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The Witness of the Hunt
Prologue
The moon hung low over the fields near White Orchard, casting an eerie silver glow upon the tall wheat that swayed gently in the wind. Jakob, a young farmhand of no renown, sat on a rickety wooden fence, lazily chewing a stalk of grass. His life had always been quiet—work in the fields, an occasional flirtation at the tavern, and stories of monsters and witchers told by old men who reeked of ale. Jakob never imagined he would become part of one of those tales.
The Fateful Night
The air was heavy that evening, charged with something unnatural. The village elders whispered about the sunner — Południca — an apparition said to haunt the fields at dusk. Jakob laughed it off. Monsters were the stuff of songs and stories, nothing more.
But as twilight bled into night, a bone-chilling scream pierced the stillness. Jakob froze, his blood running cold. Out in the wheat, something moved—something too fast, too fluid to be human.
From the shadows emerged a figure cloaked in leather and steel. A witcher. His silver sword caught the moonlight as he strode toward the sound, his medallion vibrating against his chest. Jakob knew who he was — Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf.
Jakob watched, half-hidden behind the fence, as the witcher disappeared into the field. Then, he saw it. The Południca. She was pale as death, her hair a wild, golden halo that floated unnaturally around her. Her eyes burned with an otherworldly fire as she screamed again, the sound slicing through the night like a blade.
The Clash
The fight was unlike anything Jakob could have imagined. The Południca moved with inhuman grace, her claws slashing through the air like razors. But Geralt was faster. He danced around her, his silver sword a blur of motion. Each strike was precise, calculated, but the Południca was relentless.
Jakob’s heart pounded as he watched from his hiding spot. He should have run, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away.
Then it happened. Geralt faltered. For a brief moment, the Południca’s claws grazed his arm, drawing blood. But it wasn’t the wound that caused the change—it was something deeper, something primal.
Geralt let out a guttural growl, one that didn’t belong to a man. His pupils dilated, his veins darkened, and his muscles bulged unnaturally. Jakob realized with horror that the witcher was no longer fighting the monster—he was becoming one.
The Beast Within
Geralt roared, his voice a mix of human and beast, and lunged at the Południca with a ferocity that made even her hesitate. His strikes were no longer precise; they were wild, brutal. He tore through the wheat, his claws—when had they become claws—ripping at the apparition.
The Południca shrieked as Geralt overpowered her, his monstrous form pinning her to the ground. With a final, savage blow, he drove his sword into her heart. The apparition dissolved into ash, carried away by the wind.
But Geralt did not stop. He howled into the night, his transformation complete. His once-yellow eyes glowed red, his face twisted into something grotesque.
The Witness
Jakob trembled, unable to move as the witcher-turned-beast turned its gaze toward him. For a moment, their eyes met, and Jakob felt the weight of centuries of suffering, of curses and contracts, of lives lived on the edge of humanity.
Then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over. Geralt collapsed to his knees, his form shifting back to that of a man. He gasped for air, his hands shaking as he wiped the blood from his mouth.
Jakob finally found the courage to move. He stepped forward, his voice barely a whisper. “You… you’re not human, are you?”
Geralt looked at him, his face weary and haunted. “No,” he said simply. “And neither are the monsters I fight.”
Without another word, Geralt sheathed his sword and walked away, disappearing into the night as if he had never been there.
Epilogue
Jakob never spoke of that night. The villagers noticed he grew quieter, his eyes more distant. But every so often, when the wind whispered through the fields, he would shiver and remember the moonlit battle between monster and man—and the truth that sometimes, the line between the two was far thinner than anyone dared to believe.