Bear School Astartes

A simple and narrow wooden bridge connected the two banks of the Ponta River.

In the middle of the river, a central shoal had been built up with wooden stakes to form a watch post.

This was clearly a civilian passage, and that outpost was a toll station for merchants and peddlers who wanted to cross the river.

Past this toll station lay the territory of Redania, one of the four major kingdoms of the Northern Territory.

Therefore, the toll station also doubled as a customs post.

The river water had a sharp smell, partly because the slow current allowed dirty sediments to accumulate nearby.

A layer of green algae covered the river’s surface, a result of the water’s eutrophication.

However, the ’nutrients’ of nature smelled like long-fermented manure to the human nose.

The corpses of dead waterfowl, fish, and even water ghosts floated up and down among the green algae.

Occasionally, they bumped into the wooden bridge’s piles with a ’thud.’

Nothing much happened when Geralt and Lann crossed the bridge.

The soldiers manning the toll station, like ordinary people, treated the Demon Hunter as if he were a leper, fearful that his cat-like eyes might infect them.

Nevertheless, their attitude was still better than that of villagers.

Redania’s emblem was a red-background shield with a crowned, scepter-holding, wings-spread white eagle, which, unlike the common blue-and-white of Temeria, meant the official colors here were red and white.

The soldiers’ chest and padded armor bore alternating patches of red and white.

As the soldiers guarding the toll station were somewhat seasoned, they understood that demon hunters were just passing through, not staying long or looking for work.

So they merely acted as if warding off bad luck, by turning their heads to spit or blowing their noses, wiping their snot on their padded armor.

Yet, they only dared do that when Geralt took the lead crossing by.

After Roach’s hooves made the wooden bridge echo with ’thud-thud’ sounds, a giant figure, which shouldn’t have appeared logically, squeezed across the small bridge.

A Redanian soldier with a bulbous, rosacea-laden nose was examining the money pouch Geralt had tossed him.

His phlegm-laden mouth mumbled some unsavory phrases.

Geralt, used to such scenes, remained calm on his horse, waiting for the Redanian soldier before him to finish counting the coins in the pouch.

”Alright, white-haired fellow.” The rosy-nosed soldier planted the end of his long spear on the ground, cradling the shaft while flipping the small money pouch to shake it empty.

”The coins aren’t clipped, two people, two horses, no goods carried, so no need for trade tax...uh, pfft.”

As if dissatisfied with Geralt’s honest payment, a ’gurgl’ erupted from his throat, followed by a sideways spit, and his eyes rolled.

”But you’re definitely headed to Novigrad for work, right? The great Eternal Fire priests might forget to charge you commercial tax, so you need to deposit a guarantee here first.”

”I’ve crossed the Ponta River hundreds of times, mate.”

Geralt, on horseback, frowned slightly.

”Novigrad’s a free city; even if I work there, the taxes have little to do with Redania, right?”

”Don’t be too greedy, I can give you five more silver coins, treat you to a drink. But forget that nonsense about a commercial tax deposit.”

Hoping the toll station soldiers follow the rules honestly was like hoping the Eternal Fire could truly ward off monsters.

Geralt knew well how to deal with these people.

The rosy-nose before him was an old hand too, knowing he couldn’t fool Geralt, so he just pursed his lips, ready to follow through.

However, as the rosy-nose soldier tucked away the toll and reached out to receive those five silver coins from Geralt, a gigantic shadow loomed over from behind the demon hunter.

The Qilin, standing two and a half meters at the shoulder, was further elevated by the magic horse harness saddle, with Lann cloaked and seated atop.

The combined height exceeded three and a half meters.

Neither the Qilin nor Lann were simply tall and lanky; their muscular build was robust and healthy.

Thus, their proportional size difference appeared even more daunting.

Even though the Qilin approached Geralt at a seemingly leisurely pace, the shadow it cast felt like impending darkness.

Lann rode the Qilin past Geralt, leaving the Redanian soldiers gulping, mouths open yet speechless in his wake.

”Not done yet, Geralt?”

Geralt, atop Roach, looked down at the rosy-nose toll collector, while Lann, passing by, looked down at him.

Lann unperturbedly continued, and the rosy-nose, still extending his hand toward Geralt, remained frozen, his hand awkwardly hovering.

The old demon hunter knowingly glanced at the rosy-nose by his horse’s head, his mouth curling into a slight smile.

He said nothing more about the five silver coins and followed Lann out of the toll station.

After they left, the previously silent toll station gradually returned to its noisy state.

Travelers blocked on the bridge outside hastened their passage, while the Redanian soldiers at the toll station seemed to just snap out of a daze.

”Is that a... giant riding a horse?”

”Nonsense, a giant, this is a civilized place, not some remote wilderness!”

”But if it’s not a giant, then what about that size? Walking alongside those freaky demon hunters?”

The soldiers were arguing, not just out of curiosity, but as a way to vent the pressure accumulated unconsciously under that enormous silhouette.

However, the veteran with the wine-red nose paused as he heard the words ’freaky demon hunter’, clearly recalling something.

It was a legend, not long circulated, yet possessing an unimaginable influence.

The ballads of the minstrels said the protagonist of the story was a tall, brave demon hunter beyond ordinary.

Ignoring the chatter of the others at the toll station, the wine-red nosed veteran leaned his spear against the wall and quietly slipped into the soldiers’ lounge at the toll station.

Not long after, a pigeon fluttered its wings and flew into the distance.

-----------------

The events at the Ponta River toll station didn’t linger in Lann and Geralt’s minds for more than ten minutes.

Compared to ordinary people of this magic Middle Ages, the insight and experience of demon hunters were remarkably diverse.

Such small matters could be handled smoothly by Lann even when he was just an ordinary demon hunter.

Geralt jostled on horseback, teasing the young man.

”I should really travel with you often; not even twenty times, and the saved tolls would cover a task for me.”

Lann turned on his Qilin, adjusting his hood brim as if bowing after a performance, indicating Geralt needn’t be polite.

Upon reaching the Redania territory, at least the environment was much better than Velen.

Velen’s terrain was low-lying, making the Ponta River’s waters swamp and wetland, birthing monsters and miasma.

But the vast lands where Novigrad lay, formed the delta where Ponta River joined the ocean.

Although closer to the sea, the annoying humidity was not as bad as Velen.

On the suitably humid loess, shrubs and trees, grass grow.

Walking less than twenty steps off the road, one enters untouched forests.

Lush greenery, dense and dark.

But as the two approached Novigrad along the main road, they soon lifted their eyes to see the road ahead.

”Times are more chaotic,” Geralt’s voice was as tranquil as ever, ”The remnants of that war still torment many.”

Lann lowered his head, saying nothing, lightly tapping the Qilin’s neck, prompting the elegant ancient dragon to quicken its pace slightly.

A cacophony of sounds arose from the road ahead.

The sound included men and women laughing heartily and cruelly, the terrified braying of donkeys pulling carts, and screams.

Geralt urged Roya forward as well.

The events unfolding before the two demon hunters were evident.

A cart, trapped by a snare, axle broken, goods scattered, the wooden cart tilted and stuck in a pit.

The donkey pulling the cart, spooked by the sight of blood, cried out, kicking its legs, yet the harness tied it to the broken cart.

And the cart owner... or former owner sat limply in the muddy ground.

A young man dressed as an attendant lay dead before him, blood from his body further moistening, worsening the smell of the mud.

While those who laid the snare and commandeered the cart’s goods were clearly deserters.

They wore Redania’s red and white cotton armor.

Only wore iron guards on gloves, elbows, knees, and a large iron plate tied to their chest.

But unlike the toll station soldiers, these folks seemed dirtier and more bedraggled, their armor too old compared to mass-produced military equipment.

Even the least stingy quartermasters would surely recognize them as needing replacement.

Six or seven people, men and women alike, wore such attire.

As Geralt and Lann approached the scene, they saw a leading man pulling a young girl from behind a slumped cart owner in the mud.

A girl, likely thirteen or fourteen... perhaps a boy with a fair appearance?

Clearly, these people cared little for gender.

The leading man, with rotten, yellowing teeth, no sooner grabbed the child than he snorted, laughed, and began tearing the child’s clothes.

Spouting: Time to meet a real man.

His companions jeered as if enjoying a show, some even beginning to undo their belt buckles.