Serious People, Who is Learning Magic at Marvel?

The latest website: A man is sweating like rain in the hot sun.

At the end of October, the weather is not too hot. However, working at noon is another concept. He took a woodworking saw and sawed some wooden boards into the right shape bit by bit in the courtyard of his home.

He glanced up as two riders passed the corner. One of them is particularly conspicuous with white hair. The man stopped his working hand, stared at him carefully, and then stopped working.

"The purpose of poetry is to say something that people would never say," He Shenyan said. "If that's what your friend Dandelion said, he's clearly a smart guy."

"Yeah, smart, but the smart ones are used in the wrong direction."

Geralt pulled the reins, and Novigrad was as bustling and crowded as ever. Even at noon, the circular plaza to their right was still crowded with people.

A statue of Rebidao is placed on the fountain pool, and clear water gushing out from the pre-set water outlet. A dozen different vendors are selling different items at their respective locations.

The cries were endless.

"Wrong direction?"

"Yeah... Actually, I doubt that Dandelion chose poetry as his main focus because it was convenient for him. He was always able to hook up with some beautiful women, a few words, a A poem, and then they can go to bed."

Geralt made this vulgar and made He Shenyan laugh dumbly: "Why do I feel you are jealous?"

"Jealous of him? Come on, Ho. You never saw him being chased and beaten by several different women."

They walked across the square chatting, and a few children ran across the flagstone road barefoot, with smiles on their dirty faces. One of them, fascinated by Geralt's white hair and cat's eyes, stood there, motionless - it was in the middle of the road.

Geralt raised his hand in a threatening gesture. "Stay aside, boy! Get out of the way!"

"Why are you carrying two swords on your back?" the child asked inexplicably. "Is one sword enough? I think the soldiers only need one sword."

"Because he's a witcher, boy." He Shenyan answered patiently. "A silver sword, used to subdue demons and demons. A steel sword, used to protect oneself."

"I Have a Scroll of Ghosts and Gods"

"Witcher!"

The boy suddenly realized: "No wonder you carry two swords! A witcher has come to Novigrad!"

he cheered,

She shouted and ran away as if she had met something unexpected. It was too late for Geralt to stop it, and to make matters worse, the children were now starting to shout this sentence in unison.

"A witcher is coming to Novigrad!"

They shouted and ran across the streets and through the alleys. From the cobblestoned square to the squalid shantytown of wooden planks. And they didn't stop: "There's a witcher coming to Novigrad!"

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"A witcher has come to Novigrad?"

Hearing this, Alphonse Willy raised his head in surprise. He was reading a newspaper. Now let it go. On an open page was written in large black letters: "The Nilfgaardians retreat without a fight!"

"Yes, boss."

The guy who brought him the information looked like a skinny monkey. He was wearing a dirty, open-chested shirt, and his arms were swaying uneasily at his sides. Behind him, two bodyguards with big arms and round waists were surrounding him from left to right.

The skinny monkey nodded again and again with sweat dripping down: "white hair, two swords on his back - what you explained is correct."

Alphonse Willie, the Novigrad gang magnate known as 'Hawthorne' (bred by his cousin) nodded thoughtfully: "Okay, I see."

He waved his hand, and the two bodyguards walked up silently and took the thin monkey out of his office door. It's quiet here again.

Hawthorne didn't care about the sour smell of the skinny monkey in his incense-lit office, which he thought would be strange if the skinny monkey didn't have that smell. Their bottom bastards don't even need to take a shower, and some don't even have to wear shoes.

However, after today, he should be able to eat enough and have new clothes. It was one of his rewards for bringing intelligence to Hawthorne.

From 1234 to 1264. Thirty years had passed, and he had not forgotten the witcher who came to his office when he was young and killed everyone and nearly killed him.

Never forget a moment.

Now, he has a son, and he is already sixty-two years old. At such an advanced age, he could have retired and ceded the position to his son, 'Hawthorne II', but he didn't.

Old Hawthorne knew very well what kind of virtue his son was.

If you say he is a cruel, ruthless and abusive scum. Then his son is an enhanced bastard, no worse than his father. The most crucial point is that old Hawthorne knew that his son would never know what he couldn't do.

And he knows.

He stacked the newspapers neatly and put them aside. Then he opened the drawer of his expensive mahogany desk and pulled out a thick stack of documents. They were deeds, bank statements, and guarantees of arrears that some had 'voluntarily' written to him.

Old Hawthorne took one out of it, and he didn't even count it, as if he knew where the document was.

The sentence above in black and white, short but clearly written.

"I, Walpole Royin, mortgaged the three buildings of the Bishop's Square to Mr. Alphonse Willie on November 7, 1248, to pay off his gambling debts."

In a word, tens of thousands of kronor money was condensed on this one document. Old Hawthorne looked at the document with deep eyes. He stretched out his right hand, his index finger bent, and after three taps on the table, the office door was opened again.

A lean man walked in. He is tall and bald. The beard is clean shaven, and the nails of both hands are neatly trimmed. There are no decorations on the clothes, just a simple set of civilian clothes.

"Where are the people from the Swordsmen?" asked old Hawthorne.

"It's done, sir. They're taking more people and more money each time."

The man bowed slightly to answer.

"money?"

Old Hawthorne snorted coldly: "Come to Novigrad with money and want Lao Tzu to help them sell people? Fuck it. A bunch of bastards with no assholes, if Goddess Meritelli really exists, why not put this Help the bastard choke to death."

The man listened to his swearing quietly, motionless, like a frozen plastic.

Old Hawthorne stopped after scolding for a while. Now it's not a low-level vocabulary contest. He put the document on the table and pushed it back. The man immediately stepped forward and took it.

"Go to Walpole Royin. Tell him, let him and his beggars find a white-haired witcher, and as long as they are found, the three houses in the main square will be returned to their original owners."

"Understood, sir."

"Besides, Jack... get the word out, don't let that smart-ass idiot do that to the witcher, understand? I'm looking for him, not to kill him."

"Understood, sir."

Jack bent down slightly again, then immediately turned and left Hawthorne's office. He gently closed the heavy solid wood door with one hand, and even withdrew the force so that it didn't make much noise.

Hawthorne leaned back in his chair and put the papers back in the drawer. He stood up, his back was not as straight as he was when he was young, and his face was much older, but his eyes were much wiser than when he was young.

"A bunch of bastards," he muttered. "They all have to die."

He suddenly became furious, his old face twisted into a ferocious look in an instant, his wise eyes disappeared, and he returned to the irritable appearance of his youth.

Hawthorne growled filially: "All have to die!"