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TWL Chapter 447: To Bury the Sins of Fire
🕑 Added 2025-06-08 23:38:51 +0000 UTCAfter a brief handoff of responsibilities to his deputy, Chappelle prepared to leave. His authority within the Eternal Fire was unchallenged
After a brief handoff of responsibilities to his deputy, Chappelle prepared to leave. His authority within the Eternal Fire was unchallenged; no one would dare question his orders.
He personally acted as guide, leading the group out of Novigrad. They mounted their horses and galloped away from the city.
The prosperous scenery quickly blurred into the background. Bustling towns gave way to remote villages, and then even those began to vanish—until only barren wilderness remained.
Here and there stood crumbling buildings and collapsed wooden statues of deities, faint remnants of human presence in these lands.
“Though Novigrad is the largest trade city in the North, the world outside its walls is far from peaceful,” Chappelle said in a deep voice. “Thieves, monsters, and the floods of deserters and refugees from the recent civil war have all spilled blood across these lands.”
“Go back a few centuries, and things were even worse. The Eternal Fire, back then, often played the role of executioner in many of those events—that’s how the Devil’s Pit came to be.”
“Plagues, cholera, and other contagious diseases like the Red Pox were rampant. Patients couldn’t be housed with healthy citizens, so the Eternal Fire created quarantine zones—places to isolate those deemed beyond saving.”
“You mean, ‘let them die alone so they wouldn’t infect anyone else,’ right?” Lambert cut in with a snort. “Come on, you don’t have to play the role of ruling class mouthpiece here. There’s no outsiders listening.”
Chappelle—still wearing the face of a regent—was silent for a moment. “In any case, it saved many others. Over time, it became standard procedure to send the sick here during outbreaks. Even Oxenfurt eventually began cooperating with Novigrad, sending their own patients to this place.”
Yennefer scoffed. “And that’s when people started calling it the Devil’s Pit, I suppose? Was that your own invention, or the ‘honorific’ given by the nearby peasants?”
Chappelle didn’t answer. Conflicting thoughts tangled in his mind until finally, after a long pause, he said simply, “We’re here.”
The surroundings were even more desolate. At the end of the road lay a rudimentary compound, enclosed by wooden fences and a large gate.
Above, flocks of crows shrieked as they circled, clearly drawn by an ample food supply.
A heavy stench of blood and rot seeped through the gate. Yennefer frowned, pulled a lace handkerchief from her cloak to cover her nose and mouth, then, thinking better of it, downed a potion. Only then did some color return to her face.
“According to the records,” Chappelle said grimly, “the wraith first manifested during the initial round of quarantines. But the rulers of both Novigrad and Oxenfurt ignored it, and kept sending patients here. Eventually, this quarantine site became a true Devil’s Pit…”
“I inherited the memories of the one whose appearance I now bear, and the morality rooted in my original body torments me. I cannot tolerate the crimes once committed by the Eternal Fire. I want to make amends.”
Chappelle spoke in a low voice. “That’s why I want to lay this wraith to rest—and abolish this blood-stained quarantine zone once and for all.”
No one responded this time.
Lambert strode forward and examined the chain locking the gate. It was so thick it could’ve been repurposed as ship anchor material.
It seemed the Eternal Fire had once gone to great lengths to keep the sick from ever leaving.
There was no key, and the chain was far too thick. Lambert shrugged and glanced back at Lann.
The Sword of the Lady of the Lake left its sheath. Lann raised it high above his head, gathered his strength for a few measured breaths, and brought it down in a brilliant arc.
With a heavy clang, the thick chain clattered to the ground, stirring up a cloud of dust.
“Are you sure you want to come with us?” Geralt asked Chappelle.
Chappelle nodded. “I need to see with my own eyes the sins the Eternal Fire once committed. Otherwise, I’ll never be at peace.”
“Then transform into one of us. A witcher’s body can withstand any lingering plague.”
It was advice he couldn’t afford to ignore.
Chappelle’s skin began to melt; his limbs stretched, twisted, and reshaped like molten wax.
First, he grew shoulder-length platinum hair, and his eyes turned to a deep golden lion’s gaze. But he couldn’t maintain the form. Some unknown force within his body surged up to resist him.
In the end, his hair faded from platinum to pale silver. His eyes settled into amber cat-like slits, and a long scar appeared across his face.
Now wearing Geralt’s face, Chappelle said calmly, “Let’s go.”
Up close, the witchers of the School of the Wolf all showed expressions of curiosity as they observed the doppler's transformation.
It wasn’t that they’d never encountered a doppler before—but it was rare to see one so openly display their abilities without reservation.
Yennefer, for her part, had the inquisitive gleam of an experimentalist in her eyes.
Now possessing the acute senses of a witcher and Geralt’s memories, Chappelle instantly understood the meaning behind that look. He shuddered and instinctively quickened his pace into the Devil’s Pit.
“Let’s get moving. Didn’t you say there’s more than just a wraith to deal with in there? Someone might still need rescuing.”
Inside the quarantine zone were abandoned tents, collapsed braziers, tattered cloth, and the stench of rotting flesh.
There were no survivors. It had been a long time since the last group of patients was “quarantined” here, and it was clear they hadn’t lasted long enough to see the Eternal Fire’s new leadership take over.
Chappelle's gaze was full of sorrow.
Though Geralt often wore a stoic expression, his heart was soft and burdened with empathy. Add to that the inherently kind nature of the doppler, and the fanatical faith of the Eternal Fire’s former high priest—Chappelle was on the verge of bursting into tears under the weight of it all.
Yennefer, noticing the look on his face, shifted to a different kind of interest.
Chappelle pulled out a simple map from his coat, glanced around, and quickly led the group past what used to be a “residential area.”
“Devil’s Pit was built into the mountainside. It used to be an abandoned mine,” Chappelle said, pointing to a locked wooden gate blocking their path. “The wraith is deep inside the mine. Guards stationed here used to hear whispers and screams coming from within—sometimes arguments, sometimes pleas for mercy—all from a single voice.”
He spoke in a grave tone.
Then, right before everyone’s eyes, he raised his left hand and formed a Sign. Taking a solid stance, he focused for a single breath.
[Aard Sign]!
A telekinetic blast shot from his left palm like a cannon of compressed air. Though the lock on the gate didn’t open, the entire door, hinges and all, was ripped clean off the stone wall and flung backward into the tunnel.
Vesemir raised an eyebrow at the display.
Eskel patted Geralt on the shoulder. “He’s got your moves down.”
Chappelle panted lightly, then looked into the dark cave. He grasped the wolf medallion on his chest with his left hand and bowed his head.
Everyone heard his whispered prayer: “May the Eternal Fire guide me—”
Geralt’s face grew stiffer by the second.
Lambert burst out laughing. “I’m starting to like this guy!”
Striding up beside Chappelle, he rummaged through the straps of his alchemy pack and pulled out a bottle of Cat. “Want to try this, buddy? You can’t explore a cave without it!”
Chappelle silently took the potion. While he could mimic Geralt’s armor and swords, alchemy was still beyond his reach.
The other witchers moved in sync, each drawing out their potions, biting off the wax seals, and downing them in one motion. Seven pairs of eyes immediately lit up in the dark.
Yennefer gave a soft “tsk” and naturally slid her arm around Geralt’s.
Color drained from their vision, replaced by sharpened lines and silhouettes. Every detail of the dark mine unfolded before Lann's eyes.
“This place is unfit for human habitation,” Vesemir, the eldest among them, voiced what everyone was thinking.
All around were discarded planks, ropes, mining tools, and many overturned braziers.
Near the braziers, torn burlap sacks had been weighed down with rocks to serve as makeshift beds, just enough for someone to lie down. The dark bloodstains across them said everything about the physical state of those who had once lain there.
“This… this is far crueler than any war,” Eskel muttered with a sigh.
No one replied. They simply followed Chappelle, who was now walking with clenched fists.
Soon, the first door came into view. Nailed to it was a letter. Who knew how many years had passed, yet that thin sheet of paper seemed to possess a miraculous tenacity—it had not turned to dust.
Lann stepped forward, took the letter down, and began reading aloud in a low voice.
[Dear O,
If you’re reading this letter, it means you’ve found the things I left near Novigrad. Turns out you were right—just this once, congratulations. I should have left with you. What seemed like a simple contract had hidden dangers. Sigh... here we go again. Haven’t we suffered enough from jobs like this?
I think I’ve been infected. Yes, I know how absurd that sounds—witchers don’t get sick. But then how do you explain the fever, the delirium? I hope it’s just that my witcher constitution is unusually weak. If not... this could be something serious.
I was afraid something might happen to me, so I left markings using our medallions along the path. That way, you could find me if you ever came back.]
