further. Carl couldn’t pull it out either, but the silver hurt the beast, and the oil and toxin seeped into its bloodstream. Smoke billowed from its wound, as if it were on fire. The werebeast froze for a moment from the pain, and it couldn’t turn as fast as it wanted to.

It’s an opening! The witcher let go of his blade’s hilt, but he didn’t retreat. Instead, he did something risky. The witcher quickly circled in the direction the werebeast was turning in, like a cunning hyena trying to attack a lion from behind. He could feel the werebeast’s swaying mane almost touching his cheeks.

Carl touched the werebeast’s back with his left hand for a moment, and he pulled back right away. A small marble the size of a thumb stuck to its back, pointing at its heart. He then quickly pulled the hilt out with his right hand, but he failed.

He paid the price for his greed.

A suffocating silhouette pounced at him, winds screaming around it. An arm, strong as a tower, slammed into Carl’s chest, and power exploded from the impact. As if blown away by an explosion, Carl hurtled across the courtyard and crashed into the statue. Already tilted from the carriage’s crash, the statue finally fell. Blood blossomed on the ground as the neighing horse was smashed into mincemeat.

The witcher lay weakly in Lebioda’s open arms, his pupils dilating. Blood and chunks of his innards flew out of his mouth and nose. His chest was caved in, and he was barely breathing. His face was the color of a headstone.

The statue was split in two. On its base was a web, where the statue of a lionhead spider lay. The statue’s mouth was open wide, greedily sucking in the blood of the witcher.

“Breathe in… breathe out…”

“Foolish, powerless mutants. I told you this is where you would face your doom. But do not worry. Death is the only constant. I, generous Rumachi, will send you back to death’s embrace.” The werebeast rubbed its head out of habit and let out a bizarre laugh. He strode over to the witcher, thrusting its claws at the witcher, as if he were going to split a watermelon.

Carl rolled off the statue and landed beside the werebeast’s foot, staring at its back in a daze. The werebeast raised its leg, but the weakened witcher lay on the ground, muttering something under his breath, and an ugly smile curled his lips.

“Farewell.” He clumsily raised his left hand, and the green of Axii hit Rumachi’s eyes. The werebeast was stunned for a fraction of a second, but the crimson Sign on Carl’s right hand was already shining like the sun.

A stream of flames charged from the witcher’s palm, slithered up the werebeast’s left leg, and hit the clay bomb on its back.

The temple rumbled, and a crater was blown on the snowy ground. Flames roared across half the courtyard, turning it into a forest of fire, but it lasted for only moments.

When the flames died down, a mangled witcher was standing in the crater, holding a crimson bottle with his mouth, pointing his blade at the werebeast, though it was already out of commission.

Something was happening to the young witcher. The burns on his body were starting to grow new, perfect skin, just like a baby’s. His broken bones started to wriggle and mend themselves, while flesh grew from his many wounds, healing themselves in the blink of an eye.

The werebeast, however, was in the opposite state. It was blasted in half by the bomb, its body broken and shattered from the chest down. Its legs fell somewhere nearby. Yet the life force of a cursed one was strong. The werebeast was still hanging on to life, if only by an inch. Its head was charred from the flames, but it was staring at the witcher standing over it. There was no fear in its eyes. An icy smile curled its burned visage. “Don’t get too smug. The battle’s not over yet. I await you on the web of the Great Weaver.”

Carl sliced the werebeast’s head, and it flew down the ground, leaving a bloody trail behind it.

“Until next time, partner.” Carl looked at the prayer room and heaved a long sigh. He wiped the blood from the back of his sword. The words ‘strike evil where it stands,’ were glimmering, as if it were nourished by something.

***

Let’s turn back to a few minutes ago.

The candlelight in the prayer room was flickering from the gusts of wind. Dino roared and smacked Acamuthorm five yards away. The witcher crashed into a wooden table, and the knapsack behind him fell to the ground.

The pigs, snapped awake by the roar, quickly grabbed any clothing they could find. They covered their naked bodies and screamed for help like damsels in distress as they ran toward the door.

The priestess stood at the entryway, staring at the invading witcher coldly, her gaze filled with hatred and venom, and she chanted a curse under her breath.

The tortured orphans received their commands. They got up from the sopping chairs and rugs like marionettes. Quickly, they huddled around Daisy. The pigs went stiff, and they hung their heads low.

Only Angouleme remained stunned under the altar. Perhaps destiny had decreed it so, and the knapsack that fell from the witcher’s back rolled over to her, revealing a pair of skeletons within.

This is… Her hair, drenched with sweat, stuck to her shoulders, shivering. Her pupils contracted, and sorrow crawled onto her face. She clenched her teeth, struggling and fighting. Her face was contorted, and rivulets of sweat covered her forehead. It was as if the girl were fighting some invisible power.

She bit her tongue, and the pain kept her awake. She held the knapsack in her arms, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Pamela, Cyria, we’re together again. This time, I’ll take you two away from here.” She tied the knapsack to her back and picked up a broken table leg. The girl hid it in her pants, determination flaring in her eyes, and she hobbled quickly toward the entryway.

Acamuthorm quickly made a blue Sign with his left hand, shoving the pouncing monster away with a current of air. The witcher looked around in dismay, breathing heavily. The place was dim and dark, like a hellish prison. Pressure came swimming at him from all directions, crushing his head.

The priestess and the children were giving him killer looks, and he almost suffocated from it. Dino the werebeast was snarling and flailing at him. It stood before the priestess like an insurmountable mountain. The only way out of this stalemate was his bomb, but that would cost so many lives.

A drop of sweat trickled down his chin. As if speaking directly into his head, the witcher heard an eerie voice talk.

Run. Escape. You have lost your chance. You cannot emerge triumphant.

The witcher leapt into the air, holding his sword with both hands. He swung the blade down at the werebeast, the edge arcing down like a crescent moon. Acamuthorm heard a majestic roar echo through the air. The oil and silver sent agony screaming across its body.

Once again, the werebeast flung the witcher away. He felt a surge of strength slamming him away, and Dino tore a bloody gash on the left side of Acamuthorm’s face. The witcher’s weapon was sharp enough to cleave a lion in two, and yet it only left a small mark on Dino’s arm.

You will perish.

Acamuthorm’s palms were covered in sweat. Once again, the voice that egged him to his defeat rang in his head. The witcher saw Angouleme hobbling into the crowd. She hung her head low, the look on her face vacant. She too had been assimilated.

Without hesitation, he took out the crimson bottle from his pouch and took a swig. The veins on his face bulged further, and his blood roared in his veins. Finally, it pushed down the craven voice speaking into his head.

Every disturbance he felt melted away. Only him, his weapon, and his enemy were left in his world. The witcher let out a roar as he held his blade up and battled the werebeast.

A feral battle began. The fighters did not attack with any grace or elegance. They only battled with their instinct. Acamuthorm spun and swung his blade, opening a gash on the werebeast’s waist, and blood spilled from the wound.

Dino shattered the witcher’s Quen and sliced the artery on his neck open. Blood splattered all over Acamuthorm’s mad, icy face. The witcher did not stop. As if he wasn’t injured, the witcher darted across the werebeast’s underarms like a cat and thrust his weapon up into the monster’s armpit.

In pain, the werebeast turned and slammed the witcher into the ground, but to its shock, the wound on the witcher’s neck had already healed. Acamuthorm swung his blade and closed in on his enemy.

The fighters clashed time and time again, leaving wounds on their enemy’s body, throwing away their safety and letting their enemy injure them. They were like ravenous beasts tearing away at each other.

Every time they clashed, blood, fur, and chunks of flesh flew everywhere. In a few moments, the witcher’s arm and shoulders were already torn away, revealing the bones within. Half his face was torn open by the barbs on Dino’s tongue, and his chest was caved in.

The werebeast was like a waterskin filled with holes. Blood spurted from the wounds hidden underneath its fur. Blood and flesh had formed a pool and little streams underneath the fighters’ feet, and the rug was swiftly dyed red.

The tables, however, had turned. The higher vampire decoction granted Acamuthorm powerful regeneration, and he remained as strong as ever, and the werebeast’s strength was quickly slipping away from it, affected by the oil and toxin coursing through its veins.

Realizing things were getting worse, Daisy clasped her hands before her chest and started praying with devotion, “Grayba the Black, I pray to you. I beseech you, encompass my enemy in misery and misfortune.”

An invisible wave of magical energy swam through the prayer room. Angouleme had been hiding in the crowd, biding her time. Her eyes lit up. She quietly took out her weapon and squeezed through her stiff companions.

And she thrust her weapon into the priestess. Blood splattered everywhere. The table leg punctured Daisy’s belly. She howled and curled up like a cooked prawn, and she almost bit off her tongue. The prayer stopped.

Angouleme grinned. She then thrust the table leg into Daisy’s eye, but one of the pigs stood before Daisy, though not out of his own volition. The table leg punctured his neck, and he fell into the crowd, howling.

***

The priestess’ screams caught Dino’s attention. He gave up fighting the witcher and dragged his battered body away, running toward the priestess.

It made one big mistake, however. The werebeast left its back wide open for the witcher, and Acamuthorm seized this chance perfectly.

Every movement he made from that moment on stemmed from his battle instincts. They were precise, accurate, and deadly. He quickly ran after the werebeast, channeling the strength from his hands, neck, back, lower back, and legs into one point, and the witcher thrust his most powerful attack ahead.

His blade lashed out at the air like lightning, and it pierced the left side of the werebeast’s back. The witcher heard the werebeast’s heart being punctured.

Dino came to a sudden halt. It covered the hole in its chest, as if it were trying to mend a hole in a boat. Its legs buckled, and it fell into the pool of blood.

Acamuthorm pulled his blade out and took another step ahead. A terrifying gasp exploded in the air. He swung his weapon, and the blade flashed silver.

An ugly head, still spilling blood, rolled over to the priestess. Dino was bleeding from every hole on its face, its eyes still wide open, even though it was dead.

For a moment, silence fell upon the prayer room, and then, green, shapeless flames burst into the air.

The children’s faces were swaying violently in the icy flames, and the children themselves were spasming, as if they were having fits. Their limbs were straight, but their joints were turning and bending. Cracks rang out in the air. The children were going through some kind of eerie transformation, and Angouleme was not spared from it either. She stood in front of the priestess like a marionette, spasming violently.

Daisy held up the bloody lion’s head and placed it before her face, replacing her beautiful mask. It was as if she had a lion’s head. And then, eight spider legs, sharp as swords, appeared on the wall behind her.

The lion head started to blink. Green flames shot out from its eye sockets. It had a solemn, sacred look, staring at its surroundings apathetically, as if it were a god looking down at humans.

When the lion head looked at Acamuthorm, the witcher stood still, as if he were thunderstruck. He couldn’t move, and breathing itself was a difficult task.

“Pestilent witcher,” the head said, a majestic voice ringing through the room. It was a voice made up of thousands of different voices, echoing in all layers of space. The spider legs stretched out straight, resembling an open web. “Repent in eternal pain.”

***

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