Serious People, Who is Learning Magic at Marvel?

That night, the Golden King Court Tavern.

It's not quite appropriate to describe it as a pub. This pub with a stylish name is more like a small hotel. On the outside, it looks unremarkable, but the inside is actually full of the characteristics of high-end hotels in the township - of course, this is not a good word.

But then again, it's good to have a drink, and witchers don't always choose the environment.

It's crowded and noisy, and the customers in the store are of different occupations and races, but whether they're locals or outsiders, they're all doing what they want. Dedicated merchants argue with the dwarves about product prices and loan interest even when they arrive at the tavern. The less dedicated ones pinched the waitress' ass. Some local idiots pretend to be well-informed to get the attention of the young girls, but the girls don't care about them at all. They were all too busy trying to please the rich, and by the way they were sneering at these poor and ugly hillbillies.

The hard laborers, the drivers and fishermen, were another scene. They were drinking like they were dying. Several sailors stood on the table and sang boat songs. He Shenyan listened with great interest, and carelessly sang about the waves of the sea, the heroic captain of the captain, and the beauty of the mermaids. Especially the mermaids, they sang this description vividly, and the rough voices of the sailors have a different kind of charm when matched with this sentence.

Kel Demion and Geralt were sitting on the bar not far from him drinking on their stomachs. The fat sheriff said to the bald shopkeeper, "Listen, man. I just came in and saw six people and a girl, all dressed in black Novigrad leather jackets with silver trim, and I saw them at the tax booth. They are. Tell me honestly, are they with you now, or are they at the tuna tavern?"

The owner frowned. He tried to recall it for a while, and said with a bitter face: "My lord, here I am. Listening to your tone, they don't look like good people?"

Keldemion snorted coldly. He turned his head and said to Geralt, "I've never seen any good people walking around with swords all the time. They're not witchers like Geralt."

He asked the shopkeeper again, "Where are they now?"

"It's all in the compartment."

"It seems that they gave you a lot of gold, and you are willing to give them the cubicle."

The shopkeeper was about to fall under the table at the moment. He wiped the sweat from his face with his dirty apron and asked, "My lord, I didn't do anything... Did they look at it? Like good people, but they give money!"

Kyle Demion continued to drink at the bar, Geralt winked at him, returned to He Shenyan's table, and said, "It seems that the situation is clear. The things you extracted from his mind The memories are all real."

He picked up a glass of wine and drank it down. The witcher's usually expressionless face had a rare gloomy expression: "What he has done makes me sick."

He Shenyan was still listening intently to the songs sung by the sailors. Judging from the increasingly unpleasant lyrics, it should have reached the final climax.

He said casually: "Until he died, Stregob didn't think he was doing anything bad. In his concept, he thought he just made a difficult choice. He chose to take small evils to take care of the bigger picture."

Geralt said seriously for the first time, "Evil is evil. Big or small, big or small. They're all the same. I'm not a devout hermit, and it's not all good things that I've done in my life. . But guess what?"

He took another drink, wiped his mouth, stood up and said, "...If I have to choose one of the two, I will choose neither."

He Shenyan turned his head, he looked at Geralt, and applied a magic shield to him: "Don't be evil... Right?"

The witcher walked to the door of the compartment, he pulled the hard curtain covered with dust and stains, and entered the compartment.

Six people were sitting at the table, the girl was not there.

A bald man with a broken face shouted, "What do you want?!"

Geralt looked around, his eyes swept across everyone's faces, and said calmly, "I want to see Shrike."

A pair of twins stood up. Their hands had already touched the long sword on the table, and the faces of the two were exactly the same.

Even those two swords.

"Calm down, Will, Nimir. You both sit down," the bald man said, and he said to Geralt, "Man, we don't have a Shrike here, I'm afraid you've come to the wrong place."

"yes?"

Geralt nodded, put his hands on the table, and continued, "Let me make it clear. I want to see the shrike, Renfri. Of course, it doesn't matter if you don't. Just tell her that Strigob is dead. Just fine."

After saying this, Geralt turned around and planned to leave, but then, the conversation of several people inside stopped him.

"Ha! Who does he think he is?"

"An albino!"

"No no no, guys, listen to me. I saw this cat-eye monster in front of the sheriff's house, and he brought a monster and wanted to exchange money. People said he was a witcher."

"It's those mutant bastards? Mage who cast spells for a handful of silver coins? Oh! Gods are above, why haven't these **** freaks been burned to death?!"

"Hey! Cat's Eye! Don't run! Tell me, did your mother give birth to you from a cross with a monster, as people say?"

Geralt sighed.

He pulled out the sword on his back with lightning speed, so fast that he could only see a silver light. Years of training and his superhuman physique made him turn around in an instant, raised his sword and slashed down, the sharp edge of the sword was exactly the same, and he cut off the hand of the half-elf who was raving about him.

He screamed, but no one cared in the noisy tavern.

There was no emotion in the witcher's eyes, and he said in a cold tone: "I won't kill you, idiot, but you have to pay for it."

"Did you **** think—" The bald man swallowed half of his scolding, and a woman walked in.

She was almost as tall as Geralt, with navy blue eyes. Straw-colored hair was trimmed raggedly, reaching only to the earlobes. With one hand on the door, she was wearing a velvet leather jacket with an ornate belt around her waist. Her skirt was also asymmetrical—the left side dropped down to her calf, while the right side showed her toned thighs on elk boots. On the left side of her body hung a sword, and on the right was a dagger with a huge ruby ​​at the handle.

"What's going on here?"

"Boss! He chopped off Severel's hand!"

The woman was unmoved at all. She said lightly, "I heard what he said. Shouldn't there be some punishment for lying about other people's mothers?"

Geralt wiped the blood from the sword with his sleeve, and slowly put the sword back into the scabbard. Holds out a hand to the woman: "Geralt of Rivia."

"You are not qualified to shake hands with her! Freak!" The bald head cursed again. The woman turned her head to stare at him, and the bald head closed his mouth immediately, and by the way, he lowered his head and did not dare to look at him. Geralt was astonished, because there was something very odd in the woman's gaze—it reminded him of the light reflected off the blade, the screams of the murdered, and blood and amputated limbs.

"Okay, white-haired guy." The woman turned her head, she shook hands with Geralt, and suddenly put on a smile: "Let's go to a more spacious place to talk, how about it? Huh? It's just you and me. ."

She deliberately lengthened the tail to bring out a charming tone.