Serious People, Who is Learning Magic at Marvel?

That night, the Golden Court Tavern.

It's not quite appropriate to describe it as a pub. This bar 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 shop's customers are of all 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.

It's another picture of the hard laborers, the drivers and the fishermen, who drink as if 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.

Kyle Demion and Geralt were sitting on their stomachs drinking at the bar not far from him. 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 shopkeeper frowned. He tried to think about 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, turned his head and said to Geralt, "I've never seen any good people walking around with swords all the time, and they're not witchers like Geralt."

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

"It's all in the cubicle."

"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!"

Kel 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 gloom on his face: "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 feel like he was doing anything bad. In his mind, he thought he was just making a hard choice. He chose to take small evils for the sake 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 I haven't all done good things in my life. . But guess what?"

He drank another glass, wiped his mouth, stood up and said, "...If I had to choose one of the two, I would 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 cubicle, and he pulled back the hard, dusty and stained curtain and entered the cubicle.

Six people sat at the table,

That girl is 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 are.

"Calm down, Will, Nimir. You both sit down," the bald man said, and he said to Geralt again, "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 be clear. I want to see the shrike, Renfri. Of course, it doesn't matter if you don't. You 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 patient!"

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

"Those mutant bastards? Mage who cast spells for a handful of silver coins? Oh! Gods are above, why aren't these goddamn freaks burned to death?!"

"Hey! Cat's Eye! Don't run! Tell me, did your mother make you out of a cross with monsters, 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 voice: "I won't kill you, idiot, but you must pay for it."

"Did you fucking think—" The bald man swallowed half of the words he scolded, 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 wasn't quite symmetrical either—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. 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 Gangsword with his sleeve, and he slowly put the sword back into its scabbard. Holds out a hand to the woman: "Geralt of Rivia."

"You're not qualified to shake her hand! Freak!" The bald man 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 very surprised, because there was something very strange in the woman's gaze - reminding him of the light reflected from the blade, the screams of the murdered, and the blood and severed 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.