The Witcher: Astartes Of The Bear School

Chapter 1: Lan

The rhythmic clatter of hooves echoed along the winding, uneven road. Not too far from the village, this area primarily served as farmland for the local farmers. 

By the edge of a field, a dog barked alertly, while a cat, sensing something amiss, puffed up and vanished in a flash. Such animals are usually sensitive to magic and sorcery. 

From the direction of the hoofbeats came an old horse of little value, carrying a young man on its back. 

Lan gripped the reins tightly, guiding his mount with determination. He was in Velen, the poorest province of the Northern Kingdom of Temeria. At first glance, the vegetation appeared lush and vibrant, but anyone spending even a couple of hours here would quickly understand that this was a place as vile as it was wretched. 

Beneath the dense foliage lay a swampy expanse, thick with noxious fumes. While the abundant aquatic plants nurtured numerous creatures, they provided little comfort to humans. In fact, these overgrown, proliferating "beings" posed a far greater danger to ordinary folk than the swamp itself. 

Isolated marshes, impoverished villages, and the rude peasantry, alongside monsters that seemed to spring from nowhere—these were likely the only impressions people had of this place. 

The tired farmer working in the field raised their heads; strangers passing by were among the few topics of conversation in their meager lives. He scrutinized the traveler with careful eyes. 

His face bore a pale, drained look, yet there was a spark of life in him. His features differed from the typical humans of the continent; his eye sockets were shallow, his nose less pronounced, but his face was handsome, and his skin rather fair. 

Yet, compared to the marginalized and discriminated non-human races—like elves, dwarves, and gnomes—he clearly belonged to the "human" category. Perhaps he hailed from a land so distant that even the king's urine couldn't reach it. That was still better than the damned non-humans. 

The farmer, leaning on his hoe, spat a thick glob of phlegm onto the ground, his head tilted sideways. 

The cheap blue cotton armor was stained and shiny, with even some of the cotton in his trousers bursting out. The leather boots, lacking a thick sole, were also low-quality, pinching his feet, but at least they allowed him to walk. Carrying a sheathed sword—normal for Velen. 

However, a sword strapped to his back? Even farmers knew no one carried a sword like a bow. How would he draw it to fight? 

Just as the farmer prepared to mock the traveler, thinking that "mocking" had never been punished by law. But the next moment, he caught a glimpse of the young man's eyes. 

"Cat… cat eyes! A mutant freak!!" 

Mockery turned to panic as the farmer shouted, retreating as if he had spotted a horrendous plague victim or a repugnant filth, stumbling backward in fright. He fell, sprawling on the ground, hands and feet still scuttling backward. 

The witcher's signature trait—a pair of cat-like eyes. Once noble in purpose, the mutated warriors created by ancient sorcerers to cleanse the land of monsters had become, in the eyes of modern society, a plague upon the populace. 

Lan suppressed a sigh, mentally advising himself: It's a magical medieval world, but a medieval world nonetheless. Ignorance always walks hand in hand with malice. 

His amber cat eyes flicked toward the farmer on the ground. Then, Lan tightened his grip on the reins, controlling the horse. 

The old horse was gentle, if not particularly strong. But it was hungry and he had only just learned to ride a week ago. If someone tossing him onto the horse, and him falling during the journey could be considered "learning." 

The farmer's dog, a black and white bundle of loyalty, charged toward its master, undeterred by the old horse's hooves that could easily crush it. Lan exerted considerable effort to ensure that the faithful dog remained unharmed. Though he was hungry and slightly out of breath, seeing the little dog dash toward its owner allowed him to exhale, albeit imperceptibly. 

But just as the dog was about to leap into its master's arms, a slender black shadow zipped. 

"Whoosh!" The sound of a bolt slicing through the air was sharp and chilling. The lively, loyal dog burst into a spray of blood and a heart-wrenching yelp. A crossbow bolt had struck, entering through its back and exiting at an angle from its chest. 

The dog did not reach its owner; instead, its twitching body fell at the farmer's feet. The farmer was frozen in terror. Lan, who had just begun to relax, felt his expression harden, turning back into a mask of ice, his body stiffening alongside the old horse. 

A tall, muscular figure rode past Lan at a leisurely pace on a robust horse. The man's beard and hair were thick, resembling a humanoid brown bear. Yet, his expressionless face was as emotionless as a block of ice. 

Two swords were strapped to his back. He wore sturdy yet intricately designed composite armor. A mix of chainmail, leather, iron, and cotton formed a long robe that reached his calves. 

A pendant shaped like a roaring bear's head swayed at his neck with the horse's movements. His eyes mirrored Lan's—amber cat eyes. 

As the man leaned down from his mount, he grasped the shaft of the crossbow bolt and yanked the dog's body from the field. It was astounding how someone clad in at least thirty kilograms of armor could move with such fluidity and agility. 

The dog's body continued to twitch, its dying whimpers pitiful and tragic. Yet the man did not glance at it even once. He pulled the bolt from its flesh and wiped it clean on the dog's twitching hide before returning it to his pocket. 

Then, he casually tossed the dog's body to Lan. The worn cotton armor grew even dirtier. Lan felt the life ebbing from the creature in his hands. He still struggled to acclimate to this sensation. No, rather, he rejected the loss of sensitivity to such feelings, desperately clinging to the fading echoes of his former life. 

But on his face, only the slightest twitch of his jaw betrayed any emotion—so small it felt like an illusion. Soon, his pale visage mirrored the man's, becoming an expressionless void. 

"Bordon, what do you plan to do with this?" 

"That's our lunch." Bordon's voice was as devoid of emotion as his face. "Dogs are easy to catch after all." 

Dogs often evoked affection from humans, whether for their cuteness or loyalty. At the very least—there was often an emotional connection. But Bordon spoke of it as nothing more than a hunk of meat. 

Lan's ice-like face showed no signs of disturbance as he urged his horse forward. "We shouldn't attract any more attention, Bordon. You know the situation." 

His hands trembled slightly, but it didn't hinder him from hanging the dog's body on the saddle's hook. The hook, commonly seen in butcher shops, was designed to hang meat for easy transport. For witchers, it was primarily used to display their trophies. 

Bordon seemed to have been reminded by Lan's words; his emotionless cat eyes shifted toward the farmer, now slumped in the field. The farmer's trousers were suddenly stained with a dark patch of fear. 

"You're right; I'm wanted, so…" With the clatter of his armor, Bordon dismounted, not drawing his sword but instead pulling a dagger from his chest. 

He intended to kill. Lan recognized this immediately. And he knew well that for a witcher, devoid of emotion and driven solely by money and primal needs, killing a living human to cover their tracks was not something to hesitate over. 

The young man's face was equally devoid of expression. He stumbled down from the old horse, quickly approaching Bordon. The farmer, still shaken, gripped his hoe tightly, his resolve nearly breaking but still showing some semblance of courage. 

"Wait, Bordon." 

Lan stepped in front of Bordon as he approached the farmer, cautious not to touch his armor. He remembered the last time he had, Bordon had snapped three branches on his body. If there were another time, he had openly declared he would chop off his hand. In his eyes, that bear-like armor was far more precious than his own life. 

"Let's pause for a moment; we can't just kill him. Murder leaves traces, doesn't it?" Lan stood firm before Bordon. His expression remained cold, as if he cared little for the farmer's life, only contemplating their journey. 

Bordon, expressionless, thought for a moment before sheathing his dagger. The transformation that made him a witcher had stripped Bordon of his emotions, but not his intellect. 

Lan turned his head subtly, allowing himself to breathe a sigh of relief, even if only in secret. 

After a brief moment of contemplation, Bordon shifted his gaze from the farmer to Lan and suddenly spoke. 

"How is your practice with the Axii sign coming along?" The Axii sign was one of the five signs used by witchers and was employed to disrupt the minds of creatures. 

Lan tilted his head slightly, his cat-like eyes narrowing for a moment before returning to their usual state. By the time he met Bordon's gaze again, any sign of his earlier tension was gone. 

"Not well, I'm afraid. I've had very little time to practice. Training me is your responsibility, as you know." His tone was calm and matter-of-fact. 

"Hmm." Bordon scratched his thick beard and nodded. "For now, just focus on mastering the Quen sign." The Quen sign was used to protect against physical harm. 

The man walked past Lan without hesitation, and this time, the young witcher didn't block his path. From behind, a faint glimmer of magical light flickered, and the farmer's anxious expression became vacant. 

"You didn't see anyone just now. Your dog ran off into the woods by itself, and you didn't dare to follow." His words flowed forth like a spell cast without emotion, devoid of any warmth or hesitation. 

Once the farmer nodded dully, Bordon smoothly stepped past Lan and turned to leave. Lan followed closely, his awkward attempt to mount the horse costing him precious seconds. Bordon was well aware of how poor the boy's riding skills were, so he didn't bother to look back. 

Yet, in those fleeting moments, Lan's cat-like eyes darted toward the dazed farmer, and his left hand subtly made a gesture. Magical light coalesced into an inverted triangle at his fingertips. 

It was a perfect Axii sign. 

The farmer's muddled gaze began to shift, showing a hint of clarity. 

"Good luck, you poor soul." 

Withdrawing his gaze, Lan mounted the horse with a grace that was almost silent; perhaps the world's finest riders could not have done better in controlling their mounts. His amber cat eyes narrowed in the shadow, exuding a calm determination akin to a tiger preparing to pounce. 

"Here's to our good fortune."