TitoVillar
patreon
TWL Chapter 332: A Mine of Monsters and Misfortune
🕑 Added 2025-03-24 15:04:03 +0000 UTC“Perhaps we brought upon ourselves the current situation of the Fuchs clan,” Tomor muttered. “The quotas from Mount Carbon kept increasing, forcing us to dig deeper and harder. The destruction to the underground environment was immense, driving more and more monsters to the surface.”
“Every year, during the great cleansing, Davor demands the most reinforcements from Mount Carbon. I’ve warned the Elder in Chief about this more than once, but he always says, ‘For diamonds, any price is worth paying.’”
“But now, the mine’s output can’t even meet the quotas. We’re throwing more and more workers into it, yet we’re barely extracting a tenth of what we once did. The Davor Abyss is no longer a source of wealth—it’s a burden. A bottomless pit that’s draining us dry.”
“This time, the mine is practically overrun by monsters, but that bastard Elder still ordered us to reclaim it… The mine is already dying, yet he expects us to trade young lives for a worthless tunnel? How could he give such an order?!”
Tomor’s voice dropped into a low growl, his frustration barely contained. His anger drew the attention of nearby dwarves and Cintrans warriors alike.
Lann understood now. “So you want to use the monster crisis as an excuse to destroy the mine—cut your losses once and for all?”
Tomor’s expression darkened. He nodded reluctantly. It was clear that this decision hadn’t been made lightly. But for the sake of his people’s survival, for the younger generation’s future, he had to abandon the Davor Abyss—the mine that had once brought the Fuchs clan both wealth and glory.
“After this, I plan to lead my kin to the Boro Rump. It used to be our iron mine, filled with steelworks, workshops, and forges. When the ore ran out, we carved homes into the cliffs and turned the old shafts into living quarters. It’ll see us through these hard times.”
Lann’s thoughts aligned. “And in these difficult times, you need to cut costs and find new opportunities. By sending half of your young warriors to Cintra, you’re asking us to take care of them, aren’t you?”
Lann couldn’t help but chuckle. There was no such thing as a free favor—every gift came with a hidden price tag.
“But, Tomor, I’d be taking your young warriors into battle. Are you really so certain I can keep them safe? I mean, I can, but my point is—we hardly know each other.”
“Young people must work for their food. Every inch of land we live on was won with blood. They’re simply walking the same path as their ancestors.” Tomor’s voice was heavy. “As for Cintra… I know that Yarpen Zigrin is at your service. He writes home from time to time, and his letters paint Cintra and its Lion with such glory that even we’ve heard the tales.”
Tomor met Lann’s gaze. “The Zigrins may be greedy, reckless, and foolish, but they never lie to themselves. If Yarpen speaks highly of Cintra, then I trust my young warriors will be safe there.”
Yarpen always had a way of surprising him.
“I have one last question,” Lann said, locking eyes with Tomor. “Flooding the Davor Abyss goes directly against the Elder’s wishes. If I help you, I risk angering him. Why should I take that risk?”
“He’s just the Elder in Chief,” Tomor replied, his voice steady. “He wears a crown, but he’s no king—not like the ones who rule your human kingdoms.”
“His authority comes from the belief that he serves Mahakam’s best interests. We allow him to lead because we want to contribute to Mahakam. But more and more people are growing discontent.”
“Besides the Fuchs, the Ferenc clan—the ones who tend to the Red Dragon—are also dissatisfied. I have a good relationship with them. If you help us, I won’t just send warriors to your cause—I’ll send Petrit as an envoy to win them over. You’ll gain more than just our support.”
“Trust me, just our two clans alone can field over two thousand heavy infantry. The hammers in our young dwarves’ hands can just as easily become war hammers. You wouldn’t even need to rally Zigrin or the other clans—though, if you want to, I won’t stop you.”
“After all, the more of our fellow countrymen you have around you, the better life will be for those young people.”
“And what has the Elder in chief given you in return? A handful of empty letters?”
The old clan chief stroked his long beard, his eyes filled with confidence as he looked at the young duke before him.
Then, he smiled—because he saw the exact expression on the Lion’s face that he had been hoping for.
“So, Tomor, how do you plan to blow up that dam?”
...
Geralt carefully coated his silver wolf-head sword with Hybrid oil, his movements slow and deliberate. At the same time, he checked the straps of his alchemy pouch one last time, ensuring that his bombs were within easy reach.
The School of the Wolf was the most orthodox among witcher traditions—also the most well-rounded. Swordplay, blade oils, signs, bombs—every discipline had its place in their training. This versatility allowed Wolf School witchers to handle nearly any situation, leaving no weaknesses in their combat style.
But such a balanced approach came with a trade-off. The strongest among them—like Geralt—could master every field and become legendary hunters. The weakest, however, would end up as jacks of all trades, masters of none, blending into mediocrity.
However, as more witchers joined Lann’s ranks, the School of the Wolf began engaging in frequent exchanges with other schools. The Wolves, who had already built a solid foundation across multiple disciplines, absorbed these new techniques like sponges.
Of all the schools, the Wolves benefited the most from this exchange, and Geralt's growth quickly surpassed what it would have been in the original timeline.
Now, several dwarven hunting squads followed him. Before he knew it, he had become their leader.
Initially, the Zigrin clan’s dwarves had declined Lann’s assistance, so Geralt had only accompanied them in an 'advisory' role. But soon, the Zigrin dwarves found themselves overwhelmed during the Great Cleansing. The monsters' behaviors and numbers were drastically different from previous years. Even though the Zigrins had braced themselves for the worst, they were still caught off guard.
That was when Geralt stepped in.
His sharp instincts helped him detect multiple ambushes before they could unfold. He tracked monsters with pinpoint accuracy and dismantled their nests with brutal efficiency.
And more than once, he pulled dwarven warriors from the brink of death—including the hunting party’s own leader, Kuba Zigrin.
His skill, experience, and commanding battlefield presence quickly won the dwarves’ respect. Before long, Geralt was no longer just an 'advisor'—he was their leader.
“Stop.” Sensing something, Geralt abruptly raised a hand.
The dwarven hunting party behind him came to an immediate halt. A few warriors at the back, caught off guard, stumbled into each other and tumbled into the snow like rolling barrels. It would’ve been a comical sight—if not for their discipline.
Not a single cry escaped them. They simply picked themselves up, exchanged a few annoyed glares, and fell back into formation. A testament to their combat discipline.
“Geralt, what is it?” Kuba stepped forward, his voice hushed.
The White Wolf’s amber eyes gleamed.
He bent down, pulling a blood-streaked feather from the snow. His gaze swept over the sparse black forest, scanning the tree trunks for telltale marks. In his heightened witcher senses, a faint, smoky pheromone signal pricked at his nerves.
“Harpy nest,” Geralt muttered. “Right up on that cliff ahead. There’s a lot of them—it looks like several flocks have gathered together. That’s unusual.”
“Then again, considering everything that’s been happening lately… not surprising at all.”
Kuba’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “Well, what are we waiting for? There may be a lot of them, but there are even more of us! Those winged bastards have been stealing our livestock for years!” He gritted his teeth. “You can track them more precisely, right? Just pinpoint their nest, and we’ll handle the rest!”
Geralt shot Kuba a look, then simply shook his head. “Climbing up to hunt monsters is the worst possible approach. This is their territory, after all. And they can fly,” Geralt explained. “For humans… and dwarves, our biggest advantage against these creatures is our equipment and our ability to fight in coordinated formations. If we get scattered, people die.”
Seeing his idea shot down, Kuba didn’t push any further—it clearly wasn’t the first time this had happened. Instead, he planted his hands on his hips and let out an exaggerated sigh, his face set in a look of complete surrender. “Alright then, Geralt, you tell us what to do. We’ll follow your lead.”
The hunters behind him immediately nodded in agreement, all eyes on the witcher.
Geralt had long since grown used to looking like these. He let out a quiet sigh before speaking. “Didn’t I have you collect fresh blood and meat during our last hunts? Take it out.”
Kuba raised an eyebrow. “You’re making bait? But it’s just raw meat—harpies aren’t that stupid, are they?”
“Not under normal circumstances. But I’ll be using a special alchemical mixture to… enhance it,” Geralt said, shaking a small vial in his hand—something he’d prepared back at Mount Carbon. “And while this black pine forest isn’t that dense, it’s enough to obscure the bait. The harpies won’t be able to see it clearly. By the time they realize something’s off… it’ll already be too late.”
Kuba’s eyes lit up, and he gave a firm nod. “Sounds good to me!”
