The gauntlet was thrown

As the sun began its descent, casting everything in an ever-brilliant, luminescent orange glow, the world prepared for the arrival of night. Soon, darkness would envelop the land, prompting people to retreat to their homes for rest and recuperation after a long day of toil. In a remote fortress far from prying eyes, a group of extraordinary warriors were doing just that.

Following introductions and the accustomed pleasantries, they found refuge in the fort's grand hall. Nestling into their seats near the hearth, they began to unwind as the fire crackled and popped, enveloping the room in a cozy, inviting glow.

Over a warm meal, and the clinking of earthen mugs filled to the brim with fine dwarven ale, they shared stories of their exploits and battles. Atram, a guest in this fort and approximately in this world too, was more than happy to listen and learn through their stories. The fact that each and every one of them were excellent narrators kept him captivated and wanting to immediately depart on a journey of his own, despite his circumstances.

With their bellies full and their spirits soothed, the discussions began to take a more serious turn. First came the yearly moment of silence for their fallen brothers, which ended with a toast to their honor. Then, the grandmaster and leader of the group explained in detail what had happened a few days before their arrival. How and under what circumstances did he meet Atram, as well as their discoveries. The men listened attentively to his tale, and by the end of it, all of them bore different expressions on their faces.

Eskel pitied the man, for he was in an unfamiliar world, among strangers, far away from his home and his family. Geralt sympathized with him knowing very well how aggravating it was, as he too had lost his memory not long ago but had fortunately recovered it. Lambert... well Lambert was Lambert. He tried to show he couldn't give two shits about Atram's situation, but the witchers and even Atram could tell he cared in his own 'pricky' way.

"And here I thought my adventures and misfortunes were outrageous, but yours top them all." Geralt said sarcastically.

Atram chuckled through his teeth. "There's nothing I can do about it; for the time being, I'll learn everything I can about this world and hope to find something or someone that can restore my memories."

"Think I can help with that," Geralt began, contemplating his next words. "I have a... friend, a sorceress that is somewhat of an expert in mind reading and the like. Perhaps she can assist you."

The witchers gawked at Geralt as if he had sprouted feathers from his head. However, before anyone could utter a word, Atram abruptly jolted from his seat, nearly dropping his cup. Cold sweat trickled from his forehead, his hands trembled, and he drew short, ragged breaths.

"What's wrong, lad? If you've had bad experiences with the subject, that's perfectly fine. Perhaps your memories will return naturally, as they did for Geralt. And believe me, you're already in a much better state than he was. He suffered complete amnesia, whereas you still remember everything up to a certain point." Vesemir's words were gentle, an attempt to soothe Atram's agitation.

Atram shook his head in confusion, his gaze fixed on his trembling hands. "I don't understand. Given my role in my party, I've taken great pains to develop a natural resistance and methods to counter illusion and mind-disrupting magic. My psyche should be nearly impervious to such intrusions," he stated, his confidence wavering. He glanced at Geralt, a hint of uncertainty in his eyes. "Yet, at the mere mention of it, I became a mess."

"Has something similar happened before? Maybe, you are traumatized because of your past confrontations with said magic." Eskel, who, up to his point, silently listened to the conversation, spoke up.

"No, never. In fact, having a wizardess as a mother made me quite comfortable with the idea of magic—any magic, for that matter. Unless... ugh, forget about it. Let's just change the subject," Atram attempted to divert the conversation, but the witchers were having none of it. Their curiosity was insatiable, and they persisted in pestering Atram until he finally relented.

"You all know by now about my hyper regeneration, right?" He asked and looked around him.

The witchers nodded.

"We're all warriors here," Atram continued. "We've blistered our hands and broken our backs in rigorous training, we've felt the soreness and pain, and we've done it all to become stronger in the long run. But what happens inside the body during that time?"

"We break them to rebuild them stronger." Vesemir stated sagely, and all the witchers felt a shiver down their spines as they remembered what that 'breaking' meant.

"Exactly. The muscles are breaking down, and over time, they will repair themselves and become stronger. This is why we push ourselves to our limits during training, to ensure that our bodies are constantly adapting and improving." Atram paused and grinned. "However, what happens if someone's body can naturally 'repair' itself over night?"

Vesemir, with his vast experience in training numerous young initiates, immediately grasped Atram's implication. "You become a physically superior being," he affirmed with a nod. "Your body can recover from any physical strain or injury much faster than the average person, becoming more durable and strong in the process. You can also push yourself even further during training, without fear of causing long-term damage to your body."

Atram clapped his hands in agreement. "So, what I tried with mag-"

"That's such bullshit!" Lambert interrupted angrily.

"Oh, and why is that?" Atram asked calmly.

"No matter how much you train, there is a limit to what a human body can physically achieve. Besides, strength doesn't mean speed. And what you did outside is something a man of your size can't do."

Atram flashed him a toothy smile. "Are you referring to the fact that you almost fell flat on your ass because I surprised you?"

If Lambert wasn't a witcher his face would have gone red from embarrassment. However, their mutations had made their hearts beat with a slow and steady rhythm, making it impossible for blood to coangulate and cause blushing. Instead, he stood up, took his things, and made for the arched door that led to their rooms. Before his figure disappeared behind the door, he turned and glared at Atram.

"How about we fix that? Tomorrow, you and me let's spar. No holds barred," Lambert's voice boomed through the spacious hall.

"Done!" Atram shouted back with equal vigor and shot him a vicious grin.

Lambert, content with the outcome, nodded and left the room.

The other witchers waited for the echoing of his footsteps to fade away before they turned and looked at Atram, who had a stupid smile on his face.

"You wanted that, didn't you?" Eskel asked, barely containing his excitement.

"Of course! I've been itching to fight him since we met."

"How did we get from you explaining your mutation, to you fighting Lambert?" Geralt muttered in confusion.

"Children." Vesemir exclaimed and shot a chastizing look at Atram. Although, the old wolf wouldn't admit it, his curiosity as a trainer obliged him to observe and oversee tomorrow's match.

"I must warn you, Lambert is not your average army soldier. He is a witcher, a man bred to fight and kill monsters." Vesemir tried to warn Atram, who simply gave him a knowing look.

"Geralt, what I wanted to say before Lambert interrupted me was that, I tried the same tactic I used on my bones and muscles but with magic. I hired mages and instructed them to fire their spells at me, hoping to get the same results. Alas, a body can't become flame-resistant all of a sudden." Atram stated, reflecting on his past experimentations with magic and the mortal body.

Geralt raised an eyebrow at that. "Firstly, that sounds stupid, and secondly, couldn't you have said just that? Why the roundabout way?"

Atram scoffed at his remark. "I told you to drop it but you wouldn't listen. Imagine if I started by saying: Hey, I ate firebolts in the face and ice knives in my gut because I wanted to test if I could get some sort of resistance to it?"

Geralt looked at him for a long while. "Touchée."

They continued chatting for a while before it was time to call it a night. It had been a hectic day, and everybody needed some rest.

Atram, reminded Eskel that he hadn't forgotten about patching up his scar, but it would need another lengthy explanation, and he wasn't up for it tonight. The man nodded understandingly, and said their goodnights before heading off to their respective rooms.

As Atram lay in bed, he couldn't help but think about the events of the day. His unexpected appearance in this world, which resembled his own. His meeting with the incredible cast of warrior monks known as witchers, who had taken him in as one of their own and offered him a place to stay. His unexpected and unjustified subconsious fear of mind magic. And last but not least, the fight that would ensue tomorrow.

He shifted slightly in bed and stared up at the ceiling, his mind racing with thoughts of when he was a little boy. His dad would vehemently insist on training him in a weapon of his choice, as a proper warrior should. Atram would rebuke him by saying he wanted to 'be the weapon', not rely on a cheap metal object.

They eventually found common ground; he taught him how to fight with polearms and spears, and in exchange, they frequently sparred unarmed. His father would finally resort to using weapons because he was as stubborn as an old goat and refused to admit that his son was gradually besting him.

"He would love meeting these people. They carry two longswords on their backs for gods' shake." Atram muttered to himself, smirking as he slowly drifted to sleep.