The Witcher: Astartes Of The Bear School

Chapter 70: Massive Support

"Are you scared?" 

Lan's evasiveness seemed to excite the other party even more. The sorceress laughed so hard that she nearly fell backward, leaving Lan with a view of nothing but a vast expanse of pale skin. 

"BOING-BOING" 

"Mentos, no sound effects at a time like this!" 

"Sir, this is the subconscious sound in your mind. I'm just playing it out." 

"Just... stop it!" 

"Understood, sir." 

The glamorous sorceress laughed for a while, then raised an eyebrow at Lan. 

"You're not really as young as you look, are you, little witcher? I remember your kind lives quite long." 

Lan pressed down on the roaring bear-head necklace clinking against his chest and remained silent. 

"...You're really only in your teens?!" This time, it was Margarita's turn to be shocked. 

East Asian features tend to make people look younger, and Lan hadn't yet acquired any scars on his face since starting his career. To Margarita, he looked no older than sixteen. 

But after her initial surprise, the sorceress's smile grew even more "mischievous." A witcher in his teens, just out of training—no, based on his knowledge, he hadn't even completed his training—yet he had single-handedly crushed a camp of fifty people! Sure, no one in that camp was wearing armor, but who could say a single word against such combat prowess? 

Whether it was his potential, combat ability, personality, or age, Margarita's interest in Lan had grown significantly. 

"Madam, it seems your injuries have..." 

"Call me Rita." Before Lan could finish his pleasantries, the sorceress interrupted him. 

Facing the witcher's astonishment, Margarita propped her chin on her hand, resting on the wheelchair's armrest, and chuckled. 

"You saved me, Lan. We're friends now. Close friends call me Rita." 

"Alright then, Rita." 

Lan was just unaccustomed to such an aggressive gaze, but if it meant getting closer to a real-life beauty who would require thousands of dollars in Photoshop to replicate, no man in the world would refuse. 

So, the young man voiced the question that had been lingering in his mind. "How exactly did you get captured by those people?" 

Lan was puzzled. He had thought there was a terrifying mage in the cannibal camp. But he fought his way to the end, only to find that the armed thugs' camp didn't even have someone who could cast a fireball. He couldn't imagine how Margarita had been reduced to such a pitiful state. 

Margarita showed no hesitation in discussing her ordeal. 

"I told you, Lan. You lack common sense when it comes to dealing with sorceresses." 

Facing the young man's curious gaze, the sorceress felt like she was teaching a student. 

"Casting magic requires concentration—not just ordinary concentration, but extremely, extremely strict focus." She raised a finger. "For example, tripping or hiccuping during a spell can cause it to fail or result in unpredictable variations." 

"And before casting a spell, if a sorceress is even in a state of diarrhea, her magic will likely be of little threat. If it's something like acute gastroenteritis with severe cramps, she might not be able to cast at all." 

"So, Lan..." 

The sorceress spread her hands, revealing even more of her fair skin through her already open neckline, causing the young man to nod involuntarily. 

"Even a powerful sorceress, if she's walking down the road and gets knocked out by a few thugs with slingshots—no prior warning, just a spur-of-the-moment attack—and wakes up to find several pounds of flesh missing, do you think she could still cast spells?" 

"Got it." Lan nodded. 

It seemed sorceresses were quite fragile after all. Their tolerance and resistance to toxins were about the same as ordinary people's. Eating something as simple as castor beans could give them diarrhea, nothing compared to witchers who chugged poison for buffs. 

In this cold world, the young man felt a rare warmth in his professional pride. 

"What are your plans next, Lan?" Margarita asked. "You seem eager to deal with the toxins and recover. Do you have something else to do?" 

At this, Lan's youthful ease vanished instantly. His cat-like eyes turned cold, and the hand resting on the velvet bedding clenched tightly. 

"The slavers' debt hasn't been settled yet." 

Though his tone was matter-of-fact, after Lan finished speaking, Margarita felt the room grow several degrees colder. 

"It's not over? The news of the kidnapping and cannibalism case is probably still on its way to Crow's Perch. I was out of it at the time and didn't notice anything. Did someone escape?" 

"It's not that 'someone' escaped." Lan shook his head. "The biggest fish never got caught in the first place. He took over twenty children directly onto a cargo ship." 

"I didn't just bring you here to detox and recover, Rita. I saved you. Aretuza Academy owes me a favor, and I intend to use that favor to get something from you. Then I'll find the Head Eater and slaughter him and his buyers." 

The sorceress watched Lan with interest. That night in the camp, she had fully understood the witcher's resolve. She admired the way he expressed a variant of "chivalry." 

"You don't need Aretuza's favor, little witcher. My injuries and the life of my student are also debts the academy needs to settle." 

"If it's you, then I'm willing to appoint you as the academy's 'debt collector.' A budget of 1000 orens. Anything the academy has that you need, take it as you please." 

Margarita waved her hand grandly, granting Lan access to an astronomical sum of money. 

The most famous witcher contract in all of Temeria—breaking the princess's curse—had only netted the witcher involved 3000 orens. That witcher was called the "White Wolf" or something like "the Butcher of Blaviken." 

The wheelchair turned, and Margarita prepared to leave. 

"Your gear is in the chest by the bed. If you need anything, you can contact me directly. Get well soon..." At the door, the golden-haired beauty glanced back with a smile. 

"Then start the hunt, little witcher." 

The door closed. The wheelchair continued to glide forward, and a conservative sorceress walked beside it. 

"You're interested in that witcher? That's good, much better than an ordinary person. If nothing goes wrong, he'll be around for at least a few hundred years." 

Compared to Margarita, the conservative sorceress's attire was downright modest. But even her neckline, by the standards of ordinary people or noblewomen, was still quite revealing. 

"Revenge is necessary and inevitable, but Rita, you have more important matters to consider... You know what I'm talking about." 

"Yes, Tissaia, yes." Margarita responded with a troubled tone. 

Aside from her formidable magical abilities, she had little interest in the political games that other sorceresses loved. She was an anomaly among sorceresses. 

"The situation in both the south and the north is becoming increasingly unstable. That's why you want me to become the rectoress. With the two of us, Aretuza's position will be more secure." 

The sorceress, who preferred simple pleasures over power struggles, spoke with a hint of complaint in her voice. Tissaia ignored the minor grievance. 

"I taught you. I know your capabilities. Your magical power far surpasses that of Phillipa, Triss, and Keira, who are all engrossed in political games. I don't like politics either, but you must understand, Rita..." 

Tissaia looked into her student's eyes, her refined face as calm as a lake. 

"We must protect Aretuza. We must protect the legacy of magic." 

"To that end, you need to quickly address the incident of your injuries occurring outside the academy. This has dealt a massive blow to the academy's prestige. A rectoress-level sorceress getting fleshed to the bone? Tsk, this could even affect the prestige of the entire magic community." 

"You becoming rectoress was supposed to bring prestige to the academy!" 

After speaking, the conservative mage didn't pay attention to her student's embarrassed expression and continued with her advice. 

"You think highly of that witcher. He is indeed impressive, outstanding among warriors. So, increase the 1000 oren budget to 1500. Brand him thoroughly with the academy's mark—your mark." 

Tissaia reached out to adjust Margarita's collar, making it symmetrical. 

"Perhaps, we can gain our own hunter." 

***

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