WITCHER'S BLOOD

　　Victor Silverblade, legendary witcher, the oldest, most formidable—and most retirement-prone—member of the Silver Wing Brotherhood still in active service, was currently squatting beside a farmer's chicken coop, pondering the meaning of life.

　　To be more precise, he was pondering why someone who could single-handedly take on a swamp hag and had once severed the head of a vampire lord was spending a drizzly Tuesday morning reeking of chicken droppings.

　　"Cluck-cluck—"

　　"Quiet." Victor didn't look up, his fingers tracing a suspicious puddle of mucus. It was sticky, slick, and shimmered with a strange mother-of-pearl sheen under the faint morning light, though it was still thoroughly overpowered by… well, the chicken droppings.

　　"Master Witcher!" Farmer Brown wrung his hands as he shuffled closer, his face—carved by both time and anxiety—creased into a deep frown. "That's it! The thief! Comes every night, right on schedule, always picks the plumpest hens! My wife says if this goes on, we won't even afford eggs!"

　　Victor slowly straightened up, his joints emitting a soft crackle—a lingering souvenir from six hours of crouching in a marsh yesterday. Standing six feet three, his lean, battle-hardened frame was clad in grey-black witcher gear. His black hair was tied back loosely, and a faint scar ran from his brow bone to his jaw along his left cheek, adding a touch of ferocity to his already stern features. But now, his steel-blue eyes, which had once made werewolves hesitate, held only a profound, career-weary exhaustion.

　　"Mr. Brown," Victor said, trying to sound professional rather than like a man desperate for a hot bath back at his castle, "this 'floating white specter with eyes like burning coals' you described—"

　　"Yes! Exactly!" Brown waved his pitchfork excitedly. "And it lets out these mournful wails! Ooo-ooo—like that!"

　　"—is actually moonlight shining through a hole in your barn roof, with mist passing through it creating an optical illusion." Victor pointed towards the rickety structure some thirty yards away. "As for the wailing, that's the wind whistling through the broken planks. And the chicken thief," he bent down, plucking a tuft of grey-brown fur from the corner of the coop, "is a fox. A common red fox. My advice is to reinforce your coop, or get a dog."

　　Brown's expression shifted from awe to confusion, then to a subtle anger that clearly said, "I paid good money for this?"

　　Victor pretended not to notice, deftly producing a few silver nails from a pouch at his waist. "Hammer these around the coop. Foxes dislike the smell. Half price, since there's no actual monster."

　　His motion for collecting payment was as fluid as a market vendor's—a pragmatism honed over decades of witcher work. True monsters were becoming scarcer, increasingly replaced by human imagination coupled with ordinary natural phenomena. Last week's "drowner in the lake" was waterweed tangling a swimming child. The week before, the "attic demon" was a raccoon raising kits in the rafters. At this rate, the Silver Wing Brotherhood might as well rebrand as a pet clinic and home repair service.

　　On the road back to the castle, the rain finally stopped. Victor rode along the forest path on his old horse, aptly named "Grumble"—a moniker earned by its equally impassive attitude towards ghouls and hares. Dappled light filtered through the oak leaves, and the air smelled of damp earth and decaying foliage. This was one of the few peaceful moments in his day, free from monster roars, villagers' pleas, or the admiring (or envious) stares of the younger witchers at the Brotherhood.

　　Then he saw the girl.

　　More accurately, he saw a human-shaped form lying face-down in the shallows of the river.

　　Victor reined in Grumble and sighed. So much for his day of sacred rest.

　　He dismounted and approached, his professional instincts kicking in for a rapid assessment: female, young, dark blue rough-spun dress soaked and clinging, chestnut hair splayed like seaweed. No visible luggage or external injuries, but drowning victims often looked deceptively intact—

　　"Cough! Ptooey—"

　　The girl suddenly jerked her head up, spewing a mouthful of water, then began coughing violently.

　　Victor stopped five paces away, his hand resting on the hilt of the silver sword at his waist. The movement was fluid, but inwardly, he felt nothing. After all, just last week he'd encountered a street urchin faking drowning to pick pockets, and the month before, a witch's apprentice playing dead to trap a witcher. These days, even scams were adopting supernatural themes.

　　The girl's coughing subsided. Slowly, unsteadily, she pushed herself up to a sitting position and turned to look at him.

　　Victor had to admit, if this was a setup, she was the most unconvincing con artist he'd ever seen. Her face was pale, almost translucent. Droplets rolled from her lashes, tracing paths down her delicate cheeks to her chin. Her eyes were an unusual, pale lilac, now hazy with water. Her soaked clothes clung to a frame that seemed far too slender. She looked no older than eighteen, as fragile as morning mist in the woods, ready to dissipate with a breath.

　　"You…" Her voice was faint, raspy from the water. "Are you a kind passerby?"

　　Victor raised an eyebrow. "Depends on your definition of 'kind.' I'm a witcher. I deal with monsters and trouble professionally. Which one are you?"

　　The girl seemed startled by his bluntness, her pale lilac eyes widening. Then—she sneezed. A loud, utterly graceless, bird-startling sneeze.

　　"Sorry," she sniffled, rubbing her nose and sending more droplets flying. "I don't think… I'm a monster? Probably not. At least, my mother never mentioned it."

　　Victor almost smiled at the logic. He released the sword hilt and took two steps closer, looking down at her. "Name? Why are you here? How did you end up in the water?"

　　"Selena," the girl whispered, hugging her trembling shoulders. "My name is Selena. My home is… in a village upstream. Last night's storm flooded the river. I came to gather some driftwood for the fire, but I slipped…" Her voice grew fainter, almost inaudible. "And then I woke up here."

　　A story full of holes. The nearest village upstream was thirty miles away. What kind of flood could carry someone that far without injury? Her hands bore the calluses of long-term labor, yet her skin was unusually smooth, lacking any trace of weathering.

　　But Victor merely nodded and turned towards Grumble. "Can you stand? I'll take you to the nearest village."

　　"Wait!" Selena cried out, trying to rise but stumbling and falling back into the shallows. "My… my ankle seems twisted. And… the upstream village is… gone."

　　Victor turned back, narrowing his eyes. "Gone?"

　　"The flood breached the dike," Selena lowered her gaze, her thick lashes casting shadows on her pale cheeks. "When I woke, all I saw was water. I might be the only survivor." She looked up, her lilac eyes welling with tears that shimmered in the morning light. "Please, Master Witcher, I have nowhere to go."

　　Her performance was masterful—the trembling lips, the desperate look, the perfectly timed pause. But Victor noticed three things: First, where she had landed when she sat up was the softest patch of sand on the riverbank, completely unharmed. Second, when she said "Master Witcher," the tip of her tongue lightly touched her lips, like a child spotting dessert. Third, and most peculiar, the water around her seemed clearer than elsewhere, with an almost imperceptible mother-of-pearl sheen, just like… the mucus by the chicken coop.

　　Professional instinct sounded a Level Three alarm in his mind.

　　But another, more complex emotion surfaced—boredom. The endless false alarms, unchallenging tasks, the piles of trivial reports back at the castle. This girl, this mystery wrapped in a drenched package, with her exaggerated acting and eyes that held stars (or schemes), at least seemed… interesting.

　　"I can offer you temporary shelter," Victor heard himself say, his voice calmer than he expected. "Until you recover or find a place to go. But there are conditions."

　　Selena's eyes lit up instantly, a flash so quick it was almost an illusion. "What conditions?"

　　"First, nothing in my castle is free. You work—cleaning, cooking, organizing the library, whatever needs doing."

　　"I can cook!" she said immediately. "My mother taught me to bake rye bread and make stew!"

　　"Second," Victor ignored her excessive enthusiasm, "the castle holds many dangerous things—monster specimens, alchemical potions, cursed artifacts. You are not to enter the basement, the laboratory, or my private study without permission."

　　Selena nodded vigorously, her wet chestnut hair whipping around and spraying Victor with water.

　　"And third," Victor wiped his face, enunciating each word, "no matter what you see, hear, or think you've figured out, you do not ask questions you shouldn't. I am a witcher. My work involves darkness most people cannot comprehend. Understood?"

　　"Understood!" Selena tried to stand again but wobbled.

　　Victor sighed in resignation and reached out a hand. The girl's hand was cold and soft, like holding a handful of stream water. As he pulled her up, she seemed to lean in too eagerly, her nose almost brushing against the skin of his neck.

　　"You have a kind of…" she murmured, her breath ghosting over the skin near his collarbone, "… very pleasant scent."

　　Victor froze.

　　Not because of the strange intimacy in her words.

　　But because, in that instant, he perceived two things with absolute clarity: First, Selena's body temperature was abnormally low, not like someone chilled from drowning, but more akin to a cold-blooded creature. Second, as she drew near, the old scar on the side of his neck—left by a werewolf's claw three months ago, long since healed—throbbed with a faint but distinct pang.

　　Like a resonance in the blood.

　　Victor released her hand and took a step back, his steel-blue eyes scrutinizing the drenched, seemingly harmless girl who was now gazing at him with adoration.

　　Selena tilted her head, a droplet falling from a lock of hair. "Is something wrong, Master Witcher?"

　　"Nothing," Victor turned away, masking the sharp glint that had flashed in his eyes. "Get on the horse. The castle is an hour's ride. I hope you can tolerate Grumble's temperament."

　　"His name is Grumble?" Selena giggled, the sound clear like water over stones. "What a cute name!"

　　Her attempt to mount was convincingly clumsy, but Victor noted the moment her skirt lifted as she climbed—her calf was smooth, showing no signs of swelling or sprain.

　　A lie. A complete and utter fabrication.

　　Victor swung up into the saddle behind her and took the reins. Grumble started forward with clear reluctance, heading up the forest path towards the castle perched on the cliff.

　　The post-rain sunlight finally broke through the clouds, bathing the forest in gold. Selena sat in front, humming an unfamiliar, oddly-tuned melody, her fingers unconsciously tapping rhythm on the saddle.

　　Victor watched the slender nape of her neck, where the skin was so pale it was almost transparent, faint blue veins visible beneath.

　　Professional instinct roared, warning him this was a trap, a deception, an unknown danger wrapped in a fragile shell.

　　But another voice—the one weary of daily monotony, craving a real challenge—whispered: *Play along.*

　　After all, it had been a long time since he'd encountered "trouble" bold enough to approach a witcher so blatantly.

　　"Selena," he spoke suddenly.

　　"Hmm?" The girl turned her head, her lilac eyes brimming with innocence.

　　"The castle kitchen hasn't been used in a while," Victor said, his tone flat. "I hope your stew-making skills are genuine. Last week I tried making soup in a cauldron and corroded the entire stove."

　　Selena's smile faltered for a split second.

　　Victor pretended not to notice and nudged Grumble's sides. The old horse reluctantly picked up its pace, heading towards the solitary castle with its Gothic spires gleaming coldly in the sunlight on the distant cliff.

　　The wind swept through the woods, carrying the scent of distant marshes, the fragrance of damp earth, and… a faint, elusive trace of water lilies, drifting from the wet hair of the girl riding before him.

　　Selena stood before the gates of Victor Silverblade's castle and, for the first time, experienced a moment of profound philosophical doubt regarding her plan.

　　This thing… can people actually live here?

　　It wasn't that the castle wasn't impressive. On the contrary, it was too impressive—three spires stabbed at the lead-grey sky like a giant's rigor-mortis-stiffened fingers, its granite walls choked with dark green ivy, every window as narrow as an arrow slit. The overall aesthetic could be summarized as "Gothic Fortification & Long-Term Depression Sanatorium." But what truly gave Selena pause was the stone crest above the main entrance: the fierce - looking head of a monster impaled by a longsword, clutching the severed half of a human limb in its jaws.

　　"Is that… the welcome sign?" Selena tried to sound curious, not as if she wanted to immediately turn and leap back into the river.

　　"Previous owner's taste," Victor said,