"Bloodlines of the Unknown"- A witcher tale

The weight of the medallion in Kael's palm was heavier than it should have been. It was old, worn, and unremarkable to an untrained eye, yet it pulsed faintly in his grasp, as though responding to his touch. A remnant of the past, one that had somehow endured where so many others had been erased.

He slipped it into his pouch and turned his attention back to the laboratory. Dust choked the air, disturbed by his movements. The room was filled with remnants of experiments long abandoned—rusted tools, shattered vials, parchment browned with age. Some of the texts were still legible, detailing grotesque modifications to the human body, pushing past what even Witchers had endured.

Kael traced a gloved finger over one of the drawings pinned to the wall. A humanoid form, twisted and elongated, its spine curving unnaturally, its limbs reinforced with unnatural growths. A failed experiment? A prototype? The sight made his stomach tighten. He had always known the Trials were brutal, but this… this was something else entirely. This was butchery masked as progress.

His eyes flickered to the locked drawers beneath a heavy desk at the far end of the room. If anything useful remained, it would be there. He crouched, examining the rusted lock before slipping a thin blade between its mechanisms. It took little effort—age had weakened the metal, and the lock snapped open with ease.

Inside, amidst brittle scrolls and dried-up inkpots, lay a single book, bound in deep crimson leather. No title, no embellishments, just a thick volume that radiated an unsettling presence. Kael hesitated before picking it up, flipping through its pages. Notes, calculations, observations written in a language he could just barely decipher. It wasn't the same as the ledger he had found earlier, but it was similar—perhaps written by another hand, yet belonging to the same dark history.

One passage caught his eye:

"The mutations have stabilized. Subject 17 displays remarkable resilience----------------------, beyond projected limits. Cognitive function remains intact, instincts heightened. Further enhancements------------- could yield results beyond even our expectations. The Panther School's methodology ---------------------may be crude, but there is promise here. The ---------- ------------- ------------------------- --------------------will want to know more."

Kael's grip tightened. The Panther School. A name he had barely heard in whispers, a school long thought lost or wiped from history. And the Archivist…

A sharp noise snapped him from his thoughts. A scuff of movement, faint but unmistakable, from somewhere beyond the entrance. Kael exhaled slowly, sliding the book into his pack before drawing his dagger. He stepped back into the shadows, his breathing measured, his body tensed.

The silence stretched.

Then, the sound of cautious footsteps. More than one person. The faint flicker of torchlight against the stone walls told him all he needed to know.

He wasn't alone anymore.

Kael's mind raced. Had they followed him? Had the stranger from before recovered and sent for reinforcements? He had no way of knowing. But one thing was certain. They were looking for something.

And Kael had no intention of letting them find it first.

Kael pressed his back against the cold stone wall, his grip firm on the dagger. Three sets of footsteps. Their rhythm betrayed caution—whoever they were, they knew this place wasn't as abandoned as it seemed.

He inhaled slowly, grounding himself. He had two choices—wait and observe or strike first. The latter was reckless, especially when he still didn't know who they were.

Instead, he remained still.

A voice echoed softly through the ruined corridor, low but firm.

"Check the tables. Look for anything that might still be intact."

Another voice, younger, uncertain. "You sure this is the place? We've wasted enough time crawling through ruins."

"It's here," the first voice snapped. "The old fool was right—there was a hidden chamber. If that bastard found something, then we're taking it."

Kael's jaw tightened. They were looking for him.

His eyes flicked toward the nearest shelf—dusty, filled with alchemical glassware, but sturdy enough for his needs. With practiced silence, he shifted, slipping behind it just as the torchlight rounded the corner.

Three figures emerged into the lab. Two men, one woman. Mercenaries, by their appearance—ragged cloaks, light armor suited for travel, weapons kept close to their sides. Not soldiers. Not professionals.

One of the men—broad-shouldered, scarred, missing two fingers on his left hand—stepped toward the workbench. He ran a gloved hand over the parchment Kael had left behind, scanning the faded words with narrowed eyes.

"This is old. Real old," he muttered. "Some of it's still readable."

The woman—lean, with sharp features and a long dagger at her hip—moved toward the broken shelves. She wasn't searching. She was watching. Kael stilled. She was the one to be wary of.

The last man—a wiry figure with a nervous energy—stood by the door, glancing back into the corridor every few moments. A lookout. A routine formation. The broad one handled the findings. The sharp one handled security. The nervous one covered their escape. Kael had dealt with their kind before.

"The Archivist will want to see this," the broad one said, flipping a page. "It's got notes on—"

"Where is he?" the woman interrupted.

The two men turned toward her.

"What?" the wiry one asked.

Her eyes swept the room, lingering on the disturbed dust, the open drawers, the missing pieces. She knew.

"Someone's already been here," she muttered. "Recently."

Kael knew his moment had come. He watched the mercenaries closely, tracking their movements, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

The broad-shouldered one continued flipping through the parchment, distracted. The wiry man near the entrance was still glancing over his shoulder, wary but unfocused. The woman, though—she was different. Her eyes scanned the room, her fingers hovering near her dagger's hilt. She knew someone was here.

Kael inhaled slowly. Let them search. Let them turn their backs. He shifted his stance, gripping the steel sword he had taken from the unconscious man earlier. His own weapons—his hunter's dagger and the silver blade—remained hidden, waiting for when he truly needed them.

The broad-shouldered mercenary moved first, turning away from the table to scan the far side of the lab. The wiry one took a step away from the entrance, drawn in by curiosity. And the woman? She turned her back to Kael. That was all he needed.

Kael moved.

With silent precision, he closed the distance in an instant. His first strike was aimed at the woman—the most dangerous one. She barely had time to react before Kael's steel blade sliced clean through her throat. A gurgled breath escaped her lips as she staggered, hands grasping at the wound. She was dead before she hit the ground. The broad-shouldered man turned, eyes widening—too slow.

Kael stepped forward, driving his dagger up under the man's ribs. The blade sank deep, piercing through layers of leather and flesh, sliding between bone. The mercenary let out a choked grunt, his body going rigid before he crumpled forward, lifeless.

One left. The wiry one stumbled back, his expression twisted with terror.

"W-wait—!" he gasped, reaching for the short sword at his hip. Too late.

Kael lunged, slamming him against the stone wall with brutal force. The mercenary's skull cracked against the stone, and before he could scream, Kael's silver dagger was at his throat.

"Who sent you?" Kael growled, voice low and dangerous.

The man shook violently, eyes darting toward his dead companions. He tried to speak, but fear had stolen his words.

Kael tightened his grip, pressing the dagger's edge closer. "You have one chance. Speak."

The mercenary gulped, his voice barely above a whisper.

"The Archivist… He wants the book… Said a Witcher might come looking for it… We were told to take anything of value and report back… I swear, that's all I know!"

Kael watched him for a moment, judging the truth in his words. The man's fear was real, but fear made people say anything to stay alive.

"Where?" Kael demanded. "Where were you supposed to report back?"

"A camp—south of the mountains. Near the old trade road. That's all I know! I swear!"

Kael's dagger remained pressed to the man's throat, his mind weighing his next action.

Kael didn't hesitate.

Before the mercenary could even beg for his life, Kael slashed the silver dagger across his throat in a single, fluid motion.

The man's eyes widened in shock as his breath caught, a wet, gurgling sound escaping his lips. He clutched at his neck, blood spilling between his fingers, but Kael had already stepped away, letting the body slide limply to the cold stone floor.

The air grew still again. Three dead. No witnesses.

Kael wiped the silver blade clean on the dead man's cloak, then methodically searched their bodies.

Steel sword, 'Inferior mine—useless', a coin pouch, mMap scraps 'Notes, likely from their employer' He stuffed them into his pack. A vial of strange liquid 'Unlabeled. Possibly poison, alchemical formula, or something worse. Worth investigating' A medallion. Not a Witcher's—some kind of insignia, a sigil he didn't recognize.

Kael examined the insignia closely. A lesser-known faction, maybe? He would have to study it later. With his search complete, he cast one last glance at the bodies. No one else had come. Not yet. Kael turned his focus back to the lab, his thoughts sharp, focused.

he Archivist had sent these men. That meant the book—and possibly the Panther School's secrets—were valuable enough to kill for.

The camp south of the mountains was his next lead. If more of them were waiting, he could learn who else was hunting for this knowledge.

The ruins still had more secrets. He had looted the bodies, but was there anything else hidden in this lab?

Finally he moved swiftly. There had to be more.

The dim torchlight flickered against the stone walls, casting shadows over decaying shelves and broken equipment. Most of it was worthless—rusted tools, shattered vials, parchment crumbling at a touch. But Kael's instincts told him there was something else here. He scanned the room again, eyes sharp, his witcher senses tingling.

Then he saw it.

A faint disturbance in the dust along the floor—small, subtle, but unmistakable. A hidden compartment. Kael crouched, running his gloved fingers along the stone floor. A hairline seam, barely visible in the dim light. He pressed against it, feeling for resistance, for some kind of mechanism.

'There'

A slight shift, a section of stone giving way. He applied more pressure, and with a dull grind, a small panel slid open. Inside, nestled in the hollow space, was a leather-wrapped bundle.

Kael unwrapped it carefully, revealing two items.

A small, black Journal. Unlike the crimson ledger, this book was personal. The pages were filled with handwritten notes, some hurried, others methodical.

He flipped through them, scanning.

"The Archivist does not understand. The Panther method is not a failure—it is the future. They fear the strength it creates. But I have seen it. I have felt it. The enhancements are dangerous, yes, but they are beyond what any other school has dared to attempt. The body breaks before it rebuilds. The pain is unimaginable. But the results…"

Kael's grip tightened. Panther School methods. Enhancements. Forbidden knowledge. The kind of experiments that could explain his own lost past. But there was more.

A name.

"Vernhardt. He is close to understanding. But if the others learn, if they suspect… I will be forced to hide my work. To take it where they cannot follow. The old fortress still holds its secrets. It is there I must go."

Kael's pulse quickened. Vernhardt. He had never heard the name before, but this person had clearly been one of the last to work in this hidden lab. And the mention of an old fortress—that was a lead he couldn't ignore. But then there was the second item.

A vial of deep crimson liquid. It was unlike the other alchemical substances he had seen—thicker, almost metallic, shimmering even in the dim torchlight.

'Mutagenic?'

Kael held it up, watching the slow movement of the liquid. He had no idea what it would do. The Panthers had experimented with stronger mutations, more volatile formulas. This could be something unfinished. Something dangerous. He slipped both the journal and the vial into his pack. He would study them later. Now, he had one last task.

Kael retrieved an oil flask from one of the mercenaries' bodies. It was only half-full, but it would be enough. He worked quickly, pouring oil over the bookshelves, the desks, the parchments and vials. Anything that could be of use to the Archivist—destroyed. Then, he pulled a flint and steel from his pouch. The first spark caught the old parchment, flames licking across the wooden desks. The fire spread quickly, consuming the last remnants of the lab's twisted history.

Kael stepped back, watching the orange glow fill the darkened ruin. Smoke billowed toward the ceiling, the heat pushing against his face. He turned and left without looking back. By the time he reached the surface, the hidden lab was burning. Whatever secrets it had held—they were gone now. And now, Kael had a new path.

Vernhardt. The old fortress.

If there were any answers left about his past, the Panther School, and the Archivist's hunt. That was where they would be.