The Divine Hunter

Chapter 303: Our Turf

The year was 1261, and Novigrad's battle tournament opened its curtains one fine morning in a modified warehouse beside the southeastern canal.

The tournament had a long history that spanned centuries. The first record of it was during a celebration of the humans' victory against elves. The rulers eventually decided to keep it around to train their people so they could serve during skirmishes, which happened frequently.

Time passed, and this tournament became a beloved sport second only to Gwent. Any city, inn, and alleyway in the northern kingdoms were filled with burly men drenched in sweat either engaged in battle or cheering the fighters on.

"Ladies, gentlemen, and our fearless fighters, welcome to the annual fighting competition of Novigrad," the slick-haired announcer shouted. "Had enough of boring, sleepy Gwent games? Then step right up for the spectacle of the year. A free-for-all, exhilarating match! You're in for a treat! This is a feast of gore and blood!"

The announcer scanned the burly fighters from the gangs. The men swung their fists and shouted like apes. The air was filled with the scent of tension and men.

"Are you ready, everyone? Oh, don't tell me. The excitement on your faces is all the answer I need, but before that, a few words from yours truly." The announcer smiled. "This is, after all, the best entertainment, and what's entertainment without booze and a feast? And music, of course. Nothing's more exhilarating than the shouts of battle."

The audiences on the outer ring were red with excitement. Some of the older women were touching the muscles of the fighters, and then they started shivering.

The audience quickly swarmed the man with baskets tied to his waist. They tossed bags of coins, and then they spewed in his face. This was crazier than the marketplace in the morning.

"Ten crowns on number thirteen—Dark Scarecrow!"

"Twenty crowns on number thirty-five—Snakeskin Alligator!"

"Fifty crowns on number sixty-eight—Desert Butcher!"

***

"There's only one way to win in these brutal battles. You either incapacitate your opponent or make them surrender. The last man standing shall be the Fists of Fury." Francis was on the second floor of the warehouse. He held the guardrail, watching the crowd underneath. "But of course, no cheating is allowed. Any cheaters will be eliminated and have their limbs cut off. A permanent ban, so to speak. A fair rule, I'd say."

Roy and his companions were about five yards away. The young witcher looked at the gang lords and their thugs, then he exchanged a glance with his companions.

Only Letho, Serrit, and him came for this meeting. Auckes and Felix were laying low just in case this was a trap. It was a surprise that the gang lords would come for the negotiation themselves. It was an honor, to an extent.

The King of Beggars was as kind-looking as he thought. When the Eternal Fire was starting their crusade against sorcerers and non-humans, Bedlam was the one who provided a safe haven for the oppressed in the Putrid Grove. All he asked was a small fee in return. This man hated fanatics and discriminators, and Roy respected that part of him.

Cleaver had the same hairstyle Kantilla did, but he was less grumpy than Roy pictured. He and his sturdy thugs were silent in the presence of the witchers.

Roy was surprised to find that Orloff was a sorcerer. The talismans and rings on him were vibrating with magic. There was disdain and enmity in his eyes. It was honestly surprising to see a sorcerer here, as most of them would spend their time on research, not status or power. But those who would are always evil conspirators.

"Of course. Without rules, there will only be chaos," Letho answered. "And that's why all we did was punish the evildoers, not the innocent."

"The moment I found out you spared that poor wench, I knew you were men with principles." The dwarf swung his hand down. A muscular, bearded dwarf woman appeared with a bottle of wine. She poured a glass for everyone. The witchers and the gang lords all took one.

"And I admire men with a creed. They're like me. We're all friends as long as you don't cross the line. But if someone does cross it, I'll pull that bastard's innards out, tie it all up, and toss him to the sharks." He raised his glass. "A toast to you, witchers."

The crowd was roaring, while the gang lords and witchers raised their glasses. And then they downed it.

"Right, we had our wine, and we had our little chat." Orloff put his glass down. He hissed, "Time to explain yourselves, witchers. You came into Novigrad and killed one of our colleagues right away. That's a grave crime, despite whatever reasons you had."

"And? You plan to take revenge?" The witchers shot him a withering glare. It felt like daggers were pointing at Orloff. His heart skipped a beat, and his mana stopped flowing for one moment.

His men came forth and surrounded the witchers.

"Calm down! Orloff, tell your men to back away. We agreed on a peaceful talk," Bedlam demanded.

Orloff scowled, but he told his men to back off.

"Settle down, witchers. We aren't trying to interrogate. This is a peaceful negotiation. Let's talk about our differences and see if we can settle it."

"Of course. We'd rather not kill if we can help it," Letho said.

"We know what Alonso did." Bedlam rubbed his golden ring and glanced at the ring downstairs. Two burly men were already fighting there. "He did get on your bad side at first, but taking down his headquarters and killing him without giving him a chance to explain himself is… cruel, don't you think? Is the Cat here? Can you represent him?"

"Bedlam, we're his comrades. We risked our lives in more than one battle. We can represent him. If you're upset with what we did to Wiley, then I'm sorry, but…" Serrit took a step ahead and stared straight at Bedlam. He announced, "That's how witchers do things. Just like Cleaver, we have lines that must never be crossed. Anyone who does will die at our hands."

They had to make a strong stand. If they hadn't made an example out of Wiley, he would have turned around and killed them all.

"But what are your lines?" Cleaver suddenly raised his voice. "We gotta make that clear and set some rules. This is a tragedy we don't ever want to see again. We have to know what your line is, or our men might cross it without any knowledge about it, and what happens next? You take us all out?"

"There's a need for rules, yes." Roy looked at his companions, and they nodded at him. He announced, "And our rule is simple. Stay away from our friends and family, and violence won't be necessary. That's a nice and easy rule to keep in mind, yeah?"

Bedlam heaved a sigh of relief, though he was surprised too. "That's a reasonable term, but are you sure it's that simple, Roy?"

"Of course. We never wanted to make an enemy out of Novigrad's rulers." Roy stared at the ground and sighed. "But Wiley backed us into a corner. We had no choice but to retaliate."

The gang lords arched their eyebrows. Just because you were backed into a corner doesn't mean you can destroy his whole gang.

"Very well. From today onward, I, Francis Bedlam, Carlo Varese, and Orloff Byrd will warn our men to never cross any of you, or I shall apprehend them myself and give them over to you."

"If his word is not enough, then by the rules of Novigrad, we shall make a contract," Cleaver suggested.

"We can do that." Letho looked calm, as if he knew this would happen.

"And now for one important question. What will you do from here on out, witchers?" Bedlam told his lackey something and looked at the ring. The battle was getting heated. The bloodied fighters were engaging in a brawl, rolling around on the stage.

The ladies' screams of excitement were almost deafening. "Will you stay in Novigrad, or will you make your departure?"

The gang lords were especially interested in this matter. None of them would want to see a whole group of witchers stay around.

"The future is always uncertain." Serrit suddenly smiled. "We'll be visiting our friends from another school in a few months. Ever heard of the Wolf School, gentlemen?"

"They did extend an invitation to us, so we might give them a return invitation. A tour around Novigrad sounds nice, don't you think?" Letho said. "You know witchers are few in numbers. If we don't band together, someone's bound to exploit us, even if there are rules we're supposed to stick to."

***

The gang lords fell into silence. The Vipers and Cat were already hard enough to handle. If the Wolves were to join in, the threat would be far too much to handle. It was possible that the witchers were bluffing, but there still was enough reason to be wary.

Even The Collector dropped his plans of threatening the witchers.

"So you're planning on staying then, witchers?"

"Novigrad is the richest city in the north. Traders buy and sell here all the time. It'll be easy to feed a dozen or so witchers if we set up a base here." Roy was finally getting to his point. "We're not greedy. All we need is a small percentage of what you make. And it's less than one percent too."

The gang lords were feeling slightly better. They were worried the witchers might set up another organization of their own and vie for power.

"We have a gift for you, friends." Bedlam was going through with their plans as well. "Before his untimely demise, Wiley and us made an agreement. The winner of this year's tournament will be the owner of a piece of unowned land. It's a street in the business district, but thanks to your actions, that agreement is now… Well, you get what I mean." Bedlam heaved a sigh.

"We'll give you two of the shops in the street at no cost. And we'll write it into the contract. The shops will forever belong to you. You don't have to pay us anything at all. Well, the monthly tribute to the church notwithstanding," Cleaver said. "And you can do anything with it. You wanna set up an apothecary shop? Go for it. Fashion stores, smithy, sundry shops, it's up to you. We'll deal with the Eternal Fire."

"As long as the gangs exist, and as long as you follow the rules. No provoking or sabotaging." Orloff sighed. He didn't like how things were going, but the advantage was not his. There was no choice but to relent. "The contract is in effect as long as you play by the rules."

"But if you don't…" Bedlam warned solemnly, "If you break the rules and try to kill anyone, my colleagues and I will make sure that you pay in blood, even if it destroys us."

That was the conclusion the gang lords came to. They would give the witchers two shops to run, and that was it. That was the only way to make sure they played by the rules—give them something to care about. After all, there was nothing more terrifying than an unbridled lunatic. Besides, the gangs didn't actually give up anything. They actually gained a lot more from what the witchers did. The only guy who lost everything was Wiley.

***

Roy took a deep breath and held his excitement down. Honestly, I wonder if we've been laying a bit too low. We suffered indignity and humiliation for so long, but the moment we let loose, we get a mountain of fortune in return?

He mused for a moment and realized the real reason this happened. No, this is the power of unity. The gangs are wary of us because we're working together. If a lone witcher did all this, he would have to be on the run for his whole life. Still, this is a one-time offer. We can't pull this off multiple times.

***

Serrit and Letho exchanged a look. They realized they were both feeling a bit odd about this. They spent decades going around the continent and eking out a living by taking requests. Never did they expect to land any estate outside of Gorthur Gvaed and their new fortress, but here they were.

Letho was a bit dazed. He was an expert in battles, tracking and alchemy, but not business. He had no idea how to run a business.

Serrit, however, looked excited. He was the wise guy of the team. He had always wanted to try making money through another way. As long as it doesn't go against the school's revival.

"We'll take the offer, gentlemen!" Serrit grinned. "If it's alright with you, we can sign the contract right away."

A moment later, four copies of the contract were signed and stamped. The process went fairly smoothly.

The men shook hands.

"Pleasure doing business with you, witchers." The gang lords felt a weight being taken off their shoulders, and they smiled. "My men will be bringing you the deeds."

***

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