Golden flowers of turnips and cobs of corn danced with the breeze sauntering through the fields. Beyond the fields was a small village. A group of farmers in straw hats toiled away in the fields, their faces glimmering red in the sun, sweat trickling down their cheeks.

Within the fence were a hundred or so houses made of stone and wood flanking the muddy street. A warehouse with hay on its roof decorated the edge of the hamlet. Chickens, ducks, and dogs jaunted down the streets happily. This was a peaceful place.

The witchers observed in silence for a moment. In the end, Roy and Aiden would be the ones to approach the village, while everyone else remained outside, waiting for their cue to move in. It would cause unnecessary worry for the villagers if a group of witchers were to enter a village at the same time.

The witchers walked down the muddy street in the center. Eventually, they were passing by an oak tree with a canopy big enough to cover the skies. When they looked up, they froze. My word.

Between the branches was a skeleton hanging from the trees. It was covered in nothing but tatters, and a wooden sign hung before its chest. It read, 'This be what happens to those who conspire with Nilfgaard.'

A gust of wind galloped through the tree, swaying its branches and the skeleton. The bones rubbed against one another, as if the ghost of the man's screams still echoed in the air. The North and South are really at odds now. He went over a pile of manure and went into the village. The farmers and children on the fence looked at them. A boy in a pair of red pants let out a scream and ran away. A gray-haired elder enjoying his sunbath on a chair in his yard heard the commotion.

He held his crutch and led a team of stronger villagers to surround the witchers. "Who are you? What brings you to this village?" The village chief's murky eyes were set on the witchers' sword hilt, his brows furrowed. The bags under his eyes bulged like a frog's peepers, and the wrinkles on his face looked like a pug's. There was, weirdly enough, some sort of expectation in his eyes.

Roy showed his medallion. "We're witchers. Chief, people, there's no need to worry. We're not selling anything, nor are we asking for free food. We're not going to tell Nilfgaard anything about this land either. We just want to—"

"Witchers?" the chief interrupted, his goatee shivering. His wrinkles eased up ever so slightly. In excitement, he held Roy's hand. "The professionals who slew the striga of Vizima, the Scoia'tael madmen in Novigrad, and eradicators of pests and monsters over the world?"

"Chief, we need some witchers," a gaunt man interjected. "Some flying dragon's been stealing my cow's milk every night. My cow's skin is swollen now."

More villagers voiced their complaints. A portly woman put her hands on her hips, her eyes wide as saucepans. She complained, "There's a silverback turtle in Chotla that steals my belongings every time I do my laundry there."

"The miller in the east mixes acorn powder in his flour. Can you teach that old git a lesson and show him what integrity is? I'll give you an oren."

"That old witch Anan flies on her broom every night. I can't even sleep with all the noise she makes."

"Shut it. Let me speak. There's something happening on the grave hill's plains…" The chief waved his crutch and roared at the villagers, though all he could muster was a whimper. He failed to stop his villagers' enthusiasm, and his voice was drowned out.

"Listen to me, everyone." Roy frowned. If this was any other day, he'd be interested in these stories about monsters that didn't even exist, but not today. He summoned something silently. A flash of red light flashed around his body, and tentacles swam in the shadow under his feet. The air froze inexplicably, and something suffocating was coming.

The rowdy villagers shivered and shut up like geese that had their throats grabbed. Aiden stood on the wooden stake at the village's entrance, his face solemn. When he spoke, he raised his voice so the village could hear what he had to say.

"Sorry, but business has been booming for us. Our schedule's booked until next month. We can't take on any more requests. We came here to give you an opportunity for some coins. We're looking for someone. He landed on Chotla's riverbank this morning but went missing at the birch woods' exit. If anyone can give us any clue that leads to him, we'll reward you handsomely."

Aiden took out a scroll of paper from his pocket and unrolled it before his chest. He showed it around for the villagers to see. The paper was a portrait of a bald man with amber, beastly eyes, a scar on the left side of his face, and a dark, brooding look. The portrait was the ladies' work. It was lifelike and was almost sneering at everyone.

The villagers looked at it for a while and exchanged looks of bemusement, as if they'd never seen this man.

"Tell us what the reward is!" a lad with a red neck shouted curiously.

"Two hundred orens!"

"I ain't literate, but I ain't no chump either. Yer lyin'. Sure it ain't twenty or fifty orens?"

"It's two hundred. By the gods, we swear we will reward anyone who can provide us with useful clues."

The villagers went red with excitement. They gulped, clenching their fists. The edges of their eyes went red, and their breathing labored. Not once in their lives had they seen so many coins. The people hiding in their houses to watch could no longer hold their desire back anymore.

They got onto the streets and craned their necks to check the portrait out. One woman, in her hurry, crashed into a wooden fence and keeled over. Blood spurted from her nose, but she quickly wiped it off with her dress and stared at the portrait, as if it was some priceless treasure. She roared, "Get it closer! I can't see!"

That was the power of wealth. It could always steer its user to their goal in the most efficient way. Roy thought this was a bizarre feeling. They were the ones who used to take requests, but now they were on the other side of the table, giving out a request to regular people. Find this guy for us and we'll pay you.

"I don't know this man. Never seen him before." The elder took the scroll and looked closely. He shook his head, looking dismayed. "And we've received no guests for the past week. You might've gotten to the wrong place."

"Now, don't be in a hurry. Look closely." Roy raised his head. A pair of silhouettes quickly leapt across the houses behind the villagers, agile as cats. Eskel and Coen got their cue. They slipped into the empty houses to search for any scent or remnants of magic or underground chambers. If Gaetan had left trails of him anywhere in this village, they would find it.

Kiyan stood guard outside the village, in case anyone who had information tried to slip away. Roy cleared his throat and bought some time for his companions. "He carries two swords on his back and has a cat head medallion hanging around his neck. Badly injured. Only witchers have the skills to heal him. He's big trouble for you guys. If you keep dallying around, you might find a corpse suddenly showing up in your house."

"How did he get hurt?" a stocky man asked.

"Bandits and robbers hurt him."

"So he's a good guy?" A young girl with pigtails sucked on her thumb. Innocently, she asked, "Why do you look for him? Are you his friends?"

"He's important to us," Roy answered with a vague reply. He put his hand into his pocket and produced a fat pouch of coins from his inventory space. The open pouch revealed the golden gleam of coins within.

The villagers were bewitched by what they saw. Roy generously gave one coin to the girl. The girl bit on it, and her lips cracked into a grin. She even started into a happy dance.

"Everyone, look at this portrait closely. Do not miss any detail. If any of you can give us actual clues, you can take this pouch." Roy looked around. The enthusiasm of the villagers did not escape him. His pupils were nary lines, and he coldly added, "But let me make one thing very clear. If you try to lie to us, we will cut you down where you stand."

The powerful air and the witcher's reputation of their past actions in certain cities stopped some of the greedier villagers from trying to lie to them. The portrait was then passed around. Aiden was staring at everyone. If anyone tried to lie, he would know. He had an eye for people.

An hour later, the witchers finally came to a conclusion they expected, though in the process, a few women claimed that they had seen Gaetan before. It was just a lie driven by their desire for the coins. The witchers refuted their claims.

"Now do you believe me?" The village chief and the villagers looked at the witchers. Even though they couldn't get the coins, they were still huddled around. "He never came here."

Roy raised his head. The silhouettes leaping through the roof had landed in the corn fields. They too found nothing.

Still refusing to give up, Aiden asked, "Do you guys have any other settlements nearby? Any witch doctors or hunters in the woods?"

"The nearest village is on the other side of Chotla." The chief stroked his beard. "But in the vast cemetery plains northwest of here stands a wooden house. It belongs to a barber. It's June now, so he should be there."

A barber? The witchers exchanged a look. If anyone had any chance to save Gaetan, it must be people who knew how to heal. The barber was also a village healer. He was a prime suspect, and he must be bold to even make his home near the cemetery plains.

"What do you mean he should be there?" Aiden asked.

"Godefroy isn't a local. He only comes here every summer to harvest his herbs. And thanks to these brats cutting me off, I couldn't tell you everything I knew earlier." The chief turned a shade whiter. "Over the past month, some hungry gravediggers have shown up in the plains. Attacked any living human they saw. Godefroy probably escaped in terror."

Roy prayed that the trail didn't end here. He was getting impatient. "Tell us what the monsters look like and where they come from."

"I saw those monsters first." A brooding, burly man came out of the crowd. Shuddering, he said, "They were like people with leprosy who had their skin peeled off and gone through a burning house. Their voices were like night owls. Very grating. I was a few dozen yards away from it, and all it took was for me to meet its eyes, and I had nightmares for a week."

The man's eyes went red. "'Twas lucky they didn't chase me far. They guarded the plains, pushing headstones down and ruining the coffins. Defiling our loved ones." Shuddering and enraged, the man said, "This is all Vissegerd's soldier's fault. He had to hang the Nilfgaard spy outside the plains. Said it was a warning, but the corpse's stench attracted those monsters and got us in trouble."

The villagers nodded. Their pain and fear drowned out the enthusiasm they had earlier. Roy nodded. Kent was in Brugge, and Brugge's king supported Cintra's reclamation. Of course he would let Vissegerd do anything he wanted. And those aren't gravediggers. Those are ghouls. Not even a problem.

The witchers had decided to see this barber.

"You think Godefroy saved the man in the portrait?" asked the chief pensively.

"Perhaps." Aiden and Roy bowed at the villagers who lent them a hand. They took out fifty orens and gave it to the chief, asking him to reward the villagers. "We're going to leave now. Thank you for your answers. This is a little present from us.

"No. I'm not taking the coins. I'll take you to the plains, but you have to get rid of those monsters so I can visit my poor daughter's grave again." The old man ignored the villagers' desire and tossed the pouch back to the witchers. He poked the ground with his crutch and adamantly added, "Trust me. That place is like a maze. It'll take you forever to find the barber. I had to see him a few times every year back when my daughter was alive. He was her healer, and nobody knows him better than me."

Roy and Aiden exchanged a look. If this was another time, they would at least charge 200 coins for a ghoul-slaying request, but witchers would do acts of charity sometimes. More importantly, time was of the essence.

"What are we waiting for? Lead the way."

"This is too slow. Throw that crutch away. I'll take you on my back."

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