122 Kaer Morhen

After a nine-month absence, Geralt and Wayne rode back to the keep of the Wolf School witchers.

Before they could lead their horses to the stables, the castle gate creaked open. A tall, white-haired figure emerged, his beard as crisp as winter snow. It was Vesemir, the grizzled Master of the Wolf School. He squinted against the sun, peering towards the approaching riders. A smile, genuine and crinkled, etched itself across his weathered face as he recognized Geralt and Wayne.

"Geralt, Wayne, lads, back early this year, are we?" A faint smile played on Geralt's lips as he acknowledged Vesemir with a nod, his usual stoicism masking his warmth. Wayne, ever the extrovert, dismounted and threw his arms around the old witcher in a hearty embrace.

Vesemir reciprocated Wayne's hug with a vigor that belied his years. He patted Wayne's back, his smile deepening. "Good to see you whole, child," he rumbled. "Seems you've thrived this year. You've packed on some muscle since you left."

Wayne released Vesemir from the embrace, a grin spreading across his face as he glanced skyward. The midday sun cast long shadows. "All's well, master," he said. "It's nearing noon. I'll head to the kitchens and see what grub they have. We brought back a few bottles of decent ale – a proper meal and conversation can wait a bit."

"Speaking of," he added, a touch of concern flickering in his eyes, "have Lambert and Eskel returned yet?"

Vesemir shook his head, a hint of disappointment in his voice. "Those two are always the latest. Sometimes contracts get tangled, and they end up braving the snow just to get back."

Wayne nodded, a sympathetic sigh escaping his lips. "We'll save them a plate then. In the meantime, I'll see what I can whip up in the kitchens. Oh, and master," he said, a mischievous glint in his eye, "I have a surprise for you later."

An hour later, the three witchers sat huddled around the worn wooden table in the hall. A crackling fire roared in the hearth, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. A neat stack of firewood, enough to last a month, lay beside it – a testament to Vesemir's preparations for the coming winter. Above the fireplace hung several slabs of cured meat, a way to preserve their winter stores. The warmth of the fire chased away the chill, and the hearty meal on the table warmed the hearts of the weather-beaten witchers.

"Master," Wayne began, his enthusiasm bubbling over like a child's, "let me introduce you to some new dishes I've perfected this year! We have crispy fried fowl, a spicy stew that'll set your beard aflame, and these…" he gestured towards plump parcels of dough, "these are dumplings! Filled with meat and best enjoyed pan-fried. Trust me, they're a treat!"

Throughout the meal, Wayne transformed into a culinary showman, his own skills and the system's enhancements elevating even the simplest fare into delectable morsels. The feast was a symphony of flavors, leaving even Geralt, the White Wolf, momentarily speechless as he devoured everything in sight with a contented expression.

Their trek back to Kaer Morhen from Vizima had been arduous, and a month without Wayne's culinary magic had Geralt craving a proper meal. The old witcher, too, devoured the food with gusto, the warmth of the company adding to the pleasure.

After a few mouthfuls, Vesemir shifted his focus to Wayne's experiences. A wry smile played on his lips as he spoke. "Your past year seems to have been eventful, hasn't it? Deities, dragons, giants – encounters worthy of a bard's song. You, a fledgling witcher barely a year out of training, have stumbled upon more trouble than most seasoned veterans!"

Wayne scratched his head, recognizing the underlying message. Vesemir was gently prodding him to seek a more balanced approach, to cultivate a life beyond courting chaos. "While the adventures were many, master," Wayne replied, "so were the rewards. Look at me: a house in Vizima, a master-crafted silver sword, a loyal steed… and most importantly, friends. I value friendships, master. They provide a network of support in times of need."

Vesemir's expression softened, a hint of pride flickering in his eyes. "Friendships also carry burdens, son," he countered. "When they stumble, so do you. Regardless," he continued, his voice firm but filled with affection, "your achievements this year are impressive. I find no fault with your zest for life, but perhaps a touch of patience could be a valuable addition. We witchers have a long road ahead."

"You're still green, lad," Vesemir rumbled, his gaze fixed on Wayne. "Even by common standards, you're barely a man at twenty."

Geralt, sensing a lecture brewing, winked at Wayne, a silent plea to deflect the inevitable. Wayne, ever the pragmatist, cleared his throat and produced a curious artifact from his pocket.

"Master," he said, setting a jar containing a crimson meatball on the table, "George, the Griffin witcher, mentioned this is a Greater Red Mutagen. Supposedly enhances a witcher's strength, reflexes, and agility. Any truth to that?"

Vesemir's scowl softened as his attention shifted to the jar. He picked it up, scrutinizing the mutagen with a practiced eye. "A rare find indeed," he finally conceded. "Only the most potent beasts yield such mutagens."

"The one you retrieved from the Velen giant," Wayne confirmed with a nod. "Wouldn't have been easy without Borch's help, the golden dragon, and George's expertise."

Vesemir stroked his beard, listening patiently to Wayne's seemingly boastful tale. While witchers typically operated as loners, genuine friendships were a rarity. Yet, he couldn't deny the power of connections. A well-established network could yield unexpected leverage. In a way, building relationships could be a form of strength, though it came with a double-edged sword. More connections often meant more entanglements.

Vesemir studied the vial containing the red mutagen for a long moment before carefully placing it back on the table. "George of the Griffin school isn't wrong," he conceded after a thoughtful pause. "But he likely doesn't know you've barely been a witcher for a year. You're still a fledgling."

"It's far too soon for you to attempt a Greater Red Mutagen. The Trial of the Grasses, you see, is a brutal process. We're subjected to potent concoctions and monster mutagens to adapt our bodies to the chaos mutagens and alter our genetic structure. This is what transforms us into witchers."

"You already received mutagens during the Trial," he continued. "But back then, you were a child with a fragile constitution. The mutagens were also weaker, like the green mutagen derived from an Ekimmara embryo. It bolstered your body just enough to withstand the Trial's mutations."

Vesemir's gaze flickered to Geralt, who remained silent, focused on his meal. "Among us Wolf Witchers," he said, "only Geralt has endured the induction of two mutagens – a red one for enhanced strength and agility, and a blue one for amplifying Chaos Signs. Throughout witcher history, very few have tolerated such potent mutations. This is what makes him a natural among witchers."

Wayne's surprise was evident. While the books and games alluded to this, Vesemir's explanation offered a far deeper understanding.

Vesemir's explanation hung heavy in the air. Wayne, for all his confidence, couldn't help but acknowledge the wisdom in the old witcher's words. Perhaps being thrust into extraordinary circumstances had fostered a sense of invincibility in him, but Vesemir's reminder grounded him.

"Indeed," Vesemir rumbled, his voice laced with experience. "The Path is a demanding one, and rushing the Trials can have dire consequences. Your body, though enhanced by the Lady of the Lake's blessing, still needs time to fully acclimate to the rigors of being a witcher."

"Mutagens are potent elixirs, lad," he continued, his eyes glinting with a touch of warning. "Even for seasoned witchers, they carry unforeseen risks. It's best to let your body mature before attempting something as potent as a Greater Red Mutagen."

Wayne, ever the pragmatist, conceded the point with a nod. "Perhaps you're right, master. While I wouldn't mind sharing this with Geralt, Lambert, or Eskel, it wouldn't be wise to rush things. I'm confident I'll have more opportunities to acquire such mutagens in the years to come."