The Divine Hunter - Chapter 357

Chapter 357: Old Speartip’s Demise

[TL: Asuka]

[PR: Ash]

Golden sunset rained down on the rivers of Kaer Morhen. Away the winds blew, and the riverbanks cleared, revealing seven witchers hiding in the patch of reeds, staring at the dark entrance of the cave.

A fat deer was lying silently on the ground, a great gash opened on its back. Its body was drenched in red, and the stench of blood wafted into the cave.

“You sure this will work, Letho?” asked Lambert curiously. He wiped his sweaty palms off, his eyes still on the entrance.

“No guarantees, but the possibility is high.” Letho pulled a reed beside him away and whispered, “Not even the green dragon can resist the allure of cooked ‘mutton.’ You think cyclops are smarter than dragons? Unless something very special happened to it, this plan is going to work.”

“But Old Speartip only eats fresh prey. That deer’s unmoving. Looks dead too. It’s not his usual menu.”

“Shut it, Lambert. You’re worrying too much.” Auckes looked at him. “That only happens under normal circumstances. It’s winter now. Beasts are in hiding, and prey is scarce. I bet Old Speartip would love it if someone wrapped his food up like a present for him.” Auckes continued curiously, “But you sure the poison will work? I think we need a bigger dosage for a guy his size. Not like we’ve killed cyclops before. We have no idea about their capabilities and how fast they can heal themselves.”

“Have some faith in Letho.” Roy looked at the fainted deer. “Not even drowners can survive puffer fish toxin, let alone a cyclops. And it’s fine even if we can’t kill it with poison. As long as we can weaken it, we can get into a war of attrition and wear him down.”

Two days. That was how long the witchers spent catching puffer fish in the nearby waters. It was their ovulating season, and the witchers took out their ovaries and innards to make their poison. They were paired with belladonna and winter aconites, and Letho the poison master concocted the brew.

The deer lost all consciousness five seconds after ingesting the poison, turning its whole body into a big vat of deadly poison.

***

Geralt suddenly put his index finger to his lips, and the witchers stopped moving. At the same time, they listened closely to any movements coming from the cave.

A strange rumble came from within the cave, shuddering the earth ever so slightly. Eventually, the rumble became stronger, making the reeds tremble. The sound of heavy breathing howled across the air. Bushes were pushed lower into the ground, and the air was filled with a foul stench that could knock anyone out if they came even remotely close to it.

And then the footsteps slowed. A humanoid, muscular monster that stood over thirteen feet tall emerged from the entrance, revealing itself to the hidden witchers. Its eye was bulging like a jaundiced patient’s, and its nostrils enlarged as the monster sniffed the air.

The witchers submerged themselves in the water, holding their breath.

Old Speartip eventually heaved a sigh of relief and grinned toothily. If the rotten, yellowing things in his mouth could be called teeth, that was. Murky, viscous drool trickled down its mouth and fell to the ground, and a sigh of delight escaped Old Speartip’s lips as he picked the deer up and returned to his cave.

***

Winds turned into gales, sending ripples spreading across the water.

And then a hairless head popped out of the water. “How long do you think it’s gonna take him to finish that whole thing?”

“About fifteen minutes,” Geralt said. “He loves eating his food alive. No cooking involved. And that deer wouldn’t be enough to fill his belly anyway.”

“Well, what are we waiting for, then? Get ready to rumble, people.”

The witchers exchanged looks of encouragement. Some sat down, some crouched down, while some stood up and greased their sword using a piece of cloth. Two layers of oil were added to the blades. One was ogroid oil, while the other was a concoction made of puffer fish toxin.

***

Blades were unsheathed and glinting dangerously. Some bottles were uncorked, and the witchers downed their Cat and Petri’s Philter combo. Black veins crawled up to the witchers’ faces, and their eyes shone like beasts’ eyes.

The witchers curled up and slid silently into the cave. Lambert was in the lead, given that he knew the structure best. Everyone else followed him, putting some distance between themselves. Through the dank cave they went and up the steep incline they climbed. Despite no signboard in the cave, they could still smell where Old Speartip was at.

Eventually, the witchers covered themselves with the shield of Quen and took their positions behind the stone pillars of the cave clearing. Old Speartip was lying on the ground, his breathing weak. The carcass of an animal was lying beside his leg, blood covering the ground.

‘Cyclops

HP: ? (Weakened)’

***

The poison had kicked in and knocked Old Speartip out before he could even finish his dinner. That lifted some weight off the witchers’ shoulders, but none of them approached the monster.

Roy and Letho suddenly produced a container with glimmering, dreamy gas in it—Dragon’s Dream. As planned, they hurled the bombs at Old Speartip. The containers broke, and the cyclops was covered in a blanket of gas, but the monster remained unconscious about the danger it was in.

Roy’s eyes glinted coldly, and he made a strange gesture in the air. A crimson triangle formed out of nowhere, and a fireball shot through the air like a miniature meteorite. Like a fading comet, it rushed into the gas.

Problem was, that gas was inflammable, and Old Speartip was trapped in a deep sleep. The flames hit him square in the face, and a loud explosion rattled the air itself. Great flames shot up into the air, and crimson mushroom clouds bloomed within the smokes like lightning coming down from black clouds.

A heat wave lashed out everywhere around the cave. The witchers felt their breathing stop for a moment, and their hair and beard were singed.

The cave rumbled, stalactites fell, and it felt like everything could come crashing down any moment.

But then, a horrific roar ripped through the air. A flaming, bald, charred cyclops emerged from ground zero and charged toward the cave’s entrance.

Two bolts flew through the night and hit the monster in its back, but they only penetrated its skin. Black blood spurted out of the wound and melted the ground.

The witchers hopped out of their hiding spots and slashed away at the back of the cyclops’ ankles. Their cuts run deep thanks to their ogroid oil, and bloody gashes formed.

But Old Speartip ignored his wounds and scorches. All he cared about was making his escape, but the witchers hounded him like a pack of wolves after their prey.

About a hundred yards later, Old Speartip came to a halt at the entrance and turned around. His breathing was ragged, his eyes wide, but all he had within him now was hatred. Hatred for the witchers.

The cyclops extended his arms and flailed them around like big, deadly sticks. It charged toward Roy like a bulldozer, and the ground rumbled with every step it took.

Even the winds that he stirred up felt like sharp razors, but the monster was one step too slow. The poison was corroding his nervous system, and him running only accelerated that process. After he was scorched by that explosion, every move he made felt like the death throes of a dying creature.

He was weak and slow.

As the cyclops loomed over Roy, the young witcher cast Axii and shoved it in the monster’s face.

Old Speartip lost focus for one moment, and Roy rolled away.

When he snapped out of it, Roy was nowhere to be found. In his place was the wall of the cave. Old Speartip crashed into it, and a crater was formed after the rumble.

The witchers ganged up on Old Speartip again, this time slashing away at his charred skin. Bloody lacerations opened up on the cyclops’ body, revealing the bones underneath.

Blood spurted out like little fountains all over his body. Old Speartip howled and roared as he dragged himself out of the rubble. It swung its arms behind it and tried to kick the attackers away, but the moment it turned around, another Axii flew into his eye, stunning him for another deadly moment.

Once again, the witchers quickly circled him, tossing Igni or cutting his skin open even more. Sometimes there would even be poison and Yrden added to the mix. It didn’t take long for Old Speartip to be covered in wounds.

***

Roy suddenly took a big leap behind and tossed Furyfire out while pulling Gabriel’s trigger at the same time.

A scorching fireball and poisoned bolt hit its chest at the same time, exploding and stunning the monster. Another howl escaped Old Speartip’s lips, but then he froze up again.

It flailed its limbs erratically like old, creaking warhammers. Gusts of wind blew across the battlefield, and the ground was covered in holes just a while later. Soil and leaves flew high up into the air, but Old Speartip’s life force was nearly six feet under. The poison had seeped too deep into his body.

He was too slow and weak to even hit the witchers. Under the unrelenting barrage of Signs and swords, Old Speartip eventually became slower and slower, his breathing turning heavier and heavier.

Eventually, Roy leapt over his swinging arm like a big cat and cast Fear on the monster. Crimson tentacles wriggled out of the void behind Roy, tying Old Speartip up. Eventually, it became a gigantic cocoon, unable to lift a single finger.

Roy held Aerondight up and slashed horizontally from left to right. The blade cut its mangled, seared belly easily, ripping a big gash on it.

His guts and innards plopped down to the ground like heavy, nasty excrements. Blood splashed down like a waterfall and flowed like a river, drenching the soil under the cyclops.

The monster’s gigantic body trembled and fell like a ship sinking into the depths of an ocean. The last thing he saw was a witcher with dark gold eyes holding his blade up solemnly, and…

‘Cyclops killed. EXP +400. Level 7 Witcher…’

Roy heaved a long sigh and pulled his blade out of the cyclop’s chest. His companions were drained and drenched in sweat, but they too had looks of relief in their eyes.

“Is it dead?” Lambert went ahead and stepped on the gigantic monster that smelled like grilled meat, blood, and shit.

“Yes, Lambert. Letho’s puffer fish toxin worked, especially on ogroids.” Eskel wiped the sweat off his face and said, “Old Speartip is no more. He shall not be a menace to Kaer Morhen now. Wonder what’ll Vesemir think if he knows this.”

“He’s thinking about something important. Probably a big decision. Don’t disturb him.” Geralt shook his head.

“Told you I’d get rid of this bastard, and here we are.” Roy extended his hand to Lambert.

And the Wolf gave him a high-five. “You stuck to your word. Guess we’ll be making that Novigrad trip after all.” Lambert approached the body and spat at its mangled head. “This is for Voltehre, you sucker!”

***

And then it was time for the loot. The witchers carved their prey up like giddy little kids opening up presents. Cyclops were the apex creatures of the ogroid class. They were as rare and powerful as green dragons. Perhaps only losing out by a hair’s breadth. Every part of this monster’s body was valuable.

Serrit sliced off a piece of its squalid, rancid, but exceptionally sturdy skin. “Pity it has holes all over it, or we can make four or five sets of armor out of its skin. This is a lot sturdier than cured draconid leather.”

“Guess we can still make one, even with these holes in them.” Auckes finally managed to pull off some skin the size of a whole nail after some labor. He placed it in front of his chest and filled it with the skin. “This’ll make a fine bracelet.”

Everyone else was carving up the fallen monster happily too.

Letho cut through the ribs and plucked its organs out, tossing the intoxicated parts away.

Eskel was cutting the spine open to collect his spinal fluid.

Geralt was hacking away at its head in an attempt to find the mutagen within.

Lambert was trying to hack the eyelid away and pluck the eye out. It was bigger than his head. “This is its most valuable part. Some rare and ancient recipes need this.”

Roy had his arms crossed. He looked at his busy companions for a moment and turned his gaze to the parts between Old Speartip’s legs solemnly.

“What are you spacing out for? Come over and help!” Lambert grumbled.

“He’s big.”

“What?” Auckes craned his neck curiously.

“That part.”

“Whoa. It’s like a loaded catapult.”

“Yeah. Bigger than the one in Oxenfurt. I bet someone’s going to take great interest in it.” And we can sell it for a boatload of coins.

Roy’s eyes twinkled. He was reminded of an old friend in Oxenfurt—Linus Pitt.

“Maybe he can get me a big client. And then we’ll get paid handsomely for the genitals and skeleton. But the skeleton is like a mountain. Can’t pack it into my inventory space even if I cut it up.”

Roy put the idea of taking the skeleton aside for the moment.

The witchers worked for more than an hour. When the moon was finally rising and the waters were blanketed by a layer of mist, the witchers happily rowed back to the other side, their pockets filled with loot.

Geralt managed to pull out a great fleshy, ball-like structure from the cyclops. It was on par with a greater green mutagen and was the last mutagen Roy needed to rank his witcher rank up.

It was corrupted by puffer fish toxin, but Roy tucked it away in his inventory space anyway. One step away from ranking up.