The Witcher: Astartes Of The Bear School

Chapter 63: Cheers, Madam!

Margarita Laux-Antille. 

One of the most powerful women in the world, and also one of the most beautiful. Her noble lineage and unparalleled mastery of magic had earned her the status she held today. 

But now, her calves had been stripped of much of their muscle, her body was filthy and reeking, and she was crammed into a wooden cage with the skeletal remains of her student.

She was running a high fever. The fact that she had survived for so many days with such severe wounds was a testament to the extraordinary physical and magical resilience of a top-tier sorceress. 

But it didn't change the fact that the fever and the pain from her festering wounds were tormenting her, rendering her unable to cast spells. 

This was why kings and rulers treated magical power with equal parts reverence and caution. 

The ignorant believed that mages wielded omnipotent power, capable of annihilating entire knightly orders on the battlefield. But those in the know understood that rendering a mage powerless didn't require expensive dimeritium—it could be as simple as giving them dysentery. 

Diarrhea, vomiting, cramps... Anyone who tried to cast spells in such a state would usually end up buried in the ground due to magical backlash, if they even managed to gather the chaotic energy in the first place. 

The foundation of spellcasting was absolute concentration. 

Unless a spell had become as instinctive as breathing, a single moment of distraction could twist a mage into an unspeakable abomination. 

Powerful and resourceful mages took many precautions to maintain their condition. Antidotes, disease cures, pain-relieving salves, magical talismans... The amount of money spent on these items was beyond the imagination of ordinary people. 

But now, Margarita had nothing. 

So, the noble Margarita, the beautiful Margarita, the powerful Margarita... 

Had been reduced to a caged hen, waiting for slaughter. 

She had almost accepted her fate—to die as "food." 

Until she saw a young witcher return. 

The camp was in chaos. Armed men with torches were converging on the lone witcher like a fiery dragon. From her cage, Margarita could only see Lan's profile. 

The torchlight illuminated his exotic features, which, surprisingly, showed no trace of panic or regret. Instead, he calmly observed the jeering enemies, as if he truly believed he could fight his way out. 

'What a joke! He isn't even a novice witcher!' 

No... Margarita let out a bitter laugh, recalling Lan's disheveled appearance when he first approached her cage. Covered in blood, clueless about even the most basic knowledge of sorcery. His combat skills were unexpectedly impressive, but his lack of foundational knowledge was appalling. 

He was nothing more than an apprentice who hadn't even completed his training. To expect an apprentice to fight his way out of a camp full of armed enemies? She must be out of her mind. 

But inexplicably, when the young apprentice asked her, "Feel like giving it a shot?" a strange sense of trust welled up within her. 

'He won't die here.' 

Magic? A hidden trump card? A curse? She didn't know. 

Margarita lowered her head. The pain and fever made it impossible for her to cast spells, let alone investigate the reason behind her sudden trust. 

But if you're not as simple as you seem, then why not give it a try? 

"What do you want me to do? Just so you know, my current state makes it impossible to—" 

"Is it 'impossible to cast spells' or 'limited in spellcasting'? Be clear!" 

Before Margarita could finish, Lan growled. He deflected an arrow with his armored wrist and sliced another out of the air with his sword. 

The movements drew gasps from the enemies, who grew even more excited about "hunting the bear." 

Lan refused to believe that one of the world's most powerful sorceresses could be completely stripped of her magical abilities. Even if this camp housed a top-tier mage, the gap between the best shouldn't be this vast! 

Margarita was surprised by his sharp intuition. Someone who lacked even basic knowledge of magic had discerned the difference between these two states in such a short time? 

"I can only manage a few tricks now! Tricks, you understand? As weak as your Signs, and they won't last more than twenty seconds!" 

This was why Margarita had been trapped here. Twenty seconds—she could take a few lives, but it would only make her eventual death more gruesome. 

But Lan, leaning against the cage, grinned in relief. 

"Twenty seconds? Even ten would be enough." 

"What did you say?" Margarita thought she had misheard. Ten seconds? What could ten seconds accomplish? 

Lan didn't answer her confusion. 

"Come on, sorceress. Put up a shield." 

'A shield?' She found the phrasing amusing—simple yet casual. But was this really the time for casualness? 

Regardless, the sorceress furrowed her brow, pushing through the pain to focus her mind and gather chaos energy. 

A spherical barrier, shimmering like distorted air, enveloped Lan and the cage. 

A crossbow bolt struck the shield at that moment, its wooden shaft snapping with a crisp sound. 

Lan slowly knelt to the ground. It was the posture of a witcher meditating to recover stamina, but also the posture most conducive to absorbing potions. 

"If I save you, will Aretuza reward me?" 

Lan pulled two small vials from his pouch, turning to smile at the sorceress. 

Margarita's face was contorted with effort as she maintained the shield. 

The shield had ten seconds left. Outside, the enemies were still laughing, firing crossbow bolts, or charging with swords and hammers. 

But the witcher didn't even spare them a glance. 

Margarita pursed her lips. Even with magical creams dulling her allure, the fullness of her lips was still evident. 

She prided herself on having met most of the so-called noble figures on the continent. Southern imperial nobles, northern kingdom lords—she had seen them all. 

But someone who risked themselves for others without grandstanding or claiming moral superiority. Someone who did it with ease and indifference. She had never met anyone like that. 

Was this the "chivalry" of his homeland? Or the "chivalry" of witchers? Margarita couldn't tell. 

But she understood one thing— 

'You're not doing this for glory or honor, are you, witcher? You're simply doing what you want to do.' 

"You will become a friend of Aretuza." The sorceress looked earnestly into those cat-like eyes. "By the name of Margarita Laux-Antille!" 

The young witcher laughed heartily, raising the vials as if they were goblets. 

"Hahaha, what an honor. Then, by your name, cheers, madam!" 

Like a toast, he downed the contents of both vials. 

Ink-black toxins surged through his veins, crawling up his face. When his eyes opened, the amber vertical pupils were gone, replaced by a deep, abyssal black. 

***

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