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TWL Chapter 429: When Coin Screams Louder Than Death
🕑 Added 2025-05-31 23:06:52 +0000 UTC“Move it, boys! Pull that cargo like draft horses! We’re aiming to reach Cintra tonight!”
On a muddy dirt road, a bloated caravan creaked forward, leaving deep wheel ruts as it trudged toward its destination.
A bearded merchant wearing a dusty, dull-blue cap was barking at his workers with great gusto.
“Faster, you bunch of idiots! In a few days, Cintra will be holding its Victory Celebration, and right after that—the Restoration Festival! They’ll need mountains of flowers, barrels of wine, cured meats, fruits—everything! We have to make it there in time for the feast!”
“And once that’s done, we rush back to Novigrad to start hauling building supplies, foodstuffs, even any stray vagabond looking for labor! That’s more coin in transport fees!”
“It's not every day a mighty kingdom rises again in the North with everything in ruins—and their ruler is absurdly rich, like he stumbled on a godsdamned gold mine! Every merchant in the North is swarming here like flies! Every minute we’re late costs me a mountain of crowns!”
“Tell me, you lazy scum!” the blue-capped merchant roared at his workers. “Do you want me to make less money? Do you want to make less yourselves?”
“No, boss!!”
“Then pick up the pace!”
The merchant’s rousing speech instantly ignited the entire caravan’s spirits. The wheels even seemed to roll faster across the road.
Wiping the sweat from his forehead with force, the merchant grabbed a bag of grape wine—then reluctantly switched to a bottle of water and took a few gulps to soothe his throat.
“Damn Redania and their ridiculous tariffs on Cintran trade… We can’t even take the river route because of them! Aren’t we supposed to be allies? Gods above, who can make sense of the politics up top…”
The merchant knew all too well: long roads meant higher losses in cargo, more time wasted—and, most importantly—greater risk.
Hiring guards alone was a huge expense.
Yet even with such careful planning, trouble struck in the most unexpected way.
From deep within the forest, a pair of bronze-colored eyes locked fiercely onto the caravan.
There were many humans in sight, but for a predator of its rank, numbers meant nothing.
And besides—it had been starving for quite some time.
“Hiss—KRAA!”
A thunderous tearing roar exploded from the jungle, like a burst of flame crackling through the air. The creature lunged from its hiding place with tremendous force—a long-awaited ambush finally unleashed.
It was a grotesque beast, its mossy green skin making it look like it had sprouted mold. Hunched over and winged, it was something like a dragon—but not quite. A withered, rock-like crown jutted from its head, along with a long, sharp, ugly beak.
A Basilisk.
The caravan’s few horses panicked the moment they heard the beast’s screech. Several wagons toppled over instantly, and the sound of shattering cargo made the blue-capped merchant’s heart seize.
But soon, broken goods would be the least of his concerns.
Because the creature was charging straight at him!
[Thud!]
He fell off his horse in a panic, crashing to the ground in a tangled heap. Ironically, his cowardice saved his life.
But the merchant couldn’t care less about his throbbing spine.
He had heard the desperate scream of his horse.
When he opened his eyes again in alarm, he saw it—
The basilisk’s talons had already clamped onto the horse’s neck and haunch, and the creature was casually flapping its wings, preparing to lift its prey into the sky.
To a basilisk, horsemeat was far tastier than any human flesh.
“No! That horse is worth a hundred crowns!” the merchant wailed, sounding even more pained than the beast itself.
“Kill that monster! Hurry, witcher—!”
…
[Thwip! Thwip! Thwip!]
Three crossbow bolts shot out from the caravan in a triangular “pincer” formation, aimed at the basilisk’s left wing, right wing, and throat.
[Thump! Thump!]
The bolt aimed at its throat was deflected by the creature’s thick scales, but the wing membranes weren’t nearly as durable—both were pierced in an instant.
With a sharp, guttural shriek, the basilisk crashed from midair.
Several porters leapt off the wagons in alarm—just in time, as the creature slammed into one of the carts and shattered it to splinters. The heavy scent of wine and a shower of crushed fruits filled the air.
The blue-capped merchant let out another high-pitched scream.
Suddenly, a figure darted into the fray like a lynx, landing atop the wreckage with feline grace.
He wore sleeveless studded leather armor over a white undershirt, and strapped to his back were twin swords—one steel, one silver.
His eyes burned red, like they’d been stained with fresh blood. His hair was patchy, as if freshly shaved and only just beginning to grow back. A snarling cat-head medallion swung from his chest.
Kiyan dropped low in a sudden crouch, ankles bending at an unnatural angle as he spun across the ground, nearly brushing the dirt. The fallen beast barreled past him and bounced off another cart like a rolling boulder.
It flapped its wings again, lunging forward with a screech and opening its terrifying beak.
But the witcher was ready—he pushed off the ground with his elbow, his body gliding just beneath the basilisk’s clumsy attack, completely evading it.
At the same time, two more bolts whistled through the air from deeper within the caravan.
Once again aimed at the throat—but this time, they didn’t bounce off. The bolts embedded themselves squarely into the creature’s swollen venom sacs, pulsing beneath its neck.
The basilisk shrieked in a voice eerily human, crashing through broken timber, flailing its wings and coughing up blood, its tail thrashing wildly like a whip.
Kiyan seized the opportunity and thrust forward with a swift, precise strike. He immediately withdrew, retreating in a burst of movement.
He had hit his mark—he felt the blade pierce through flesh.
The two crossbowmen sprinted up to Kiyan, then quickly split into a triangular formation, cautiously surrounding the beast.
Each of them carried a cat-headed steel sword on their backs and held silver swords in hand. Their snarling cat medallions seemed to roar in unison.
Compared to Kiyan’s crimson irises, their eyes were 'normal' amber slits—typical of Cat School witchers.
Their armor also looked much simpler than his.
Their caution was justified.
The creature wasn’t dead.
With a piercing shriek, it lunged forward—claws outstretched, beak clamped shut—aiming directly at Kiyan.
Kiyan leapt high into the air, dodging the attack once again with ease. The monster hadn’t been able to touch him even once.
In that same instant, Kiyan stabbed out with his blade once more. His two companions fired their bolts again in perfect sync.
The basilisk collapsed.
Its foul-smelling blood splattered across the ground in erratic patterns. It writhed and thrashed, claws tearing at its long neck and swollen throat, letting out choked screams.
The blood gushed from its wounds, soaking into the dry soil beneath it.
The three Cat School witchers stood in silence for a few moments, watching as the basilisk convulsed, spewed blood, and gradually fell still.
“Dead… right?” one of the unfamiliar witchers finally asked. His hair was cropped short, slightly fuller than Kiyan’s. It was the most practical style when traveling—easy to clean, and no trouble from lice or fleas.
“What’s the point of wondering?” Kiyan said as he noticed how cautious the other two looked, visibly bracing in case the basilisk rose again. He reached behind his back to draw his crossbow.
“Just shoot it a few more times and be done with it.”
The third witcher quickly held him back.
“Hey now—basilisk hide’s worth a fortune. Ladies pay good coin to turn it into shoes and handbags. Gaetan and I don’t have your kind of money...”
Kiyan shrugged. “Ah, my dear Aiden. Always so ‘considerate.’ No wonder you said you got along with those Wolf School guys.”
“But don’t worry. You and Gaetan are with me now. Once I introduce you to Lann, you won’t need to worry about money again. Didn’t you hear what that caravan boss just said? Lann’s filthy rich these days…”
The three witchers were still hesitating over the basilisk’s condition when, suddenly, the blue-capped merchant let out a shriek and threw himself forward.
He plopped down right onto the basilisk’s head, completely blocking the witchers’ view.
All three Cat School witchers froze, momentarily stunned.
“Well, I guess that proves it’s dead for sure,” Aiden shrugged.
“Damn witchers! Couldn’t you have acted sooner? That monster destroyed two of my wagons—two!” the blue-capped merchant howled. “And it killed one of my horses!”
The witchers all wrinkled their noses. That smell was familiar.
“Maybe you should be a little more grateful,” Aiden said coolly. “We saved your whole caravan. Basilisks are clever. We had to wait until it grabbed something with its claws and got clumsy—that’s the best time to strike. Otherwise, it would’ve caused even more chaos.”
Aiden, despite being from the Cat School, actually had a surprisingly good temper.
Kiyan, on the other hand, couldn’t be bothered to waste even one more word on this man.
And Gaetan? He was already eyeing the merchant like a ghoul eyes a corpse.
“Excuses! Don’t think you can cover up your incompetence with that nonsense!” the merchant screeched. “I shouldn’t have trusted that ‘witchers can be relied on’ drivel from Novigrad. I should’ve spent more coin and hired real mercenaries! You caused me losses—you! You owe me compensation! Yes, compensation!”
The three witchers’ gazes turned cold.
Being from the Cat School, they were well accustomed to scenes like this.
And they were just as skilled at handling them.
“On the contrary,” Gaetan said, hand resting on the hilt of his steel sword, “monster hunting isn’t included in the escort fee. In fact, it costs extra—a lot extra.”
