C38: Daddy's Home

After some back-and-forth, Triss ultimately decides, against her better judgment, to place her trust in me and set about crafting the artifact. I'd have asked her outright for the Spell, but knowing Nasu, there'd likely be some contrived reason it wouldn't work… A Mystic Code built to last, however…

If the alien technology of the Machine Gods functioned as intended, I see no reason why the mystical relics from the Outworlds won't.

Unfortunately, a key ingredient meant to bind the entire Spell together is missing, which is why I've found myself on the hunt for a Doppler's heart. Easier said than done, for the Doppler's transformation is no mere illusion—it's a complete cellular-level restructuring of their very anatomy, rendering even [Mimir's Eye] powerless to detect them.

The only Doppler I know for a fact is currently in Novigrad is Dudu, but he's a competent businessman whose assistance I shall require later… After I've twisted Whoreson Junior's head off like a plastic cap.

'Maybe he'll know an evil Doppler.' Last I check, there are supposedly a whole bunch of them lurking amongst the commonfolks of Novigrad. There has to be at the very least one irredeemable—reprehensible Doppler out there whose heart I can harvest without remorse, right?

While going to see Whoreson Junior, likely the only person who keeps track of Dudu's location, I catch sight of the public board where contracts are posted. 'It can't hurt to check.' There's a contract for a Succubus; several for Mages and a dozen more for Alchemists and Herbalists, but no Doppler. "Worth a shot…"

Tugging my cloak's hood tighter, I turn my ears into finely-tuned instruments, ready to catch the juiciest gossip.

"He's burying the bone in her, I swear! I can feel it in my—"

Nope, not my circus, not my monkeys.

"Betsy… Gods bless Betsy and her rac—"

Still not biting.

"How do you pledge your life to a woman, then let a man bend you over!"

I almost choke on my own tongue.

"Who said anything about me bending?!"

Now that's a visual I wasn't prepared for.

"So, you're the one doin' the bending? Is that supposed to make me feel better?! Just tell me the truth, Marvin! Did you, or did you not, kiss me after having another man's in your mouth!"

I practically fold in half, fighting with all my might to stop the laughter bubbling in my chest. But it's the woman's heartbroken sobs that truly send me over the edge. 'You can't laugh, Leo. It's a tragedy, Leo. It's not socially acceptable, Leo.' I chant to myself.

Novigrad's one Hell of a vacation spot.

Alas, my ears tune into something more worthwhile. "—It seems the man's wife bore witness to him stealing their saving. When she sought to intervene, he suffocated her. Spared not even the children. Only the youngest lived past the night."

"The Gods be merciful…"

"Oh, but get this!"

The man lowers his voice in a hushed tone. "When the culprit was apprehended, he claims no recollection of the events, insisted he was framed for the murder!"

"Old Yggsil? He'd never! That man dares not kill a fly, let alone his family!"

"It's very… Very…" The man falters over the word. "Confidential! That's what my brother said! There have been five similar occurrences in the past three months! People are observed committing crimes, but when apprehended, they always have an alibi! Some were even spotted hundreds yard from the crime scene—"

"You're spouting nonsense again, Sigmon!"

"It's the truth, I swear! My cousin, the inquisitor, told me."

Ah, the medieval version of 'Trust me bro.'

"They suspect one of those vile… Magicals to be behind it—"

I have my target.

It doesn't take much effort to pinpoint an inquisitor. The streets are teeming with them—some incognito, others flaunting their meager authority over the common folk. After selecting a random unfortunate inquisitor and extracting the information straight from his mind, I head to the crime scenes.

[Hypnosis] sweeps away most of the obstacles with remarkable efficiency and speed.

No detours, no side quests—just a beeline to the task at hand.

All clues point to one Mister Jkall Nikovishta, who resides near the river that snakes through Novigrad.

Rapping on the door, I wave at the terrifying figure who answers.

On his face is a worn-out eyepatch, while littering his arms are tattoos of swords, shields, skulls and oddly enough a strangely, almost cartoonishly-disproportional blonde. I certainly understand why they all avoid speaking ill of him even while hypnotized. I'd not dare either, if not for the fact I'm fairly certain I can knock Mr. Jkall out with naught but a slap.

"Mr. Nikovishta?"

The hulk of a man grunts, annoyance thick in his voice. "What do you want, brat?"

"I followed a trail of footsteps here… Really small footsteps that suddenly grew thrice in size midway. Could you imagine that?"

"I can't," Nikovishta replies, but despite his effort, his body still betrays him with subtle tells.

Very few can truly master such deceit.

Smirking, I call out his bluff. "Is that so? Is Nikovishta even your real name, Changeling?"

Doppler, Changeling—these creatures have been known by many names throughout history. In the Witcher-Verse, however, they are far less terrifying than the tales of Earth. They, in essence, resemble miniature humans with a side pinch of garden gnome DNA thrown in the mix for good measures.

The Doppler's face contorts in different stages of realization, each shift taking mere milliseconds as the full impact hammers into his brain. "You little shi—" He explodes, hand whipping up in a blur of motion. The strike, backed by surprising force, is sadly still bound by the sluggish constraints of flesh and bone.

Limitations I, thankfully, haven't been as burdened by for quite some time.

I glide under his clumsy swing, a ghost passing through shadows, and tap his ribs with a 'feather-light' touch. Like a house of cards, the man crumples, an Eminem-worthy string of curses and groans spilling from his lips.

With the Doppler's guilt confirmed, I decide to orchestrate a small play—a very public 'failure' that ought to prove the accused innocent.

The moment he returns, my fist shoots forward, plunging through his stomach and swiftly tearing out his beating heart at such a speed, I doubt he can even register the pain. "Yo- You promised!"

Groaning, his accusatory gaze stabs into my torso as I squat beside his body and blink innocently. "I lied, duh." His hatred for humans had run so deep, I knew I couldn't make him cooperate without a little deception to ease his mental resistance at the idea. "You- You said we could coexist, human and us Dopplers…!"

"We can," I calmly reply. "Just not while a murderous serial killer with the ability to turn into anyone he wants is running around."

Eyes bulging in shock, he breaths his last, clawing at the air as I beat a hasty retreat to Triss' hideout, bracing myself for yet another scathing argument between the owners. The wife clearly resents our presence, and while I do share the same distaste for her, her reaction is completely understandable given the tense climate in the Free City.

The husband, on the other hand, vehemently opposes the decision, though I suspect his motivation stems not from any real empathy for Mages, but is instead fueled by the substantial and consistent stream of gold the Sorceress is literally breaking her back to provide them on a monthly basis.

Ignoring the couple's antic, I skip up the stairs, pushing into the room where said Sorceress is brewing a potion in peace, as if oblivious to the fighting downstairs.

Probably learnt to tolerate it, no doubt.

"Oh, Ms. Merigold! I got the Doppler's heart!"

Took two whole days, but it'd be two days well-spent if she has the finished product today. "Where did you—never mind, I don't want to know. Give it here."

Silently handing her the pouch, still dripping with the crimson fluid, I remain by her side, eyes fixed on her deft fingers as they trace glowing lines over the amulet, a ritual that will grant me the long-sought prize of adulthood. "Do you mind?" Triss suddenly speaks, her focus never straying once from the task.

"Oh, apologies. Would you like some privacy?" I offer.

Us Magi do tend to guard the secrets of our Craft jealously…

I can only assume Mages are no different.

Knowledge is power, the kind of power we magical scientists crave with a desperate and ravenous hunger.

"Feel free to watch, but your constant jittering is quite… Distracting. You wouldn't want me to mess up, right?"

I get to watch? 'Perfect!'

I've been itching to create a Mystic Code for ages…

Maybe some armor?

Perhaps a unique design inspired by the varied armors of the different Witcher Schools?

"Still jittering."

"Right," I whisper apologetically. "Sorry."

Vibrant sparks flicker before me, but oddly, I can't decipher their purpose.

Typically, there's a method to such magic, at least in the Nasuverse. All I see is her slathering an oil-black concoction on the amulet, murmuring a few incomprehensible words, and then the runes—etched by her nails earlier, suddenly ignite with a radiant glow. 'I forgot…'

This planet's still stuck in its equivalence of the 'Age of Heroes', where much of the earlier sparks of Phantasmal still exist—where the magicals roam wild.

The Magic they use is fundementally different than mine, which really begs the question: How am I using Magecraft at all?

Triss hums softly as a cloud of magical motes swirls out from the amulet.

"Is that a good sign?" I ask.

Nodding in confirmation, the Sorceress deftly picks up a vial of mercury and pours it into the amulet's gem. "I need your blood," She states, and as sudden as

With Senza Esitazione appearing in my hand, I quickly slice my palm, letting a stream of red drip onto the amulet. One final spark, and the amulet begins to ignite brilliantly. "It's done. Put it on."

I wonder if this is what Shirou often experiences with [Trace]; just a perplexing jumble of letters and numbers, like disjointed magazine clippings randomly pieced together. "Will this affect my strength or lifespan?" I ask.

"It shouldn't," Triss replies. "It simply grants you the ability to change your shape, that's all. Go on, try it!"

Putting the amulet around my neck, I snort as it hangs to my belly-button, hence I take it out and wrap it loosely around my forearm first. "Do I just inject Od into it or—"

"The way you usually do."

So Od and intent, then.

A pulsating sensation tugs at the core of my being, a peculiar sensation that is neither entirely discomforting nor wholly comforting. It's a curious experience, one that defies simple description.

With rapt attention, I observe as my arm extends, the muscles surging and swelling, until the fabric of my garments can no longer contain the transformation, tearing away in shreds. I look at Triss, who's now even shorter than I am, and do the only thing I should—yell: "DADDY'S HOME!!!" Then, I cackle like I have just won the lottery, dancing with a thrill I didn't know I was capable of. "Perhaps you should, uhm, put on something first."

"Oops… Don't suppose you have clothes that fit me?" I ask, surveying my transformed physique.

Triss drawls awkwardly, "Some of mine are quite stretchy… But unless you don't mind wearing women's clothes…"

"Oh… That won't do." I muse.

Kirei was right, even if I'm no good at Shiro's specialty, it does come in handy.

With a thought, I conjure a simple linen shirt, underpants and loose, almost oversized linen pants to cover myself.

Hurrying downstairs in search of Ciri, I find encounter the old woman instead, who hisses at me, until recognition dawns as she catches sight of my green eyes. "You're—"

"It's me." I greet lightly.

"How did you—?"

"Magic."

"Oh,"

Whispering, she tosses one leg over the other, chewing on a stale biscuit dipped in sugary peppermint tea. "News just came in, your friend got into an altercation with Whoreson Junior…"

"Whoreson—?" I start to question.

"One of the four Crime Lords." She explains, then warns sternly. "We never had this conversation."

Taking a deep drag of the dried tobacco leaves, her gaze points at the door as she waves me off.

Ciri should be able to handle Whoreson Junior's thugs with ease, shouldn't she? They're probably the most inept foes in the game, after all… "I'd love to show her this though." After some searching, I finally pinpoint her last known whereabouts to the Nowhere Inn, an establishment set dead in the heart of Whoreson's territory.

— [ToI] —

Ducking under a vicious strike, Ciri counterattacks, slicing through one thug and bisecting him, sending his innards spilling onto the ground.

He's the fifth foe she's dispatched today alone, and despite her rigorous training, she lacks the mutations that define a true Witcher.

Ciri's physicality is simply lacking—she's weaker, slower, and fatigue sets in much quicker. The Witcheress has learned to bridge this gap with the Elder Blood, yet her most potent attribute summons a cadre of Elves who wish for her to bear their King's heir, a fate she—quite understandably—seeks to avoid.

While she can outpace them if she truly desires, perpetual flight just isn't sustainable.

Furthermore, the Wild Hunt is notorious for exploiting hostages for their purposes.

They enslave anyone they deem inferior—human, dwarf, every species eventually falls victim.

Even for someone who craves adventure, she can't remain constantly on the run, nor can she impose this life on those she loves.

Perhaps that's why she finds such solace in the Mage's presence…

Geralt, Yen, Triss, Vesemir… Bless their hearts, they are walking forces of nature, but even they can fail. Ciri has witnessed their failures, watched them get hurt time and time again, often because of her. But the Mage? He seems… Infallible.

Ghouls, Nekkers, Drowners, Fiends… They're nothing to him.

Even the Crones, those ancient evils that have tormented humanity since time immemorial were ripped apart in minutes.

'If he were here...'

The thought—the distraction results in a nick which snaps the Witcheress out of her thought. Grimacing, Ciri turns on her heels and escapes into an alley.

"It's a dead end, you dumb whore!"

One of the thugs jeers, spitting in his palm.

Their boss craves a novel diversion today—a young woman with a tad more… 'Fervor' in her spirit, and Ciri—unlucky as her is—crossed his line of sight earlier.

"Maybe after he's had his fun, we will get to 'sample' her charms as well."

"It is a dead end," Which is exactly what Ciri needs to turn the table.

Out in the open, they can encircle the Witcheress and siege her down, but here, there's only one-way in and out—one front she must defend. There are around twenty thugs crowding her way out, "You can handle them, Ciri." She cheers herself up. The Witcheress has killed people twice the men these scums are, and beasts twice—at times thrice their size during her travel.

'With Magic…' An insidious voice whispers in her ear—Ciri's.

Shaking it away, the Witcheress tightens her grip on Ziraeal.

She'll make quick work of them, as always.

In one swift, graceful maneuver, she launches herself into the fray, her sword singing in the air.

The first thug foolish enough to lunge at her, meets a swift and unceremonious end as the Witcheress' blade slices cleanly through his throat.

Without pausing once, she pivots, parrying a clumsy strike from another assailant and riposting with a devastating blow that cleaves the wooden club he wields in twain.

Another swing detaches the second thug's arm from his torso, while the third gets the legs swept out from under him.

The fourth thug, however, manages to break past her guard and wrestles her to the ground. Barely reacting in time, Ciri skewers the burly assailant with a well-placed thrust of her blade.

Unfortunately, a few seconds on the ground in the midst of a fight is a few seconds too long. Just as she is about to turn to the Elder Blood's power before they can dogpile her, something loud echoes in the alleyway— "I'VE COME TO SPREAD DEMOCRACY AND CAPITALISM…! HAND OVER YOUR OIL AND YOU SHALL BE SPARED FROM THE MASSACRE!!!"

The voice's familiar, but different somehow—older.

"Leo?"

For who else could it be?

— [ToI] —

Drunkenly, the thugs wander towards the underground fighting pit their boss had mentioned he'd be visiting for the night, their minds scrambled and rended apart to the point they can barely form coherent words.

They are aware only in the vaguest sense, their sentience barely flickering as other thoughts are ruthlessly shoved aside in favor of three very simple commands. It is a wonder the security even allow them entry at all, though this is hardly the first time inebriated fools have stumbled through these doors.

In fact, it is not even the first time today.

"Took you bastards long enough! Where's that girl?" The voice of their master booms, impatient and drunken.

The first command: Cripple and secure their old boss, prioritizing lethal force if these criteria cannot be met.

Like mindless zombies, they draw their weapons and rush towards the source of the familiar voice.

The rest of Cyprian Wiley's best soldiers instantly draw their blades in response, but humans who are gripped by fear can scarcely hope to prevail against puppets possessed of few thoughts and almost no fear.

Though the number of mindless thralls is halved in the resulting altercation, they have nonetheless succeeded in their mission to a degree.

Towering over the prostrated form of one Cyprian Wiley, the remaining puppets rush forth, holding the screaming man down. "YOU FUCKING FUCKTARDS! DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?!"

"""Break his arm so he may not resist.""" They echo in unison, snapping Whoreson's elbows, seemingly oblivious to the man's agony, which he makes no effort to hide, roaring like a rabid animal.

"""Snap his legs so he may not run.""" Delicious crunches fill the sewer cavern, adding further to the screams.

"""Cut out the tongue which tells only lies and threats.""" In time, even his cries start to falter, too drained by the agony, the hemorrhaging, the sheer hopelessness…

"""Rip out the eyelids, make him see,"""

And can one really blame him?

"""The depths of his downfall, crushing, free!"""

He has fallen from being one of the most notorious Crime Lords to a cripple who no longer holds the reins of his own life-and-death. What cruel irony… It'd have been better if they had just killed him. Paraded through the street, Whoreson Junior's forced to watch as flickers of recognition, of fear; hate and even satisfaction—especially satisfaction—flash in the eyes of the locals.

No one tries to stop them…

Not even the men he pays and feeds—who enjoys his luxuries, for it is obvious even to these lowly simpletons that Cyprian's end is imminent, ans it is high-time they jump ship.

At last, a contingent of Redanian soldiers attempt to intervene, but they are ruthlessly cut down by the puppets.

It doesn't take long for the commotion to catch the eye of the witch hunters and even more Redanian soldiers.

They too fall victim to the blades of the madmen.

The clash rages on for what feels like eternity for Whoreson, as he is dragged; carried then dropped like a bloody sack on the dock where the King he serves resides. Losses mount on both sides, leaving only a single puppet before the King of Redinia, surrounded on all sides by soldiers who're horrified by the sight.

One is enough… More than enough.

It is in a sorry state, its midsection rent asunder, thighs gashed, face battered, and torso marred by countless cuts.

Yet, despite the trembles which run through its every limb, it stands straight…

"Ra- RadovId, heeD My mEssAge!"

It croaks, its attempt to mimic the same sardonic humor of its new master falling tragically flat.

Lacking the knowledge, experience, and memory of human interaction, the puppet's ersatz performance comes across more like a monster posing as a person, but it is no beast or monster… It is nothing but a messenger.

"I'm- I comInG fOr yOu!"

It points, putting on a lipless grin before collapsing on its knees, blood pouring out of its eyes and ears, dead.

If there's any lesson to be had here, then it's: Don't ever fuck with Mages, though perhaps it has come too late for the Redanian King.

— [ToI] —

I did not actually resort to violence against the thugs. Instead, I utilized a more convenient approach—hypnotizing them to first cripple Whoreson Junior, and then parade his body through the streets.

The final order is to bring the crippled dog back to Radovid's ship and deliver my message. Isn't hypnosis just so handy? It may have a shitty reputation, but damn, it's effective. "If he dies, the power vacuum—"

"The other Crime Lords will divide Whoreson's territory... It'll be a bloody affair for all involved,"

I cut her off, blinking innocently at Ciri. Granted, I may have added a bit too much flair at the end there, but... Method acting, you know? "But would you have really preferred he live?"

After a brief pause, the Witcheress sighs. "You're right."

"Aren't I always?" I shrug, a self-assured smile on my lips as I rest my forearm on her head. "Guess who's taller than you now?"

"Leo…" She says cautiously, backtracking as my hand rests on her head. "Don't—!"

Playfully, I mess up her hair, laughing as she wrenches my hand away.

Stumbling in my arms, Ciri tries to fight the smile and fails miserably.

"You're… Not bad looking."

"Just 'not bad'? Should I be offended?" I tease, tucking a strand behind her ear.

"If I feed your ego any more than that, it's gonna pop."

Should I kiss her? Is this the right mome—

"This is not a whorehouse!"

We whirl around to find the old lady…

Just when I was starting to like her.

Releasing Ciri, the two of us race upstairs, which I let her win again.

Picking [Void Bridge] was–is probably one of the best decisions I've had in quite a while now.