Bear School Astartes

”Geralt.”

Lann followed behind Belengar into the little office he’d built inside the Blacksmith’s workshop, greeting the familiar face sitting inside as he walked.

”Of course it’s you, Geralt.” Lann’s face wore a meaningful, teasing smile as he repeated his name. ”Besides you, what other Demon Hunter has a personality this twisted up?”

This Old Friend still had that sickly, milky‑white hair tied back in a ponytail, bound at the nape of his neck with a cord.

His face hadn’t changed much; with a Demon Hunter’s lifespan, this short a time really wasn’t enough to matter.

Lann just didn’t know if he’d picked up any injuries, any new scars while working during this stretch.

The way Demon Hunters show the passage of time on their bodies, the most obvious marks are scars.

Nobody knows what kind of wounds you’ll end up with when you’re grappling and brawling with grotesque monsters.

Luckily, after Lann gave Geralt a quick once‑over, he saw only a relatively shallow horizontal scar near his brow ridge, looking pretty nasty.

Right now he was wearing the Wolf School’s superior armor, based on diagrams they’d collected piece by piece from the ruins near Ker Morhan last time.

A hard leather jacket and riding trousers on the outside, with a dense mix of Chain Armor and Cloth Armor layered underneath. Wide, thick straps of well‑cured Dragon Race leather were slung over the armor’s shoulders, providing countless hanging points for gear and some extra protection.

He’d hunted most of the materials himself, only paying for what he couldn’t scrounge up, and Belengar had cut the labor fee in half—that was the only reason Geralt could afford to wear this set.

Only when Lann pulled back his hood did Geralt subconsciously relax, bringing the hand clutching a few sheets of letter paper from behind his back to the front.

”Another Otherworld trip? You little bastard.”

His uniquely hoarse voice chuckled as he walked up to Lann.

The two didn’t need many words; they hugged in tacit understanding, thumped each other’s backs, and that counted as saying hello.

Belengar took the opportunity to close the office door, at least dampening the clang‑clang of forging ringing in from outside.

The three sat back down.

”What brings you to Gos Velen?” Lann sat on a wooden stool, asking Geralt with genuine interest, ”Ciri’s not at Ker Morhan, so I figured you’d already be roaming around looking for work, White Wolf.”

With his armored frame nowhere near normal Human proportions, he simply couldn’t squeeze into the chairs over here, so he just grabbed a stool.

Out of the three of them, only he was on a stool.

Back when Belengar and Lann set up that security and contract work in Gos Velen for Demon Hunters of the Wolf School, in a sense it was actually a favor.

After all, back then their whole lot still had a kid to raise at Ker Morhan.

But now, Lann and Belengar didn’t care anymore; this place genuinely needed Demon Hunters for security work anyway.

The Wolf School, brought up under Vesemir’s teachings, however, no longer wanted to trouble others or take advantage.

Lann and Belengar knew this, which was why they’d gone and brought Ged in, instead of continuing to call Wolf School Demon Hunters over to take shifts.

Self‑respect.

Among Demon Hunters, this was already a very scarce commodity, yet in the Wolf School it was strangely common.

All that could be said was: no matter how much Lambert griped, Vesemir had already deeply shaped the three of them.

”I am looking for work.” Geralt took the mug of Temeria rye beer Belengar passed him, speaking in that low, gravelly voice.

”On the way to Gos Velen, I took down a Fork‑Tailed Dragon blocking the road.”

”There were merchants and troops all needing to get through that stretch. They were in a hurry, so I made sure to charge them extra while I was at it.”

Geralt said it with a calm smile.

”And then you used that money to come to Gos Velen and spend a night with a Female Night Demon?”

The second Geralt finished, Lann clicked his tongue in mock astonishment, and the White Wolf’s pale face suddenly froze.

He even sloshed a bit of rye beer out of his mug.

”What? No, I...”

Before Geralt could finish defending himself, Belengar, sitting across the table, was already casually wiping the splashed beer off a few documents, speaking without even bothering to look up.

”White Wolf, there are three Demon Hunters in this room right now.”

He lifted his head, those Wolf School cat‑eyes glancing at Geralt in mute reproach.

”Your temples were just shaved, and the barber did a decent job. No loose hairs on you, and your clothes still smell like a public bathhouse. Haircut, then bath.”

”The underground baths at the Silver Swan Tavern, right?”

Belengar had barely finished when Lann jumped in, laughing.

”There are hoofprints on your boots, high up along the side of the calf.” He lightly tapped Geralt’s boot with his own. ”You can’t have been lying on the floor of the baths and got trampled by a cow, can you?”

The young Demon Hunter concluded with certainty, ”So it had to be that, when you were stripping in a rush, your boots got kicked off all crooked on the floor, and then the Female Night Demon stepped on them.”

”I can still smell that mix of cosmetics and sulfur on you.”

Female Night Demons use makeup too, and because they’ve got way too many besotted bed partners, the stuff they use tends to be pretty high-end.

On the other hand, Female Night Demons are still creatures that came from the Otherworld during the Conjunction of the Spheres, and any man who’s slept with them ends up carrying a sulfur stink on his body.

That smell is hard to wash off, it sinks deep into your skin. And the more often you sleep with a Female Night Demon, the thicker and deeper it gets.

There are three Demon Hunters in the room; who wouldn’t recognize that particular trait?

”Fine.” Geralt opened his mouth. ”That Female Night Demon really was... amazing. And she didn’t charge.”

”Didn’t charge?”

Belengar’s hand, which had been pouring wine into Lann’s cup, froze in surprise.

”She said, ’I want to see just how strong the libido is in those famously hormonally-overloaded Demon Hunters,’ and also, ’Going to bed with a monster-killer might be a thrill,’ so she didn’t want money.”

Geralt shrugged with his cup in hand as he spoke.

”That Female Night Demon’s got guts, looking for thrills from Demon Hunters.” Belengar shook his head and handed the filled cup to Lann. ”If she runs into someone from the Bear School, he might just chop her head off right then and there.”

”Tap tap.” Lann’s fingers drummed on the table as he complained speechlessly. ”Hey, a Bear School hunter is sitting right here listening. When I kill sapient beings, I know exactly what I’m doing, okay!”

”You don’t count, you’re different.” Belengar finally poured himself a cup of Temeria rye and waved a hand as he sat down.

The most senior Demon Hunter present muttered to himself.

These days he still goes down to the Silver Swan Tavern every two or three days to find a call girl, but this Female Night Demon stuff... the old man just isn’t quite up to the ’young folks’ rhythm.

Deep down he still thinks they’re monsters. That’s the mindset of his generation, etched into his bones now.

So after muttering for half a day, Belengar still isn’t about to cater to this Female Night Demon’s thrill-seeking tastes; humans or half-elves are more his thing.

Meanwhile, Geralt turned his head to look at Lann, who was sitting on a stool looking like he was about to crush it.

He raised his cup. ”So, on this trip to the Otherworld, what new sights did you see?”

His face, lined with a few scars that made him look both weathered and calm, carried a smile—like the most ordinary relaxed small talk between friends.

But Lann just held his cup and tilted his head, looking at him without immediately starting to chat.

He kept looking until Geralt’s expression went stiff and his eyes dropped; only then did the younger man speak.

”Do you really want to know what new sights I saw?” Lann took a sip and asked.

But before Geralt could answer, he went ahead and gave his own.

”No, you don’t care about that stuff, White Wolf. Your mind’s elsewhere, I can see it at a glance—you’re changing the subject.”

Geralt stayed silent, and Belengar turned his gaze over as well.

”If something’s up, you should say it. Why keep bottling it up?”

Lann set his cup down on Belengar’s desk and reached a hand out toward the Old Friend, waving it.

”Hand it over.” Lann urged. ”Let me see who wrote you a letter that’s got the great White Wolf all rattled.”

Geralt was his usual taciturn self at first, but with the young man’s hand reaching closer and closer, he finally pulled the letter paper from his bag and passed it over.

The letter and its envelope were stacked together; the paper felt a little worn at the edges—Geralt had clearly read it many times.

Lann unfolded it, and saw crooked, clumsy handwriting. A bit unpracticed, but clearly from someone who can read and write, just not used to it yet.

The frequent ink blots on the paper showed the writer’s impulsive, rash temperament.

It was Ciri’s letter.

Lann looked up at Geralt in surprise.

At first he’d thought this was the White Wolf having trouble with some matter of the heart—like some old flame he felt guilty about.

Then now, with Yennefer rekindling their old romance, he’d be caught in the middle and feeling torn.

What’s there to agonize over about a letter from Ciri?

The Princess of the Fallen Kingdom sounded positively upbeat in the letter.

”I sleep in a big room called a ’dormitory’, you know? My bed is huge, it’s scary...”

”Geralt, Nanik said I shouldn’t write all this silly stuff, because it’s a waste of space on the paper. I should write what I’m learning now, how well I’m doing. And say that everything is fine with me, so you won’t worry...”

”I really am doing fine, especially now that I’ve got a new quill, so I can keep writing! Nanik read this part and praised me, said my grammar was very accurate. But sadly, Nanik and Yennefer still don’t get along...”

”In the Divine Hall I get along best with Yunid, Katie, and Aiora II. We even go feed the turkeys together. But one hen turkey is really aggressive—I suspect there’s something wrong with its brain, like that illness Yennefer talked about called ’mania’...”

”That turkey attacked us! Right when we were feeding it! This time I’m sure, there’s definitely something wrong with its brain! But it couldn’t hurt me at all. I only used a stick! Lann taught me how to jump—I jumped higher than its flapping wings!, and coming down from above I gave it one whack that really made it hurt...”