Witcher Gonna Do

They walked in silence as the village slowly came to life behind them. Geralt was used to the weight of stares, the quiet resentment, and suspicion from villagers who didn’t want his kind around unless they had a monster to kill. It wasn’t any different here, though with the kid at his side, the hostility felt sharper, more pointed.

The kid didn’t seem to care. He kept his head down, his eye constantly moving, taking in the surroundings with a practiced caution. He didn’t flinch at the glares, didn’t react to the muttered curses or the way the villagers steered clear of them. If anything, Kakashi seemed like he expected it, like this was just how things were.

Good intuition, Geralt thought. It made sense for someone in training. A Witcher child, probably just old enough to start seeing how much people hated their kind, to learn what it meant to be an outcast.

As they reached the edge of the village, Geralt slowed, glancing at the boy. He hadn’t said much since waking up, not that Geralt had expected him to, but there was something unsettling about the silence.

“You got a name, kid?” Geralt asked, keeping his tone even.

The boy looked up, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, with a quiet, almost reluctant voice, he replied, “Kakashi.”

Geralt nodded. That was more than he had expected.

“Geralt,” he said in return. Kakashi said nothing more, just gave a small nod and continued walking alongside him, his movements controlled but unhurried.

They made their way toward the forest where a few of the tavern patrons this morning had mentioned livestock going missing. It wasn’t a difficult job by any stretch, but it would be good to see what Kakashi was capable of. Geralt had already noticed that the kid didn’t have a silver sword, which was unusual, and no medallion. But the way he moved, the way he held himself—it reminded Geralt of Witcher children who had only just started hunting. Trained and cautious, but not yet tempered by enough monsters to know when to rest and when to tense.

Could be whoever trained him kept him on smaller jobs , Geralt mused. Wolves, maybe the occasional drowner, but not the bigger stuff. Without a medallion or silver, it wouldn’t be safe to send the kid after anything worse.

They entered the treeline, the forest closing in around them, damp with morning dew. Geralt’s senses sharpened, his hand resting on the hilt of his silver sword as they walked. He could hear the distant rustle of animals moving through the undergrowth, birds chirping in the canopy above. It was quiet, but not too quiet. Nothing out of place, yet.

Kakashi followed closely, his footfalls light and nearly silent, almost too quiet for someone so young. That caution was there again—something ingrained into the kid, something that would serve him well when he had to face real monsters.

Geralt paused, sniffing the air. The faint scent of blood lingered—livestock, probably. He nodded to Kakashi, motioning for him to follow as they veered off the path, heading toward the scent.

Whatever had taken the livestock wasn’t far. The kid kept up, his movements precise but not rushed. He didn’t ask any questions, didn’t make a sound. For now, Geralt would see how Kakashi handled himself in the field. Whether the boy had the instincts to survive what was out here without silver, and whether he’d need Geralt’s protection.

As they moved deeper into the forest, the morning light filtered through the dense canopy, casting long shadows across the ground. Geralt kept his senses on alert, though he found himself glancing back at Kakashi more than once. Dry leaves scattered beneath their feet, though Kakashi’s steps barely disturbed them, his movements measured and quiet. He moved with a natural, quiet alertness, each step deliberate, as if sensing where to place his weight to avoid making sound.

Still, there was something about the way Kakashi was following, the movement practiced to the point of becoming instinctual. His theory was slowly gaining ground. Kakashi crouched near a patch of disturbed ground, nostrils flaring slightly as he tilted his head, drawing in the scents around him. The air carried hints of animal musk, soil, and a faint metallic tang, edged with decay. He breathed in deeply, his gaze sharpening as he mentally sorted through each trace of scent, piecing together the trail.

“Smell anything?” Geralt asked, keeping his tone low and neutral.

Kakashi nodded but didn’t elaborate. His brow furrowed in concentration as if he was sorting through unfamiliar scents, trying to make sense of what was new and what was relevant. Geralt waited, curious. A faint breeze stirred the trees, lifting more of the decaying scent into the air, and Geralt caught a trace of it himself—enough to make his pulse quicken.

They moved forward in silence, Kakashi’s steps gradually lighter with each stride, his nose twitching as he fine-tuned his course without pause. Geralt watched, noting the shifts in his posture as Kakashi homed in on details. The boy’s eyes flicked over a cluster of broken branches, a smear of mud on a tree trunk—small signs he pieced together like a puzzle.

Most Witcher trainees had been taught how to track by this point in their training, mostly just following broken branches and tracks. The experienced Witchers learned to use their nose a little later during field work.

He’s got good instincts, Geralt thought, watching the kid work. Kakashi’s eyes narrowed as he moved forward, his steps softening a little more with each pass. Geralt remembered watching kids like this long ago—young, on the edge of their training, but not yet experienced with the kinds of monsters that left their mark on a place.

Kakashi paused again, crouching beside a tree where rough claw marks had gouged into the bark. His fingers traced the grooves, brow pinching slightly in thought as he took in the markings. The silence held as he drew in another breath, nose twitching, before standing and setting off along the faint trail left behind by whatever had moved through this part of the forest.

Geralt followed, his eyes sharp with a glint of amusement. “He’s got the nose for it,” he muttered under his breath. Geralt remembered it taking himself a little longer before figuring out how to track with scent as well as he did with tracks.

They continued through the dense thicket, the forest's sounds growing muffled as if swallowed by the gathering tension in the air. Shadows thickened under the canopy, and Geralt noted how Kakashi’s steps adapted, each movement carrying a careful intent that mirrored the rising tension.

Kakashi pressed on with unwavering intensity. He stopped every so often, scanning the ground or sniffing the air. To Geralt, it looked like the kid was sorting through an entire library of scents in his head, trying to match something he recognized. He’s green, Geralt reminded himself. Likely hasn’t dealt with enough monsters to know them all yet. It made sense given that Geralt hadn’t heard anything about witcher children in many years. Whoever made the kid, likely hadn’t sent him out on hunts in the real world all that often. If he had, there would have been rumors, word of mouth, some sign the kid existed.

The clearing opened wide under a break in the canopy, sunlight spilling in stark contrast over the dark earth. Scraps of torn fur clung to low-hanging branches, smeared across trampled grass and blood-soaked soil. Buzzing flies thickened around the mangled goat carcass, their hum an incessant backdrop to the scene.

The scent of decay hit Geralt hard, thick and rancid, and Kakashi’s sharp inhale told him the kid was already processing it. Kakashi’s nose wrinkled, though he kept his gaze sharp and alert, his single dark eye narrowing as he scanned the area.

Geralt crouched, fingers brushing the jagged tear in the goat’s hide, still wet to the touch. “This is fresh,” he muttered, eyes tracing the splatter pattern in the grass. “Whatever did this is close.”

Kakashi’s eye met Geralt’s, giving a single, sharp nod as his stance tightened, ready for whatever lay ahead. As Geralt rose, he motioned for Kakashi to follow, noticing the way the kid moved—feet shifting smoothly over roots and rocks, his steps steadier, similar to a long-buried hunter waking. The kid might not have faced a lot of monsters yet, but he wasn’t oblivious to danger. Each footfall grew more confident, the hunt likely stirring up engraved instincts from training.

Ahead, the forest grew eerily still. Geralt’s hand moved to the hilt of his silver sword, his senses attuned to the unnatural quiet that often heralded a predator.The undergrowth around them grew dense, tangled with exposed roots and scattered bones, half-buried and broken— old kills picked clean . A rank odor saturated the air—a foul blend of rot mingled with a musky earthiness, as if the forest floor itself was decaying. Kakashi's eyes darted to the darker shadows beneath gnarled tree trunks where fresh claw marks streaked the bark, coarse and uneven. The deep gouges uneven and scattered but leading up. Looking as if creatures with twisted limbs had scaled them with brute force.

Geralt’s nose twitched as the stench grew thicker, almost sickly, underscored by the coppery tang of blood and sour pinch of feral animals, strong and undeniable. Beside him, Kakashi’s shoulders tightened, his stance lowering as he scanned the brush, clearly picking up on change in scent and shifting his weight instinctively. He said nothing. He didn’t need to. The smell of blood was already drawing it in.

A rustling broke the silence, the sharp crack of a branch followed by the faint hiss of something clawing through the dense ferns. Shadows skittered in the corners of their vision, small shapes with glinting, hungry eyes darting between the underbrush, growing closer in jagged, halting bursts.

The sound of wet breathing grew from the thicket to their left, low and guttural, joined by others—a subtle chorus of rasping inhales that crowded the air with menace. A soft, grating growl echoed from the shadows, followed by the chittering clicks of teeth snapping shut, faster than any woodland animal Geralt knew.

“Nekkers,” Geralt muttered, his grip tightening on his sword. These were basic monsters, horrid and twisted in appearance, adapted to burrow, climb, and attack in packs with sharp claws and mid to high speeds. Their movements were erratic but fast, and the fight ahead would be relentless. Fine by him. He glanced at Kakashi, sizing up his readiness. This was as good a test as any.

Kakashi crouched, his gaze locked on the shifting shadows. His stance widened, weight centered, and shoulders tense, poised like a coiled spring. He carried a calm stillness in his form. There was no fear, only focus.

He’s ready, Geralt thought, stepping forward to meet the threat. Time to earn his coin.

Geralt stepped forward, letting his silver sword lead, just as the first nekker leapt from the darkness. It came low, snarling, claws extended to tear. He sidestepped, blade flashing in a clean arc that split its thick hide. The creature shrieked, its blood spraying in a sickly black splatter across the forest floor, a scent like sour rot filling the air. Then the underbrush shuddered as two more nekkers lunged, drawn to the scent of the spilled blood of their kin. They were wiry and hissing, darting forward with gleaming, empty eyes and lipless mouths that gaped wide, rows of jagged teeth snapping. 

Geralt stole a glance at Kakashi, half-expecting hesitation from him at the sight of the gnarled, sinewy beasts—but the boy’s gaze was steely, focused. Kakashi moved swiftly. With a flick, a knife appeared in Kakashi’s hand, small and unfamiliar—far from the silver blade Witchers carried for such monsters. Geralt’s brow creased as he parried another nekker, cutting down through leathery flesh. But Kakashi didn’t falter, diving into the fray with alarming speed, knife slashing in rapid, precise arcs, aiming at throats and tendons as if he faced a human. Odd.

The nekker facing Kakashi screeched, clawing forward with twisted limbs, each swipe of its claws an erratic but deadly assault. Kakashi darted around the strikes, his knife stabbing into its gut, but the creature merely staggered, its wounds closing over in a pulse of sickly, darkened skin. A frustrated line creased Kakashi’s brow as the beast’s thick hide and unnatural resilience shook off the injury, snarling louder, its claws swiping with a feral hunger.

Geralt’s brow furrowed as he parried another strike from a charging nekker. He’s fighting them like men, he realized, noting the oddity. Most Witcher trainees, even the green ones, would know that monsters required different tactics, especially ones like these. But Kakashi’s movements were wrong, calculated for a different kind of fight, as if he were facing an armed person rather than a monster. That knife wasn’t silver either.

Another nekker sprang from the shadows, teeth snapping with a sickening crunch as it launched itself toward Geralt. He ducked low, thrusting his silver sword deep into its side, twisting as the creature gurgled, its thick blood soaking his hand. The nekker snarled at Kakashi, its clawed hand swiping toward him. To his right, Kakashi dodged another swipe, shifting his stance to match the nekker’s movements—but his blade was struggling against the dense hide. The boy dodged nimbly, darting under the blow, and drove his knife into the creature’s gut. The nekker howled in pain but didn’t fall—it's thick hide and regenerative abilities shrugged off the wound far more easily than any human would have. He watched as the boy gritted his teeth, clearly frustrated that his attacks weren’t having the desired effect. 

“Damn it,” Geralt muttered, hacking down another nekker that had slipped through his guard. The scent of iron and decay thickened, clawing at his senses, but he focused, eyes narrowing as he sliced through the creature’s spine, watching it collapse. The kid needed silver.

Then, two more nekkers charged from the brush, their twisted, gnarled bodies closing in. Geralt’s hand flashed out, fingers curling into a familiar sign. The air crackled with energy as Geralt formed the sign of Aard. A powerful gust shot out, scattering leaves and dirt as it slammed into the monsters, sending them sprawling back into the underbrush with startled screeches.

To his surprise, Kakashi’s eye widened, tracking the burst of energy, the edges of his mouth quirking with intrigue. Then, without missing a beat, his free hand moved through a rapid series of gestures—strange, precise, like nothing Geralt had ever seen. Geralt barely had time to notice the spark of heat that followed.

A sudden surge of intense heat pulsed through the air, and a roaring burst of flame erupted from Kakashi’s mouth, scorching the ground in a fiery arc toward the nekkers. The monsters recoiled, their screeches rising to a frenzied pitch as the fire caught their thick, foul-smelling flesh, skin blistering and curling in on itself.

“ What in the hells?”  Geralt muttered, his grip tightening on his sword.

The kid’s flames were no sign he knew, no igni—a force both feral and controlled, yet utterly foreign—raw, elemental fire, controlled by a kid who shouldn’t have access to anything of the sort. But there was no time to wonder.

Another nekker lunged from the smoldering remains, claws aimed at Geralt’s throat, the scent of burnt flesh thick in the air. He sidestepped, ramming his sword upward to slice the creature’s arm clean off. It snarled, stumbling back, black ichor pouring from the stump.

The remaining nekkers scrambled to retreat, some of them wounded by the flames, while others pressed on. Geralt, forcing himself to push questions aside, returned his focus to the fight. He cut down another nekker with a quick slash of his silver sword, stepping in to cover Kakashi’s side as the boy parried and stabbed with his knife.

Kakashi, meanwhile, circled the last nekker, who was writhing from the burns. He ducked under its flailing arms, knife darting in for quick, calculated strikes, each stab relentless. Even without silver, his blows were sharp, precise. But still—there was a struggle against the beast’s unnatural durability, its skin sealing over with a sickly sheen even as it bled.

Geralt stepped forward, his blade cleaving the monster’s neck. The nekker’s body dropped heavily, the fight abruptly over, leaving only the soft, crackling remains of burnt underbrush and the lingering, acrid smell of charred nekker flesh.

Maybe he wasn’t as trained as Geralt had initially thought.

Geralt dispatched the last of the escaping nekkers with a final sweep of his blade, the bodies of the creatures littering the ground around them. He straightened, catching his breath before turning to Kakashi. The boy’s breathing was steady, but Geralt could see the frustration in his clenched fists.

As silence reclaimed the clearing, Geralt shot Kakashi a glance, his sword still held at the ready. The kid’s knife dripped with dark blood, his breathing steady, his gaze returning to meet Geralt’s with that same unsettling calm.

“Those were nekkers,” he said, nodding at the smoldering corpses. “Next time, silver.”

Kakashi’s eye met his briefly, then flicked away. He made no reply, though Geralt saw his gaze shift to the silver sword at his side. At least he’s learning, Geralt thought . The boy’s training was done incorrectly it seemed.

Geralt eyed the boy, the image of the flames Kakashi had unleashed still fresh in his mind. That wasn’t a sign. Whatever that was, it wasn’t Witcher magic. He eyed the boy warily, the puzzle surrounding him gaining new pieces by the moment, and none were helping. For now, though, they had more immediate concerns like getting Kakashi a weapon that could handle the monsters they’d face next.

“Let’s move,” Geralt said, turning back toward the path. Kakashi, silent as ever, fell in step behind him.

As they left the forest behind, Geralt couldn’t stop replaying the fight in his mind. The way Kakashi had handled the nekkers—like they were men rather than monsters—was odd, but the fire the kid had conjured up was stranger still. It hadn’t been a sign, nor any magic Geralt had seen in use before. It felt… uncanny. Who trained you? Geralt thought, glancing back at Kakashi, who matched his pace but kept his gaze steady on the road ahead.

The boy walked a few paces behind him, quiet and wary as ever. Geralt could feel the weight of unanswered questions pressing down on him, and this time, he wasn’t about to let the kid brush him off.

“So,” Geralt broke the silence, his voice low against the sounds of the forest, “that fire trick. What was that?”

Kakashi’s eye flicked toward him briefly, then back to the ground. He said nothing, his silence a practiced thing, one Geralt had come to expect.

“Not a sign,” Geralt pressed. “And you’re no mage. Where’d you learn that?”

Still nothing. The kid was locked up tight, just like before. Geralt scowled, not out of anger but because this was starting to feel like a game he didn’t have time to play. He stopped walking, forcing Kakashi to do the same, and turned to face him.

“You’re good at keeping quiet. I’ll give you that. But if I’m dragging you into these fights, I need to know what I’m working with.” His tone was low, more warning than demand. “We’re not up against men here. You saw those nekkers—monsters need silver, not… whatever you’ve got.”

Kakashi’s jaw tightened, the knife still held tightly at his side. Geralt could see the wheels turning behind that single dark eye, but whatever the kid was thinking, he wasn’t sharing.

Geralt sighed, sheathing his sword with a flick. “Fine. Don’t tell me where you’re from. But if you can’t fight monsters properly, you’re going to get yourself killed. Or worse—get me killed.” He raised an eyebrow. “I need to know if you’re used to fighting human threats more than monsters.”

Kakashi’s eye met his for a brief moment, a glint of something there—thoughtfulness, or perhaps consideration, maybe just stubbornness—but still no answer came. Not yet.

Geralt nodded, turning back toward the path as they fell into step. He doesn’t know how to fight monsters. Whatever fool trained him clearly thought this kid was ready and didn’t know, or else just didn’t care.

They continued on, the silence stretched taut between them, heavy as a low-hanging storm. The crunch of leaves underfoot and the distant bird calls faded into background noise as Geralt’s mind circled Kakashi’s reactions during the fight. He moved like a soldier trained to face people, not the supernatural predators Witchers hunted. Who made you? Geralt thought, frowning as he glanced sideways at the boy. Whoever had tried to prepare Kakashi for this world had failed in the most dangerous ways, leaving him barely armed for monsters, yet somehow… still dangerous.

The fire he’d conjured was proof enough of that. There was something in Kakashi—a spark, raw and untamed—that hinted he could hold his own. But Geralt needed to know who, or what, had crafted the boy and left him so ill-prepared for what lurked beyond men. 

They were nearly back to the village when it happened. One second, Kakashi was following quietly behind; the next, a faint rustle signaled his sudden movement, veering off the path in a swift, silent sprint into the brush. Kakashi darted to the side, his legs a blur as he veered off the path in an attempt to vanish into the brush.

Geralt didn’t expect it, not exactly, but the moment he heard the faint rustle of movement behind him, his reflexes kicked in. “Damn it,” Geralt cursed under his breath and bolted after him. The kid was fast—faster than any regular human—but Geralt’s heightened senses locked onto him in a heartbeat. The forest felt alive around him—the musty earth, the damp undergrowth, the sharp bite of a broken branch underfoot. He bolted after Kakashi, barely a sound escaping as he sprinted through the trees, closing the distance quickly.

A flicker of movement ahead—the boy slipping through the dense underbrush with unnatural grace. But Geralt wasn’t about to let him go. With a final burst of speed, he closed in, his hand shooting out to grab the back of Kakashi’s cloak, yanking him to a sudden halt.

The kid tensed in his grip, but didn’t fight back. He went still, shoulders tight, head angled down as if he already knew it was over the second Geralt had him.

“You’re not getting away that easy,” Geralt growled, pulling Kakashi back toward the path. His voice was low, rough with irritation. “Running off—seriously? You don’t even know what’s out here. You’d be a chew toy for the next pack of drowners.”

Kakashi didn’t respond. His face held that neutral mask, but his jaw was tight and there was something in the set of his shoulders—a thin edge of frustration seeping through, maybe. Geralt wasn’t sure, but he wasn’t in the mood for this.

Geralt’s grip stayed firm as they reached the path, then he released him, though his eyes remained fixed, watching for any sign that Kakashi might try bolting again. The kid didn’t move, just stared back and held his ground, clearly considering whether to make another break for it or to weigh his other options.

“Running’s not going to work,” Geralt said evenly. His tone was steady, a warning rather than a lecture. “Not here. If that last fight showed anything, it’s that you don’t know how to fight monsters. You wouldn’t last long, and even if you did”—he met Kakashi’s gaze, eyes narrowed—“you’re not outrunning me.”

Kakashi’s lone visible eye narrowed, a flicker of defiance there, but he stayed silent. Geralt could feel the tension tightening, and a sigh left him, pinching the bridge of his nose before lowering his hand to his side.

“Look, kid,” Geralt muttered, voice lowered to a rough rasp. “You don’t want to talk. You don’t want to be here. Fine. I get it. But you’re stuck with me for now.” He gave Kakashi a hard look, his tone turning sharp. “Stop trying to run.”

A faint exhale escaped Kakashi, a small, resigned puff of air. The posture that had been tight as a drawn bowstring eased—barely. Geralt could tell he’d gotten through for now, even if Kakashi didn’t seem thrilled about it. He wouldn’t try running again, at least not until he’d had more time to think it through.

Geralt jerked his head toward the road. “Let’s go.” He started forward, not waiting to see if the boy would follow. Kakashi did, though, footsteps soft behind him, quiet and watchful as ever. Kakashi followed behind. A growing tension stirred in the air between them—like a storm that hadn’t quite broken yet. 

The air between them felt charged, heavier than before, like the weight of all the questions unasked and unanswered was starting to stack up. Geralt knew he’d circle back to this conversation, whether the kid liked it or not. For now, they had a commission to finish, a task to see through.

And perhaps, if he played this right, a few answers to extract.

When they finally made it back to the village, the sun had already started its descent, casting long shadows over the packed dirt roads. The walk had been quiet—but restlessness—and though Kakashi hadn’t tried to run again, Geralt kept one eye on him the whole way. The boy was smart, no doubt, but reckless too. And if Geralt was right, the recklessness came from something other than inexperience.

They returned to the inn, greeted by the familiar smell of stale ale and wood smoke. Geralt nodded at the innkeeper, who gave them a wary look and a small bag of coins before turning away, muttering something under his breath. They had gotten used to the sidelong glances, the uneasy stares; it was the same wherever they went.

Geralt led Kakashi upstairs, back to the small room they had rented for the night. The door creaked as it opened, and the room was as Geralt had left it—small, with just enough space for two beds, a rickety table, and a single window overlooking the street. He stepped inside, gesturing for Kakashi to follow.

The boy entered without a word, moving with that quiet, fluid stride again, but Geralt could see the exhaustion weighing on him. He looked ready to collapse, and yet there was a tightness to his movements, like he still didn’t trust the place enough to rest.

As Geralt leaned his sword against the table, he glanced at Kakashi, who stood by the window, staring out at the village. The boy hadn’t spoken since the fight, and Geralt could feel the weight of the unspoken thoughts hanging in the air between them.

“You’re lucky, you know,” Geralt said, breaking the silence as he started unlacing his gauntlets. “You did well in that fight, but without silver, without proper knowledge of what you’re up against, it’s only a matter of time before something kills you. Or me.”

He didn’t expect a response, not after the way Kakashi had kept himself clammed up the whole journey back after attempting to run when Geralt had pushed. But to his surprise, the boy’s hand twitched at his side. Then, slowly, he turned to face Geralt, his single dark eye unreadable.

“You were right,” Kakashi said quietly, his voice low but steady. “A lack of knowledge could get us killed.”

Geralt paused, one eyebrow raising slightly. It was the most the kid had said in hours. He nodded, crossing his arms. “So?”

Kakashi looked away for a moment, as if weighing his next words carefully. His hand drifted to the pouch on his belt, fingers brushing the knives sheathed there.

“I don’t… I don’t know these monsters. I’ve never seen anything like them before,” Kakashi admitted, his tone blunt but without shame. “Where I’m from… I hunt people.”

The statement hung in the air between them, stark and sharp like the blade the kid carried. Geralt’s eyes narrowed slightly, some pieces of the puzzle beginning to shift into place. He had suspected as much after watching Kakashi fight, but hearing the boy confirm it was something else.

“People, not monsters.” Geralt echoed, his voice carefully neutral.

Kakashi nodded once, his gaze meeting Geralt’s for the briefest moment before shifting away again. “ That’s what I’m trained for.”

Geralt studied the boy for a long moment, processing what he had said. It explained the way Kakashi had fought, the lack of silver, the way he moved like a shadow on a battlefield rather than a Witcher in the wild. The kid wasn’t trained to deal with the monsters of the world—he was trained to kill men.

It made sense, in a way. But it also raised more questions.

“And that’s why you carry a knife instead of  silver,” Geralt mused, more to himself than to the boy. He wasn’t angry; if anything, the revelation was a relief. At least now he knew what Kakashi was equipped to handle—and what he wasn’t.

Kakashi didn’t respond, just kept his gaze fixed on Geralt’s hands, hand twitching at his side, like he was waiting for something.

Geralt sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “You were right to tell me. However, If you want to survive in this line of work, you’ll need to learn more about monsters. For example, silver works where your steel won’t.”

Kakashi shifted slightly, his expression unreadable, but there was relief in his frame that Geralt didn’t miss. The kid was starting to crack, just a little.

“I’ll teach you what I can,” Geralt said after a moment. “I’ll show you how to deal with these things. But you—“ Geralt paused, gesturing in Kakashi’s direction. “Stop running. I’m not going to chase you through every forest between here and the mountains.”

Kakashi’s eye flicked up to meet his, and for the first time, Geralt saw a flash of something in the boy’s gaze—something like a creeping sentiment of trust, tempered with wariness. He wasn’t sure what had prompted the kid to open up even this much, but it was a step in the right direction.

Kakashi took a breath, then nodded once, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “Alright.”

Geralt gave a small grunt of acknowledgment. “Good. Now get some rest. We’ll need to head out again tomorrow.”

The boy didn’t argue. Instead, he moved to his bed, sitting on the edge with that same balanced gait, his hand still resting on the pouch at his belt. But this time, there was no sign of him thinking about slipping away.

As Geralt settled in, his mind was already turning over what Kakashi had told him. The boy was a killer, trained for human threats, not monsters. Whoever had created him had intended for him to face an entirely different kind of enemy then witchers were meant to. Whoever made Kakashi had revived the witcher mutagen to turn a weapon against monsters into one aimed at people. While that was bad news itself, the fact that he’d found the kid at all was a silver lining. Wherever the group that had made Kakashi was hidden, he was glad the kid had shown up in Geralt's path, even if it was suspicious.

Either way, Geralt couldn’t shake the feeling that Kakashi’s presence was more than just a coincidence. He was getting sick of this destiny crap. Geralt grunted at the thought, but he wouldn’t abandon a link so important to Witchers as a whole. Not when the price was his own discomfort and the consequences included the boy’s life.

And whoever made him…they weren’t finished yet. Geralt would just have to hunt them down eventually.

The morning sun filtered through the narrow window, casting pale beams across the room as Geralt stirred from sleep. The inn was quiet now, the usual clamor of the night having died down, leaving only the distant sounds of the village beginning to wake. He pushed himself up, stretching out the stiffness in his muscles, then glanced toward Kakashi’s bed.

The boy was already awake, sitting at the edge of the bed with his knife in hand, though he wasn’t sharpening it—just holding it, turning it over thoughtfully as if lost in his own thoughts. His single visible eye flicked toward Geralt as the Witcher stood, but Kakashi said nothing, simply watching him with that same calm expression.

“Come on,” Geralt grunted, pulling his boots on and strapping his sword to his back. “We’ll grab some food before heading out.”

Kakashi nodded, standing with a fluidity that belied the tension of the night before. He still moved cautiously, but it was clear he was ready to follow Geralt’s lead, at least for now. They headed downstairs, the familiar scent of fresh bread and stew greeting them as they entered the inn’s small dining area.

The innkeeper barely looked up from behind the counter, but there was no mistaking the wary glance he gave them as they sat at a table in the corner. The village had gotten used to their presence, but that didn’t mean they liked it.

A young serving girl brought over two bowls of porridge, a chunk of bread on the side. Geralt nodded his thanks before turning to Kakashi, who had already started eating in that same slow suspicious way he had the night before—carefully, testing each bite like it might be poisoned.

Geralt waited until they’d settled into the meal before breaking the silence.

“We’ll be facing more monsters soon,” he said, his tone casual but firm. “This area has a few common ones you’ll need to know about.”

Kakashi’s gaze lifted slightly, his attention focused on Geralt now as the Witcher continued.

“First, drowners,” Geralt began, tearing a piece of bread. “You’ll find them near water—rivers, swamps. They’re not the smartest, but they’re quick, and their claws are poisonous. You’ll want to aim for the head or neck. Steel works, but silver is better.”

Kakashi nodded, his expression thoughtful but giving nothing away as he listened.

“Next, wolves and wild dogs. Easy enough to deal with, but they hunt in packs. Don’t let them surround you. Keep moving, and strike fast.”

He paused for a moment, glancing at Kakashi’s knife. “Your blade will work on them, but if you get into anything bigger—like a werewolf—you’ll need silver.”

Kakashi leaned back slightly, absorbing the information, but still keeping that neutral expression.

“And then there are nekkers,” Geralt said, his tone hardening. “You saw what they’re like yesterday—small, fast, aggressive. They’ll swarm you if you’re not careful. You’ll need to break them up, keep them from surrounding you. Steel works, but their skin tough and they don’t die easily, so aim for the joints. And if they’re in large numbers, a sign like Aard can give you some breathing room.”

Kakashi’s gaze sharpened at the mention of the sign, his curiosity evident but still unspoken.

“Aard is a type of psychokinetic thrust to knock things back,” Geralt added, his tone softer. “Signs will come later. But for now, you’ll need to rely on your blade and your instincts. Don’t overthink it.”

Kakashi gave a small nod, the faintest sign that he understood.

“And lastly,” Geralt continued, his voice lowering slightly, “we might come across something worse. Wraiths, fiends, even leshens if we’re unlucky. Those aren’t the kind of monsters you can take down without experience—and definitely not without silver.”

The silence between them stretched for a moment, the weight of Geralt’s words settling in. Kakashi remained still, though his eye reflected the intensity of someone filing the information away for later use.

“I’ll show you how to handle them when the time comes,” Geralt finished, leaning back in his chair. “For now, focus on learning the basics. Watch me when we’re out there.”

Kakashi nodded sharply, almost like a soldier receiving an order. It was a lot to take in, especially for someone who hadn’t dealt with monsters before. Geralt could tell the boy was processing every word, but Kakashi wasn’t the type to ask unnecessary questions. He’d learn by observing, by fighting—and Geralt would make sure he was ready for whatever came next. He’d make sure the kid lived long enough to unravel the mystery of the kid’s creation.

As they finished their meal, Geralt stood, adjusting his sword. “Let’s get moving. We’ve got work to do.”

Kakashi followed without hesitation, his movements quiet but sure. Whatever doubts or fears he might have had, they were hidden behind that same blank mask. But Geralt knew better than to think the boy wasn’t serious. He’d face more monsters soon enough. And when he did, he’d need every lesson Geralt could teach him.

As they left the inn and began making their way out of the village, the cool morning air hit them, crisp and fresh. The path ahead was lined with tall trees, their branches swaying gently in the breeze. The distant sounds of villagers going about their morning routine gradually faded as they walked deeper into the forest, leaving only the rustle of leaves and the steady rhythm of their footsteps.

For almost three weeks, Geralt had been waiting for this moment. Kakashi had been observing, watching everything in silence, taking in every detail without asking much. But now, as they started the long walk to the next town, the silence began to shift.

“Why don’t you use fire like I did?” Kakashi asked suddenly, his tone casual, but the question sharp. His dark eye flicked toward Geralt, curious but cautious.

Geralt glanced at him, somewhat surprised, but not entirely caught off guard. He’d been expecting Kakashi to start asking questions sooner or later.

“Different kind of magic,” Geralt replied, keeping his voice neutral. “Witchers use signs—simple spells. Quick, focused. What you did, that wasn’t a sign.”

Kakashi nodded thoughtfully, his gaze returning to the path ahead. “What’s the difference?”

Geralt mulled over the question for a moment, debating how much to explain. “Signs don’t take much time or energy. Just enough to get the job done—stun an enemy, create a shield, things like that. What you did…that takes more power, more time. It’s not something we’re trained for.”

Kakashi seemed to take that in, his brow furrowing slightly as if filing the information away. For a while, they walked in silence again, the only sound the crunch of Geralt’s boots on the dirt road.

But it didn’t last long.

“Why silver?” Kakashi asked, his voice cutting through the stillness once more. “Why does it work on monsters but not steel?”

Geralt suppressed a small smile. The kid was finally opening up. “Silver’s tied to magic,” he explained, keeping his tone patient. “Most monsters have some connection to the arcane in some way. Steel can hurt them, but silver disrupts their natural defenses. Cuts through them easier.”

Kakashi tilted his head slightly, processing that. “So it’s not about the sharpness, it’s the material?”

“Exactly,” Geralt replied. “Some monsters are nearly impossible to kill without silver. You’d be hacking at them for hours with a regular blade.”

Kakashi fell silent again, his pace never slowing, his eye fixed ahead as he mulled over Geralt’s words. But the questions kept coming, one after another, in quick succession.

“What’s a fiend?”

“How do you know when you’re about to face a wraith?”

“Do all Witchers have the same signs?”

It would have been maddening if Geralt hadn’t been preparing for this moment for weeks. He had spent almost every day showing Kakashi how to track, teaching him the basics of monsters, the importance of silver, and how fights changed between creatures. The kid had absorbed it all in silence, barely saying more than a few words at a time. Now that the questions had started, they came in a flood.

Geralt answered each one patiently, his gravelly voice steady, though he couldn’t help but feel a small sense of satisfaction. The boy was sharp—sharper than most—but even sharp minds needed to ask questions to learn.

“Fiends,” Geralt began, responding to Kakashi’s first inquiry, “are massive. They look like giant deer or elk, with three eyes and antlers like a crown. They’re fast and hit hard, but they can be blinded. You have to be quick with your strikes because once they get a bead on you, they won’t stop until you’re dead.”

Kakashi’s eye narrowed slightly as he nodded. “And wraiths?”

“Wraiths… you’ll feel the air get cold. That’s your first sign. Sometimes they whisper, sometimes they scream, but you can usually tell by the way the medallion starts vibrating. They’re tough to kill without magic, but Yrden—a sign that traps them in one spot—helps a lot. Silver does the rest.”

Kakashi seemed to weigh that information carefully, nodding again. “And the signs? Do all Witchers use the same ones?”

“For the most part,” Geralt replied. “Most of us are trained in the same five. Aard—the one you saw me use to push back the nekkers—is the most common. Quen for shielding, Igni for fire, Yrden for traps, and Axii to mess with the mind.”

Kakashi didn’t miss a beat. “You can control minds?”

Geralt chuckled. “Not exactly. It’s more of a suggestion. Makes people less likely to punch you in the face when they’re angry.”

That earned a slight smirk from Kakashi, the first hint of amusement Geralt had seen from him in weeks. But the moment was brief, and soon the boy was back to his usual thoughtful silence.

After a while, Geralt spoke again, this time without waiting for a question. “You’re doing well,” he said, his tone gruff but sincere. “You’re learning. Keep asking questions. That’s how you survive.”

Kakashi’s eye flicked toward him, surprised by the compliment, but he simply nodded, his face settling back into that same calm expression.

By the time they reached the next town, the sun had dipped low on the horizon, casting a deep orange glow over the quiet village. It was larger than the last one, but still modest—simple wooden homes clustered around a cobblestone square. The air smelled of damp earth and smoke, the distant chatter of villagers fading as they made their way toward the inn.

Geralt pushed open the door, the familiar scent of stale ale and wood smoke greeting them. The innkeeper, a stout man with graying hair, barely glanced up from his ledger as Geralt and Kakashi stepped inside. It wasn’t an unfriendly place, but the air held the same wariness that followed Witchers wherever they went.

After exchanging a few coins with the innkeeper, Geralt led Kakashi upstairs to their room. It was small and sparsely furnished, with two narrow beds, a worn rug, and a single window overlooking the village square. As usual, Kakashi followed in silence, his movements light and smooth.

Geralt set his swords down by the door, leaning them against the wall. The journey had been long, and though the boy had peppered him with questions along the way, the evening had passed without incident. Now, Geralt was ready to rest, feeling the toll of the day settle into his bones. Yet as night fell, the boy grew quieter, his gaze lingering on the shadows outside the window, lost in thought. 

He leaned back, letting the quiet stretch between them, until Kakashi raised his hand to the cloth covering his left eye. Geralt’s attention sharpened instantly. Since they’d met, the boy hadn’t touched that cloth once, though Geralt had often wondered what lay beneath. He hadn’t pushed the matter—witchers knew when to mind their own business. But now, unbidden, Kakashi’s fingers brushed against the edge of the cloth, hesitating as though he were still deciding whether or not to lift it.

Slowly, Kakashi pulled the cloth up, revealing a harsh, jagged scar that carved through the boy’s skin from well above his eyebrow, through his eyelid, and down his cheek, ending just before the corner of his mouth. Geralt’s breath caught. The scar was deep and brutal, a vicious mark that couldn’t have healed cleanly. It was the kind of scar Geralt recognized from his own and his brothers’ faces—marks left by battles hard-fought and narrowly survived. Kakashi’s scar bore the harshness of an attempted killing blow, a wound made with lethal intent on someone far younger than most who carry such marks.

Geralt frowned, his mind flashing to the possible weapons that could leave such a mark. A blade, maybe—heavy and curved to tear rather than cut cleanly? Or perhaps claws, ripping through flesh? Whoever or whatever had dealt that blow hadn’t intended for Kakashi to walk away. The thought sent a chill down his spine. Scars like this left more than just a mark on the skin; they cut deeper, leaving traces of the fear and fury that forged them. 

For a moment, the eye beneath remained closed, and Geralt assumed it had been damaged beyond repair, lost to the same wound that had carved that terrible line across Kakashi’s face. It made sense, he thought; the eyelid was rigid, as though scar tissue had locked it shut. But then, Kakashi opened the eye, revealing something even stranger. Where Geralt expected a dull or lifeless pupil, instead a vivid, unnatural red eye stared out, patterned with a strange swirling design in its center, like a vortex pulling all else into it.

Geralt’s instincts went on high alert, his posture shifting subtly, muscles tensing with a familiar wariness. He studied the strange red pupil, its unnatural color and luminescence unlike anything he’d seen, even in creatures touched by chaos or magic. Witchers encountered all kinds of cursed, transformed, and monstrous beings, yet this was… unique . It seemed to pulsate, alive with a dangerous, uncanny energy, as if it held a power all its own, waiting to be unleashed. It reminded him, strangely, of a well-forged weapon, the kind that held an unspoken promise of violence.

Kakashi held the red gaze, his body perfectly still. Geralt thought he noticed a faint trembling in the boy’s fingertips, the first sign of effort as he maintained that unsettling gaze. Sweat began to bead along Kakashi’s brow, his jaw set in concentration. He was testing it, Geralt realized, as if this act took more than mere will. The strange red glow held steady, but Geralt could see how it strained Kakashi. Whatever this eye did, it was no simple feat to control.

Geralt’s eyes narrowed as he watched, his own muscles tensing with the sudden shift in the room’s atmosphere. He scanned the room for signs of magic—the hum of energy or shift in the air that usually followed a sorcerer’s work. But there was nothing. No ripple of the arcane, no shifting in his medallion. This eye’s power, whatever it was, came from something else, something unknown to even him. Kakashi’s strange red eye flickered as if reacting to some unseen force, and for a moment, Geralt wondered just what Kakashi was testing. Kakashi’s brow furrowed, a faint sheen of sweat thickening on his forehead as he held the gaze, as if testing the limits of his ability. But there was no effect that Geralt could see. No clue to what Kakashi was doing.

At last, Kakashi blinked, and the eye dimmed, the red light vanishing as he slowly lowered the cloth back over his face. A faint tremor shook his hand as he adjusted it into place. His face, now half-concealed, fell back into its usual calm, though the brief struggle had left him with a sheen of exhaustion, his breathing carefully controlled.

Silence settled heavy between them, and Geralt’s mind raced, considering the strange, dangerous child who had somehow become his charge. The scar, alone, was a mark he understood—a sign of something fierce Kakashi had barely survived, the kind of mark that left scars on one’s spirit as well as their skin. But the eye, that raw, unsettling power beneath it—whatever it was, it raised questions Geralt doubted Kakashi would answer.

He let the silence hang, studying the boy’s face for any sign of weakness or regret, but saw only the same calm resilience Kakashi had worn since they’d met. For a moment, he considered asking about it, pressing for answers to the questions that the boy had only added to. But seeing the set of Kakashi’s jaw, the slight, considering look in the hunch of his shoulders, Geralt knew he’d get no explanation tonight. Instead, he nodded to himself, letting the silence hold steady, though his thoughts lingered on the boy’s scars—both those etched into his skin and the ones that still lingered, unseen.

“You good?” Geralt asked, keeping his voice neutral.

Kakashi nodded, his eye flicking toward Geralt briefly before turning toward the bed. “Yeah,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. He offered no explanation, no elaboration.

Geralt pushed himself off the wall, moving to his own bed. He wasn’t about to press Kakashi for details. The kid had given him some semblance of trust, and if Geralt started digging now, he might lose it. Whatever that eye was, whatever power it held, Kakashi would reveal it in time—or not.

But as Geralt settled onto the bed, his mind kept turning over the image of that red, spiraling eye. There was something dangerous about it, something unnatural. He’d never seen anything quite like it before, not in all his years dealing with monsters, sorcerers, or even cursed men.

And yet, as he lay back, Geralt couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever power Kakashi wielded, it was only a matter of time before they’d need it. Or worse—before something or someone else came looking for it.

For now, though, Geralt would let it be. The road ahead was long, and Kakashi wasn’t the only one keeping secrets.

The next morning dawned cold and gray, the damp chill creeping into Geralt’s bones. He was up early, sharpening his blades when Kakashi stirred. The boy’s strange eye was covered again, but Geralt hadn’t forgotten how it looked. If anything, the sight only reinforced his suspicion: Kakashi had been through something like the Trial of Grasses. Maybe a twisted version of it. No telling what he’d been made with, but the kid wasn’t so different from the Witcher children Geralt remembered.

By mid-morning, the innkeeper had mentioned a problem near the village outskirts—something killing livestock and the occasional traveler. Enough to secure another contract. Geralt had hoped for something simpler, considering Kakashi’s lack of training, but the villagers had described a Chort. Not exactly an easy hunt. Bringing Kakashi along wasn’t ideal, but Witchers learned fast or died young. He really hoped the kid learned quickly.

As they walked through the muddy road toward the edge of the village, the sky hanging low and overcast, Geralt glanced at Kakashi. The boy kept pace silently, alert. Same soldier-like focus, but waiting—for orders, for more details. It was unsettling and reassuring at the same time.

When they were far enough from the village, Geralt stopped and turned to face Kakashi. “This time’s different. Not a pack of nekkers or wild dogs.”

Kakashi looked up, his visible eye sharp and focused, ready for whatever came next.

Geralt continued, his tone low but steady. “The villagers described a Chort. You know what that is?”

Kakashi shook his head, though his posture remained calm, listening intently.

“Big. Strong. Looks like a mix between a bull and a man, with horns and thick skin,” Geralt explained. “It’s fast, but not all that smart. It’ll charge if it sees you.”

Geralt could see Kakashi mentally mapping out the information. The boy’s instinct for strategy seemed sharp enough, but this was a different kind of enemy. They’d need to take down the Chort before it could overwhelm them.

“Its skin’s tough,” Geralt added, “so my silver’s our best bet. You’ve seen how I use signs in a fight—Quen will protect if it gets too close. Aard can knock it back, but we’ll need to weaken it first. It won’t go down easy.”

Kakashi nodded, his eye narrowing slightly in concentration. “What’s the plan?”

Geralt grunted, appreciating the kid’s directness. Good. At least he wasn’t overconfident. Kakashi had started asking more questions lately. He was trying to learn before the battles came, it showed a lack of hubris that would keep him alive.

“Track it down first,” Geralt said, pulling out a small vial of oil and applying it to his silver sword. “Stay out of sight. When we find it, we hit hard and don’t stop. I’ll draw its attention—you come in from the side when I signal. Aim for the legs. Slow it down. I’ll deliver the final blow when there’s an opening.”

Kakashi absorbed the plan without question, his gaze focused but unreadable.

“Don't let it get away. These things come back angrier.” Geralt said, his tone hardening slightly. 

Kakashi nodded, calm as ever. His fingers brushed against the knife at his belt, but Geralt noticed the boy’s hesitation. No silver, no monster training. Instincts honed on humans would have to carry him through.

“Ready?” Geralt asked, though he already knew the answer.

Kakashi nodded, and together, they set off toward the forest where the Chort had last been seen.

As they moved through the underbrush, the forest closing in around them, Geralt’s senses sharpened. The air was thick with damp leaves and rot. Beneath it, Geralt caught the faint scent of blood—animal, but fresh. 

Geralt crouched, motioning for Kakashi to do the same. “Smell that?” he muttered, his voice barely audible over the rustle of the trees.

Kakashi’s eye scanned the area, nose flaring as he tried to pick up the trail. Good . Geralt knew the boy was waiting, watching for any sign of the Chort’s presence.

Then, they heard it—a low, guttural growl, deep and rumbling, echoing through the forest.

Geralt’s hand went to his sword and he muttered beneath his breath. “Stay low. Flank it.”

Kakashi nodded, his movements precise as he followed Geralt through the brush. They moved quietly, their footfalls barely making a sound on the damp forest floor. The growling grew louder as they approached, and soon they could see it—a hulking shape in the clearing. Larger than expected. Its fur was matted with blood, claws tearing into a deer carcass.

The Chort was well fed. Its claws dug deep into the earth as it tore apart a freshly killed deer. The scent of death hung heavy in the air.

Geralt signaled for Kakashi to stay back. He drew his sword slowly, the silver blade catching the dim light filtering through the trees.

“Wait for my signal,” Geralt whispered, his eyes locked on the chort.

Kakashi crouched low, his kunai ready in his hand, his expression unreadable but focused. Geralt could see the tension, the readiness to strike. Cautious too. Smart kid.

Geralt stepped forward, his sword raised, and with a sharp whistle, he caught the chort’s attention. The beast lifted its massive head, its eyes glowing with a deep, primal rage. With a deafening roar, it charged.

Geralt braced himself, silver raised. This was going to get bloody.

The chort barreled toward Geralt, its massive hooves pounding the ground, sending vibrations through the earth. The beast's breath steamed in the cold air, and its glowing eyes locked onto Geralt with murderous intent. Geralt stood his ground, muscles coiled, waiting for the perfect moment. He had faced chorts before—brute strength and rage were their primary weapons, but they were predictable. As the monster closed the distance, Geralt sidestepped at the last second, bringing his silver sword in a precise arc aimed at its flank.

The blade bit deep into the beast's flesh, cutting through thick fur and muscle, but the chort barely slowed. It skidded on the wet earth, roaring in pain, before spinning around to face Geralt again. Blood oozed from the wound, but it would take more than that to bring it down. 

Geralt's eyes narrowed. "Come on, then."

The chort charged again, its massive horns lowered, ready to impale. Geralt moved fluidly, avoiding the beast's wild swings and retaliating with quick, calculated strikes. He ducked under a sweeping claw and slashed upward, catching the chort's side again. Blood sprayed across the forest floor, but the creature wasn't done. The blow was clean, but not fatal. It never was, not with these monsters.

Behind him, Geralt could feel Kakashi's presence, low and hidden, watching for his signal. The chort growled, its frustration clear. It wasn't used to prey that fought back like this. The chort whirled around, its horns tearing into the ground in fury. Its blood-streaked maw opened in a guttural growl, the sound vibrating through the air. It stomped its hooves, prepared to charge again, its fury aimed solely at Geralt.

Geralt kept his focus sharp, adjusting his stance. He knew this game well—wear the beast down, bleed it out, then strike the killing blow. He allowed the beast to charge again, preparing to stop it in its tracks.

Geralt circled the chort, dodging its increasingly erratic swipes as the beast’s strength waned. Its breaths were ragged now, labored, each movement slower than the last as blood soaked its fur. The Witcher’s silver sword gleamed with fresh streaks of crimson, but the monster still refused to fall. It pawed the ground with one massive hoof, frustration and fury clear in its glowing eyes.

“Stubborn bastard,” Geralt muttered under his breath.

The chort snorted and lunged again, a last-ditch attempt to gore him, but Geralt was ready. He sidestepped, and with a flick of his wrist, unleashed a carefully timed Aard sign. The shockwave of force slammed into the chort’s side, knocking it off balance. It stumbled, grunting in surprise as it struggled to stay on its feet. This was the moment Geralt had been waiting for.

With the beast disoriented, Geralt advanced, his sword a blur of motion as he sliced deep into its exposed side. The chort roared, stumbling to its knees as its bloodied body quivered. It tried to rise, but its legs buckled slightly under its own weight. Geralt’s eyes narrowed—now was the time.

“Now,” Geralt ordered, his voice low but clear.

Kakashi moved like a shadow, stepping forward with deliberate speed. The chort hadn’t noticed him—its attention was still locked on Geralt, its fury too blinding to sense the boy’s presence.

Kakashi darted to the side, aiming for the chort’s legs, kunai at the ready. With precise, practiced movements, he sliced at the back of its knees, a move designed to cripple the beast and force it lower. The chort bellowed in pain as the kunai cut deep, stumbling forward as it tried to regain its balance.

Geralt didn’t miss a beat, stepping in to slash at the beast’s exposed neck, his silver blade carving through flesh— too shallow . The chort was relentless, even with blood streaming down its legs and neck. It lashed out wildly, its horns missing Geralt by inches as it staggered, struggling to stay upright.

With a snarl, it kicked up dirt and spun toward Kakashi, its eyes locking onto the boy's still form. Geralt's heart skipped a beat. The beast had realized it would lose and instead had chosen the easier target.

"Kakashi!" he barked, stepping forward to draw the chort's attention back to himself, but the beast was fast. It barreled toward the boy, intent on making quick work of him. Kakashi didn't flinch. His eye narrowed as the chort charged, its massive frame tearing through the underbrush. Geralt surged forward, trying to intercept, to save the kid. He wouldn’t have made it in time. But that didn’t matter, Kakashi moved first. In a blur of movement, he made a series of rapid hand signs, his fingers moving so fast that Geralt almost missed it. The air around Kakashi seemed to shift, the wind picking up suddenly, swirling around him. There was a sharp, unnatural whistle, and Geralt's Witcher senses prickled as something powerful stirred in the air. His medallion began to hum violently.

"Kakashi, dodge!" Geralt called, but it was too late, the beast too close. With a sharp exhale, Kakashi finished the hand signs with a sharp thrust forward like mimicking a knife, releasing a blast of wind. The force was immense, a concentrated burst of wind that cut through the clearing like a blade. The chort's charge was abruptly halted as the wind slammed into it, catching it mid-stride. For a split second, the beast seemed to freeze, its head lurching back as if struck by an invisible force. And then, with a sickening, wet sound, its head separated from its body, sailing through the air before crashing into the underbrush.

The chort's massive body teetered for a moment before collapsing to the ground in a heap, blood pooling beneath it. Silence filled the clearing, the only sound the faint rustling of leaves in the wind. Geralt lowered his sword, staring at the decapitated chort with a mixture of surprise and wariness. He'd seen Kakashi use his strange techniques before with the fireball, but this—this was something else. The power behind that spell was enough to end a fight that would've taken Geralt much longer to finish. Kakashi stood still for a moment, his hand slowly lowering as the wind died down. His visible eye was calm, maybe slightly confused, and there was a tremor in his fingers.

“Fuck.” That was new.

Geralt approached, his eyes flicking between Kakashi and the dead chort. He didn't say anything at first, simply studying the boy for a long moment. The kid had just decapitated a monster that most Witchers would find troublesome at best. But there was no boasting, no look of triumph-just that same quiet focus and mismatched confusion.

"You alright?" Geralt asked, his voice low but edged with curiosity. Kakashi nodded, though he looked slightly drained.

"Yeah," he said quietly, not meeting Geralt's gaze. “I think so.”

It might be a good idea to eventually find out what else the kid might be fucking hiding. Whatever Kakashi had just done, it had taken more out of him than he was willing to show. The Witcher could see it in the slight sag of the boy's shoulders, the fluttering controlled breaths and the way his feet dragged slightly. It was powerful, no doubt, but there was likely a limit to that power, a restriction of some sort. There had to be . It wasn’t completely like a Witcher’s power, but it also wasn’t that of a mage. If anything, it was similar enough to be a twisted, highly powered up version of a Witcher's signs. Now that was a disturbing thought that would definitely need to be discussed with the others.

"Let’s go." Geralt said, turning his attention to the dead chort.

Kakashi nodded again, stepping back as Geralt cleaned his sword and moved to collect some of the monster's remains for proof. There were no more words between them for now, but as they made their way back through the forest, Geralt's mind churned. Whatever Kakashi had just used, it wasn't something Geralt had seen before—not from a mage and definitely not from a Witcher. And that display of power had come at some cost. Geralt could see the boy's hands trembling, the exhaustion lurking beneath his calm exterior even as the boy seemed to fall into his own contemplative state. Witcher signs didn’t do whatever that was. A single sign shouldn’t take that much energy either, shouldn’t have that much power. He might need to consult Yennifer if he couldn’t figure it out by the end of winter.