Half an hour later, Zelin stepped out of the inn.

  He drew in a deep breath of the cool evening air, attempting to soothe his still - excited mind, which the card game had roused.

  With a flick of his wrist, he closed the tavern's wooden door, muffling the raucous noise within.

  By now, his pocket held an extra twenty crowns.

  But this wasn't payment from the commission. Playing cards with drunkards always proved lucrative for him.

  Especially when he saw Arko produce a shoddy deck of Scoia'tael cards, Zelin knew his food expenses for the next few days were secured.

  Zelin often made it a routine to visit taverns in the evening, checking for drunk patrons. Years of experience had taught him that these were the individuals most likely to part with the few crowns in their pockets during a gambling game.

  Craftsmen and merchants he encountered during the day were wealthy and bet generously, but as soon as Zelin won a few rounds with ease, they'd stop playing, conjuring up various excuses to decline further games and never touch cards with him again.

  The laborers who spent the day toiling and came to the tavern for entertainment in the evening were a different story.

  They readily used the coins set aside for their nightly drinks to play a few rounds of cards. As they lost coin after coin, they'd lament their bad luck yet demand another game.

  Zelin found himself forcibly detained if he tried to leave. Arko, the drunkard he'd met today, was no exception.

  In just a few rounds, Zelin emptied Arko's pocket of its last crown coin. These bright, golden coins were highly coveted across the northern kingdoms.

  Some kingdoms, like those minting the Oren currency, sought to maintain economic control under the king by issuing their own money.

  However, no currency on the entire continent could match the crown's purchasing power.

  Especially in regions near the Free City of Novigrad, farmers refused to trade their crops with the city's arrogant and wealthy merchants using any other currency.

  Zelin pinched the card he'd just won between his fingers—the Havekar Healer from the Scoia'tael deck.

  It had decent value, but since Zelin hadn't completed his Scoia'tael collection and had long dominated with his Northern Realms deck, he tucked it into his pocket as a reserve for now.

  Of course, he didn't expect to encounter someone with a Gwent hero cards in this rural village. Even if they had one, they wouldn't easily give up their trump card after losing a game.

  After carefully stowing his other source of income back in his coat pocket, Zelin recalled the directions given by village elder Sigurd and headed towards the forest north of the village.

  To keep his card - playing earnings flowing, building a good rapport with the locals was key. Helping them deal with the threat would net him two hundred crowns.

  And before the Eternal Fire Church could stir up trouble again, he could earn another two hundred crowns by playing cards over the next few days.

  Once the villagers knew there was a Gwent master in their midst, there would always be those—be it well - off craftsmen or idle young men—eager to challenge him with a few coins.

  Zelin never turned anyone away. Accepting the monster - hunting commission was merely a means to gain the locals' favor; card - playing was his true livelihood.

  As he walked along the village path, Zelin's beast - like pupils scanned the surroundings.

  This region, situated in the northern kingdoms south of Redania, had already felt the reach of the Eternal Fire Church.

  Along the road, he saw clusters of lit candles. These weren't for lighting the way but were part of a ritual symbolizing the glory of the Eternal Fire, signifying that the village was protected from darkness by its divine light.

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  Zelin had never held the Eternal Fire Church in high regard. It incited hatred between commoners and non - human races.

  Fortunately, the church's influence was mostly concentrated in the Free City of Novigrad. In the northern kingdoms and the Nilfgaardian Empire to the south, its missionaries were quickly dealt with by local soldiers and expelled.

  Moreover, under the watchful eye of the Brotherhood of Sorcerers, the church couldn't cause too much chaos.

  Zelin's ultimate destination was the Mahakam Mountains in Redania's southeast. On horseback, it would take just two days to cross the Pontar River and enter Temeria.

  Ordinarily, he wouldn't have stopped here. But during his last wyvern hunt, his horse had been devoured by the winged dragon.

  Until he earned enough to buy a decent steed, Zelin would likely be stuck wandering in this area for a while longer. A Witcher traveling on foot would surely be the butt of his colleagues' jokes.

  After leaving the tavern, the village's hustle faded into silence for Zelin.

  Candlelight from the farmhouses seeped through the windows, casting long, warm streaks across the dirt path.

  The sporadic chirping of insects in the roadside grass and the occasional bleat of sheep were the only sounds that reached his ears.

  After a day of backbreaking labor, the village had slipped into a peaceful slumber.

  At night, the villagers sought rest, knowing that with the first rooster's crow at dawn, they would rise to another day of toil, trapped in an endless cycle of hard work.

  These countless villages were the building blocks of a country. It was the tributes paid by ordinary villagers that allowed noble lords to lounge in their castles, reaping the rewards of others' labor without lifting a finger.

  As Zelin stepped into the wilderness, the line between the forest and the village blurred amidst the uneven bushes.

  While Wild Hunt sometimes strayed into the village, there were few recorded instances of monsters launching attacks.

  However, the open wilderness was a different story. Countless humans had met their end at the claws and fangs of monsters.

  More than once, Zelin had come across the bodies of the unfortunate souls drowned by Drowners while on river - side extermination missions.

  This world was a perilous place. Humans were relatively safe only within the walls of their strongholds.

  Beyond those boundaries, the wilderness was a domain ruled by corpse - eating creatures, mutated insects, dragon - like beasts, and hybrids like griffins. That was precisely why the world needed experts like Zelin—Witcher.

  As he delved deeper into the forest, the thick bushes gave way to tall, straight pine trees. In the border region between Temeria and Redania, dense pine forests stretched as far as the eye could see, some spanning dozens of miles without end.

  Seeing this, Zelin rummaged through his pocket and pulled out a magnetic needle set in a shiny golden base.

  When traversing jungles or endless prairies on cloudy days, with no sun to guide him, this simple yet invaluable tool was his lifeline. And it hadn't cost him a single coin.

  In Vengerberg, the capital of Aedirn, a wealthy merchant he'd played cards with had sent his servant home in the middle of the night to fetch the needle.

  The merchant was so desperate to keep his last pair of underpants that he offered it as compensation for his thirteen - consecutive - loss debt.

  "Hmm... North it is," Zelin murmured, lowering his eyes to confirm the direction. As he looked up, he saw that the further he went, the more the dense canopy blocked the moonlight, plunging the forest floor into deeper darkness.

  For ordinary people, it was simply a lack of light. But for a Witcher like Zelin, these shadowy places were prime hunting grounds for fog Nekkers and werewolves.

  Nekkers thrived in the darkness, lurking in the shadows. A lone Nekker might be manageable, but a group of five could pose a real threat.

  Encountering more than ten could spell doom even for the most seasoned hunter.

  When the howl of wolves echoed in the distance, Zelin shrugged. He raised his hand and traced an inverted triangular rune in the air, then spread his fingers and pushed it forward.

  As the rune touched his palm, it transformed into bright orange ripples that enveloped his body—the Quen Sign, also known as the Witcher's Shield.

  During his training under the grandmaster of the Griffin School of Witcher, the old man, often after a few drinks, would grab Zelin and ask, "Do you know about real dragons? They're leagues above those low - level monsters.

  With the Quen Sign protecting me, I once chatted and laughed with one!" But when Zelin asked for advice on facing a dragon, the grandmaster's response was simple: "Don't be a fool. Run like hell."

  Shaking off the memories, Zelin strode deeper into the forest.

  His cat - like eyes allowed him to see clearly in the darkness, giving him a visibility range of at least thirty meters, even on foggy days.

  A Witcher's physical mutations weren't just about strength and agility; they were a complete transformation of every bodily organ.

  Shortly after entering the forest, Zelin caught a whiff of blood in the air—a mixture of old and fresh scents. The five - day - old smell likely came from the slain cow.

  The fresher scent led him to a spot about thirty meters away, where several dead wolves lay scattered on the ground.

  Zelin closed his eyes, rubbed them, and then opened them wide. In an instant, his vision transformed.

  The blood's trail, the chaotic footprints on the ground, the source of every forest sound, and the swaying herbs in the bushes—things invisible to ordinary eyes—stood out starkly, like vivid brushstrokes on a blank canvas.

  With this unique ability, Witcher could sift through a sea of confusing clues to find the information they needed.

  "Well, time to get to work," Zelin said, steeling himself for what lay ahead.