Chapter 2

Chapter 2: The Accidental Son 

Lan's encounter with Bordon was purely coincidental. Or rather, his arrival in this fantastical medieval world was an accident in itself. 

As a university student with good parents who had grown up both mentally and physically, Lan found himself inexplicably thrust through an endless void into a savage and dark realm—there was no logic to it. 

Magic existed here, but it was not thriving; at least, it hadn't reached a level that could influence the course of society. 

In this backward setting, human life was as disposable as grass. In the forests of Velen, the moment a human dared to venture a few dozen meters in, the shadow of death would already be entwined around them. Starvation, disease, being killed by monsters, or simply succumbing to the bite of some unknown insect—Velen's inhabitants had long grown numb to the death surrounding them. 

As a modern college student who had only read some history books about ancient ways of life. He understood that, aside from the magic and monsters, the lives of the people in Velen mirrored that of ancient peasants. 

But knowing was one thing; when faced with the brutal reality of a life that had long since departed from his own, it was hard to accept. Death was all too common. 

And whether by fortune or misfortune, Lan could not live as a commoner. He had become Bordon's "accidental son." 

Transformed by him into one of his kind—namely, a witcher. 

The "Law of Surprise" was an unwritten rule universally recognized and adhered to in this world. Its origins were as ancient as human history itself. 

The essence of the law was simple: a person who saves another could, according to the Law of Surprise, demand a reward from the saved individual—a token that the saved person would encounter first upon returning home, or something they possessed unknowingly, which was typically a child they conceived before leaving home. Such children were referred to as an "accidental child." 

Even in a fantastical medieval setting, supernatural powers remained a scarce resource. For a modern college student terrified by a harsh survival environment, having the opportunity to wield supernatural powers should have felt like a blessing. 

But… 

"What's our target this time?" Lan, with his distinctly East Asian features, carefully navigated the old horse around a fallen tree branch, keeping pace slightly ahead of Bordon. This burly man, whose hair was as thick as a bear's, wouldn't allow him to stray far from view for long. 

His dense beard parted in the middle, revealing Bordon's lips as he spoke. "Maybe two or three small foglets gathered together, or perhaps a royal foglet. The range and magical energy of the mist fall within that scope." 

"Not even certain about the numbers? This preparation seems…" 

Lan's body showed no signs of emotional upheaval, yet Bordon's unseen face had begun to furrow slightly. Witchers were stronger than ordinary humans, but in a direct confrontation, multiple ordinary people could easily overpower one witcher. The reason they dared to hunt monsters was their skills, knowledge, and most importantly—experience. 

Accurately discerning the type and number of prey from subtle clues, using their knowledge to understand the prey's abilities and weaknesses, and then, after thorough preparation, engaging in "asymmetrical warfare"—this was how witchers operated. 

If Bordon's pre-battle preparations were at this level, he would never have grown that thick beard. He should have died in some wasteland when he was still just a greenhorn. 

Lan's mind already had the answer to that unvoiced question. 

A cold gaze, like ice, crawled along Lan's spine, and a voice as frigid as that gaze followed. "You lead the charge. Use Quen well." 

It wasn't a suggestion; it was an order. Witchers of the bear school had generally lost their emotions, and that lack of feeling extended to the most basic verbal considerations when sending someone to their death. 

Lan nodded; his expression flat. If he were not seen as expendable cannon fodder to save on hunting costs, he might have felt fortunate to possess those cat-like eyes. 

Just then, beside the path they had just passed, the nearly unscathed farmer was bowing humbly, groveling before four soldiers clad in standard Temerian armor, pointing at a pool of blood in his field. That blood belonged to his loyal dog. 

The farmer babbled incessantly, while the soldiers began to show signs of annoyance; one raised his iron gauntlet, as if preparing to hammer it down onto the farmer's face. After a few sharp words, the farmer finally indicated a direction. The four soldiers turned to look, spat on the ground, and cursed before mounting their horses. 

*** 

Due to certain matters, Bordon was currently wanted by the lord of Velen. However, the enforcement standards of the medieval era were predictable, so even though Bordon intended to hide his track, he didn't plan to stop taking on monster-hunting jobs that involved food and expenses. In fact, he wasn't even willing to pay a cent for the "costs" of hunting. 

Lan and Bordon stood before a depression formed by intersecting hills. Inside that hollow was a vague pile of rubble, obscured by a layer of mist enveloping a large area of land. The wind wouldn't stir it, nor would the moisture settle. 

Lan cast a quick glance at the roaring bear pendant hanging from Bordon's neck; the finely crafted bear head trembled slightly. It sensed the magic within the mist. Judging by the intensity of the vibrations, the magical energy wasn't particularly strong. 

His stomach grumbled from hunger, yet Lan diligently moved his body to stay warm. The loyal dog had been consumed, and Bordon had left him with nothing but the head. There wasn't much meat, but Lan had grown accustomed to it. 

Bordon didn't let Lan starve out of malice; in truth, he could derive no pleasure from such cruelty. But a man devoid of emotional hormones couldn't be expected to care too much for his "tool." Bordon didn't want Lan to go hungry, yet he also didn't care whether Lan was full or not. Witchers had a high tolerance for hardship and could endure hunger well. 

As Lan moved to keep his body active, he noticed Bordon wasn't reaching into his potion bag for any potions, nor was he pulling out the two swords strapped to his back to apply oil. Under normal circumstances, both of these actions would significantly enhance a witcher's advantage against monsters. Aside from their cost and toxicity, they had virtually no drawbacks. 

Yet, as the primary force, Bordon clearly didn't want to spend that kind of money this time. So, as the frontliner and scout, Lan had to shoulder the risks for Bordon's savings. This was precisely how Bordon intended to use him. 

"Now, move forward." 

After tying off the horses, the burly man drew one of the swords from his back, the sound of metal scraping together resonating in the air. It was a hand-and-a-half sword shimmering with cold silver light. His gaze toward Lan's back was as icy as the sword's gleam. 

Before the young man lay an unknown number of foglets, their strengths unknown. They could create mist, become invisible, and the smarter ones could even shape the mist into illusions. These grayish-white, humanoid scavenger monsters possessed sharp claws and spindly arms that could sever the heads of dogs or sheep with ease; cotton armor would shred before them like paper. 

An ordinary farmer, even on high alert, could be disemboweled in five seconds, his intestines spilling onto the ground. Let alone the abilities of these monsters, which excelled in ambush. 

Meanwhile, behind the young man stood a witcher who had no idea how many monsters he had slain, moving effortlessly in armor weighing at least thirty kilograms. 

He drew his silver sword. Silver was effective against monsters, soft by nature, but the sword was made of iron core wrapped in silver, making it lethal to humans as well. 

Lan appeared utterly unfazed, his handsome face seemingly devoid of all emotion, unmoving. He tightened the cotton armor around him, his eyes staring blankly into the void. On his retina, a clear and concise display appeared. 

"Name: Lan 

Race: Witcher (Magically Modified) 

Skills: Bear School Swordsmanship (Training plan established. Under guidance—interrupted. Reason: Insufficient calculation power) 

Potion Knowledge (Recording. Under guidance—interrupted. Reason: Insufficient calculation power) 

Axii Sign (Training plan established. Under guidance—interrupted. Reason: Insufficient calculation power)" 

Knowledge essential to the witcher's survival was listed one by one. Swordsmanship, potions, signs—but at the end, four bolded words stood out: "Insufficient calculation power." And beneath the series of "insufficient calculation power" were clear arrows indicating the destination of this precious resource. 

It was a crimson progress bar that was nearly complete, marked with the words "Processing." 

The icy gaze behind him intensified, but Lan remained unflinching as he mentally switched off the projection on his retina. 

It was time to get to work.