In an instant, everyone leapt back from where they were, forming a circle around Fred.
Danthe looked at Allen, who was slowly approaching Fred, then glanced at Vesemir, who—despite repeated alerts—remained vigilant and patient. He opened his mouth as if to speak but ultimately said nothing.
"Fred… Fred…"
Allen extended his right hand while softly calling out, his thumb and forefinger forming a triangle in the air as he cast a Quen shield upon himself.
Fred, lying motionless on the ground, didn't respond. The wolf medallion hanging over his chest swayed low above his body, giving no sign of warning.
Danthe raised an eyebrow and looked at Vesemir again.
Vesemir shook his head, raised his left index finger to his lips, and gripped his silver sword tightly in his right hand.
After calling out twice, Allen crouched down to inspect Fred.
Fred was breathing steadily, as if simply asleep. He lay on his side on the ground, with clear pressure marks on the leather armor covering his left leg, hip, back, and right arm.
The fine punctures along the grooves appeared to be made by thorned vines under magical control. Yet, the skin beneath the armor showed no significant wounds…
Wait!
Allen flared his nostrils slightly—he had picked up the scent of rust.
"If there aren't any large wounds, then why is the scent of blood so strong…"
Earlier, the blood from Danthe and Ice had masked it, but now that everyone had stepped back, the metallic tang in the air was suddenly as obvious as lice on a bald man's head.
Frowning, Allen followed the trail of the scent until his eyes fixed on Fred's neck, partially concealed by his disheveled hair.
The strong smell of blood was clearly coming from there.
With all eyes on him, Allen extended his right hand toward Fred's face.
Fred's eyes, though tightly shut, began trembling uneasily—as though sensing a threat even in his unconscious state.
"What is it that sensed the threat? The Leshen? Or Fred himself?"
Allen's eyes narrowed, and his hand halted mid-motion. As if in response, Fred's trembling eyes eased slightly.
A moment later—
"Snap!"
Allen swiftly retracted his hand and pulled out a wooden talisman from his collar, slapping it onto Fred's forehead in a flash.
"Yooo—!"
Fred's mouth flew open as he let out a bloodcurdling, deer-like screech.
His eyes, which should've been platinum-colored feline pupils, now glowed with a ghastly green light, glaring at Allen with hatred and fury.
The hair at the back of Fred's neck lifted, though there was no wind, revealing a gruesome wound glowing faintly with crimson light.
Looking closer, the wound formed the same deer-headed humanoid design as the Leshen's magical totem.
Fred thrashed and roared, clawing at Allen with both hands, trying to push him away.
In the next instant, Vesemir and Danthe came to their senses and rushed forward, each grabbing one of Fred's arms before he could strike Allen.
While the Leshen's strength certainly exceeded that of Vesemir and Danthe, in this possessed state it seemed limited to Fred's own body's capabilities.
The two witcher masters pinned Fred's arms down, forcing them deep into the soft, dark soil of the forest floor.
And then—
Vesemir smoothly handed off Fred's thrashing arms to Danthe, who held them firm, while he moved to restrain Fred's kicking legs.
In the blink of an eye, Fred—now a flesh-puppet possessed by the Leshen—was pinned to the ground like a heretic under an Inquisitor's brand. Helpless. Powerless.
"Yoo—!"
The Leshen, sensing its impending purging, howled with fury—rhythmic, guttural, and primal.
"Thrum! Thrum! Thrum!"
The insignias of all eleven Witcher schools pulsed wildly on the warriors' chests, like malfunctioning auspex units detecting warp corruption.
Deep within the forest, a chorus of howls answered—the wolves, perhaps drawn by the scent of chaos.
"Get out of Fred's body, you filthy abomination!"
Allen roared, eyes locked on those emerald beast-eyes—eyes too ancient and wicked to belong to any man.
With a defiant snarl, he ripped the protective amulet—bestowed by Archpriestess Ianna—from Fred's forehead and slammed it against the grotesque wound on the back of his neck.
"Ssssss—ssssss—"
The simple trinket, a trinity talisman of the Saint Melitele, now burned like a sanctified brand pressed to unclean flesh. Smoke curled up from the lesion—an unnatural sigil shaped like a deer's head fused with a humanoid torso.
"YOOOOOOO——!"
Fred's scream pierced the air like a banshee's wail, warping reality, threatening to rupture the eardrums of all present.
Klar and Clay, who had just stepped in to assist, were forced to retreat, covering their ears and bracing themselves against the psychic wave.
"OUT!" Allen growled, pushing harder, channeling power through the conduit of his will.
And then—without warning—his mutated organs, once stubborn and inert, responded. A stream of viridescent Witcher-energy surged through his nervous system, racing down his arm, into the talisman.
"Shriiiip—!"
It sounded like a blade rending sacred parchment.
In that instant, the amulet from Ianna blazed with golden radiance—blinding, pure, and divine.
"Praise the All-Mother… Goddess of Fertility, Harvest, and Birth… Guardian of the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone…"
The words rang out across the battlefield in layered chants. Over and over. Echo upon echo.
Every voice was Ianna's.
First, the playful irreverence of a young acolyte…
Then, the weary doubt of a mother struggling with faith…
Finally, the calm certainty of a crone who had seen lifetimes of worship.
It was as though decades of devotion had been condensed into this single moment, unleashed like a psychic backlash.
"Yoo…"
Fred, still beneath the hands of two Witcher lords, stopped struggling. The hateful green fire in his eyes flickered once—
Then died, like warpflame extinguished by holy incense.
The grotesque wound on the back of Fred's neck began to heal—visibly and rapidly.
Blood that had seeped out from his violent struggle dried and evaporated. The jagged scar sloughed off like dead bark from a tree. Even the pink, tender flesh beneath faded in seconds, becoming indistinguishable from the surrounding skin.
By the time Allen, Vesemir, and Danthe returned to themselves—pulled back from the echoing crescendo of that sacred canticle—the totemic wound shaped like a Leshen's sigil was completely gone.
"Clack~"
The golden brilliance of the talisman faded. The wooden charm slipped from Fred's neck, landing on the ground with a dull thud.
As if nothing had ever happened.
"Ding!"
A familiar system chime rang out in Allen's mind.
"Just now… what was that?" Danthe asked, still pressing down on Fred's now-limp, calloused hands, eyes fixed in disbelief on the unremarkable wooden talisman lying on the grass.
He didn't understand…
How could a Witcher—Allen—channel a divine force so immense, so radiant, through a mere piece of wood? It surpassed anything he had ever witnessed from the ordained priests of the Imperium's sanctioned cults.
"That voice… was that… the Archpriestess?" Vesemir added, still holding Fred's quiet legs, his usually stern face now lit with awe.
The two Witcher masters of the Wolf School, in uncanny synchronicity, had asked nearly identical questions—like mirrored fragments of a deeper, shared confusion.
There was almost something humorous about it.
Yet even the bravest among them—Ice and Clay—stood rooted to the spot, eyes fixed sharply on the talisman that had just radiated enough holy might to banish a daemon.
"It was the voice of Archpriestess Ianna," Allen said, bending down and picking up the charm.
He was just as surprised. He had suspected the temple's talisman might resist the Leshen's possession.
But he had not expected that his own latent mutagenic energy would resonate with the charm's divine matrix, awakening its dormant power.
And those prayers… Ianna's prayers…
So even the revered Archpriestess of the Melitele Temple had doubted. Had struggled. Her unwavering faith had not always been so.
Most of her life, it seemed, had been spent uncertain—her true devotion only occupying a sliver of it.
Allen re-threaded the talisman and slipped it back around his neck. After a moment of reflection, he gave a quiet order:
"Don't speak of the prayers… or what the talisman did… to the others."
Vesemir gave a curt nod of agreement. "Yes. Best it stays hidden."
The Archpriestess of the Melitele Cult—the largest religious institution on the Northern Continent—had apparently spent most of her life… not really believing in Melitele.
If that ever got out, it would be a cataclysmic scandal—on par with, no… even greater than the fall of the Kingdom of Kaedwen.
Erni, Klar, and the others exchanged confused glances, then nodded slowly in unison.
"Wait…" Danthe suddenly broke the silence. "That talisman—was it the Archpriestess of Melitele's? How the hell did you end up with something like that?"
A charm capable of such divine force could only be one worn close to the heart. There was no way a relic like that would be given away lightly.
And that voice in the prayer…
"Ianna was the Archpriestess of the Melitele Temple," Allen nodded. He glanced at Vesemir. "Right now, we're living at the temple. Hughes was rescued from the Pontar River by one of the priests there—accidentally."
"When Ianna was treating Hughes' wounds—surgery, healing, everything—she realized we might end up confronting some kind of dark god. So… she gave me the talisman."
"Ianna…" Danthe caught the real point.
"You know this already, Danthe…" Vesemir said. "Archpriestess Ianna was once Lady Vera's foster daughter. And Allen was Lady Vera's alchemy apprentice. After everything that happened between them… Ianna holds Allen in very high regard."
He knew exactly what was troubling Danthe.
If you ranked every human on the Northern Continent by influence—
Ianna of the Melitele Temple, the King of Temeria, the King of Redania, and the former King of Kaedwen would clearly belong to the first echelon.
Even Hen Gedymdeith, despite his personal strength, belonged to the second due to the fractured authority of the Lodge of Sorcerers.
The kings of Aedirn, Kovir, and Poviss, as well as the High Priest of the Temple of Kreve, all fit in that second tier.
Other minor monarchs, leaders of lesser cults, the dwarven elder Brouver Hoog of Mahakam, even Tissaia de Vries—the headmistress of Aretuza—were all part of the third.
As for the Grandmaster of the School of the Wolf, Sol… well, Vesemir meant no disrespect to his mentor, but the most optimistic ranking would place him somewhere in the seventh tier.
Even the dwarven bankers of the major clans had more political weight.
And Allen, despite his rising fame, didn't even make the list yet.
Ianna, on the other hand—even among the top—was the top.
To put it plainly: if Ianna ever decided to disregard the consequences for the Temple of Melitele and truly rally her followers, she could very well depose King Geydmar of Temeria.
And that is what Vesemir had meant by "holds him in high regard"…?
Danthe's mind was spinning with questions.
The Northern Continent operated under rigid hierarchy. Even if a commoner somehow managed to meet a king, they certainly wouldn't become friends like some fantasy from a bard's tale.
And Ianna, though famed for her humility and closeness to the people, was still the Archpriestess of a major cult. She had surely met countless peasants—but to gift a sacred talisman she had worn for decades?
That wasn't just affection—that was something else entirely.
Moreover…
Items worn close to the body by sovereigns or high clergy often held the authority to act in their name. Ianna's talisman, in many ways, was no different.
"What exactly happened to you all in Ellander?" Danthe couldn't help but press.
"A lot…" Vesemir fell silent for a few seconds, then sighed. "It's a long story. Let's wait until we find Bond—then we'll talk."
Hearing that, Danthe glanced at Allen, who looked completely unbothered. But inside, Danthe felt like someone was tickling his heart with a feather.
Just what exactly had Allen gone through after coming down from the mountains?
Why did everything somehow lead back to him?
And also…
The Leshen wasn't actually dead—it had possessed Fred. That was something not even the Witcher Codex or the chronicles of the School of the Wolf had ever mentioned…
"Is Fred safe now?" he asked cautiously.
"The Leshen's been eliminated," Allen nodded. "We're about to move ou—"
"Leshen!"
Fred, lying on the ground, suddenly opened his eyes and bolted upright, shouting in panic.
"It's over… it's over…" Allen gently patted his back, but just after a few strokes, his hand paused almost imperceptibly.
"A-Allen…" Fred's gaze sharpened as he stared at him in disbelief. "Why are you here…? Wait… Master Danthe… Master Vesemir…? Huh? And Erni, Klar…"
"They came to rescue us," Danthe pulled Fred up. "I'll explain everything later. Can you walk on your own? We still need to find Bond…"
"Ah… I—I can." Fred got up, clearly flustered, then suddenly remembered something and gasped, "Right! Bond… what about the Leshen? What about Hughes?!"
"Hughes is fine," Vesemir gave Fred's shoulder a reassuring pat. "As for the Leshen—it was taken out by Allen."
"Taken out by Allen?!!" Fred froze in shock.
Allen didn't respond. Instead, he leaned in, carefully studying Fred, and asked cautiously, "Do you feel anything strange? Any discomfort?"
"N-No…" Fred stretched his limbs and shook his head. "I've never felt better in my life…"
"Good." Allen nodded.
"You lucky bastard," Danthe said with feeling, giving Fred a hard slap on the back.
Using the Archpriestess of Melitele's talisman—one she had worn close for decades—to cast divine magic… well, of course he'd feel great.
With that kind of power… who even knew if the talisman could be used again?
Even if it could… it probably only had a few uses left.
"Alright, back in formation," Vesemir said. "If you've got questions, ask your mentor, Fred."
He chuckled, then turned to Allen and asked, "Shall we head out now?"
Allen took one last glance at the spot where Fred had just been lying, looked thoughtfully at Fred again, then gave a firm nod:
"Of course."
With a flick of intent, he activated "Track," and led the group onward in search of Bond.
Yet right where Fred had just been lying…
On the smooth grass, a small vine had sprouted—only as long as an index finger, as thick as a pinky, and covered in tiny barbed thorns. It definitely didn't belong there…
....
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