Witcher: Rukh and Steel

Yunan's POV

Yunan yawned, stretching out on a flat rock, arms tucked behind his head. The cool air was nice. The peace and quiet were even better. The dungeon was too much effort, so he had let the others handle it. If they died? Well, unfortunate. If they lived? Even better—he wouldn't have to do anything and could still hear how it went.

The ground trembled, and a golden light exploded from the collapsed dungeon entrance. A rush of wind kicked up dust and stone, sending loose rocks tumbling into the crater. Yunan barely lifted his head as Geralt, Triss, Vesemir, Eskel, Lambert, and Leo reappeared in the swirling glow.

They looked half-dead. Geralt's sword still smoked with lingering magic, Triss' robes were burned, and Lambert had a gash across his forehead. Eskel and Vesemir were standing but exhausted, while Leo looked like he had just fought death itself and barely walked away.

Yunan sat up just enough to glance past them. The dungeon was gone. Instead, a massive crater stretched out, the stone beneath them cracked and steaming. And in the center of it all? Loot. Weapons, enchanted relics, overstuffed bags, and five chests overflowing with gold.

Yunan whistled. "Wow. You even brought back the treasure. Nice work."

Triss' POV

The moment she saw Yunan, perfectly fine, relaxed, and smug, Triss felt her temper snap. She had almost died at least twice in that damn dungeon. And this idiot? This lazy, useless, smug bastard had been lying around doing nothing the whole time.

She stalked over. "You have got to be kidding me."

Yunan blinked up at her. "What?"

"You didn't do anything!"

He gave her a halfhearted shrug. "I waited."

Triss clenched her fists. "You could have helped!"

Yunan made a face. "Ugh, Triss. That sounds like work."

Triss inhaled sharply. "You are the most—"

"Handsome? Brilliant? Effortlessly charming?"

"—infuriating man I have ever met."

Yunan grinned. "That's what everyone says."

Triss pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering something under her breath. She needed to calm down before she threw him into the crater. Instead, she turned to the pile of loot. Weapons. Enchanted trinkets. Gold that could fund a kingdom. And yet… Yunan didn't even glance at it.

She folded her arms, watching him. "You really don't want any of it?"

Yunan let out a long, slow sigh, flopping back down. "Triss, I already have entire vaults of this stuff."

She blinked. "What?"

He waved a hand vaguely. "Gold, weapons, enchanted relics, magic books, ancient artifacts—my storage spaces are full of them. I don't even remember where half of it came from. More just sounds exhausting."

Triss stared. This wasn't an act. This wasn't someone trying to sound above greed. She had met plenty of kings and nobles who pretended they didn't care about wealth—they were all liars. But Yunan? He genuinely didn't care. And that… terrified her more than greed ever could.

She turned to Geralt. "We need to talk later."

Geralt glanced at Yunan, then back at her. "That bad?"

Triss nodded. Because if she didn't figure Yunan out soon… She had a feeling they were all in trouble.

The fire crackled in Kaer Morhen's great hall, casting flickering shadows across the scarred wooden table. A map of the Continent was spread out before them, marked with strange events—smuggling routes disrupted, alchemists going missing, and reports of experimental mutagens appearing on the black market.

Vesemir tapped the map. "Something's wrong."

Geralt folded his arms. "Bandits and smugglers are nothing new. But this?" He gestured to a set of markings near Vizima. "These aren't normal operations. Someone's funding them."

Triss frowned. "And they're targeting alchemy supplies—specifically mutagens."

Eskel leaned forward. "Trying to make more Witchers?"

Lambert scoffed. "Trying, and failing. If they had succeeded, we'd already be fighting their creations."

Leo, still eager and restless, gripped the hilt of his sword. "Then we find them before they do."

The room fell silent for a moment. Then, all eyes turned to Yunan. He was slouched in his chair, hat covering his face, pretending to be asleep.

Lambert's eye twitched. "Are you serious right now?"

Yunan yawned and waved a hand lazily. "Mmm… You all seem to be doing fine. Wake me up when you need me."

Triss pinched the bridge of her nose. "Yunan."

Yunan sighed dramatically, finally sitting up. "Ugh, fine. You want a lead? Look toward Vizima. Someone there is pulling the strings."

Geralt's eyes narrowed. "How do you know that?"

Yunan grinned. "Because that's where all the fun is about to start."

The morning mist clung to the ruined walls of Kaer Morhen, swirling around the group of riders preparing to leave. Their horses snorted in the cold, hooves kicking up patches of frost-covered dirt.

Geralt tightened the straps on Roach's saddle, giving one last glance toward the keep. It would be a long time before they returned. Vesemir stood by the gates, watching his pupils prepare for war with the same quiet sorrow he always had. Triss adjusted the hood of her traveling cloak, her expression unreadable. Eskel, Lambert, and Leo were already mounted, eager to ride south.

And then there was Yunan. The self-proclaimed lazy sorcerer was exactly where Geralt expected him to be—lying on a wooden bench, arms crossed behind his head, looking like he had zero interest in the war ahead.

Lambert pulled his horse around and glared at Yunan. "Last chance to come with us, oh great and mighty dungeon-maker."

Yunan let out a long, drawn-out sigh, barely lifting his head. "Ugh. Hunting bandits and saving the world? Sounds exhausting."

Eskel smirked. "So that's a no?"

Yunan yawned. "Absolutely."

Leo frowned. "You could at least pretend to care."

Yunan opened one eye. "Oh, but I do care. I care about my sleep, my peace, and not running around in the mud chasing criminals."

Lambert muttered a curse under his breath. "Unbelievable."

Geralt mounted Roach and turned toward Vesemir. "You sure you don't want to come?"

The old Witcher gave a tired smile. "My place is here. Just make sure you all return."

Geralt's golden eyes flickered with something unreadable. "We'll try."

Vesemir clasped his shoulder. "That's all I ask."

Geralt nodded, then looked at Yunan one last time. "Don't burn the place down while we're gone."

Yunan waved a lazy hand. "No promises."

With that, the Witchers rode out, leaving Kaer Morhen—and Yunan—behind. Their war had begun.

The sky darkened, turning from orange to deep indigo as the Witchers rode through rolling hills and dense forests. By the time they made camp, the moon was high, casting silver light over their resting place near a quiet riverbank. A small fire crackled, casting flickering shadows across the faces of Geralt, Eskel, Lambert, Leo, and Triss.

Lambert tossed a branch into the flames. "I still don't get why we left Yunan behind. Could've been useful."

Eskel smirked. "You really think that guy would fight unless forced?"

Leo poked at the fire with a stick. "He's powerful, though."

Triss nodded, deep in thought. "Yes, but power doesn't mean anything if you don't use it. He's… unpredictable."

Geralt stared into the fire. "He doesn't care about this war."

Silence. Then, Leo hesitated. "And if we lose?"

Geralt's grip on his sword tightened. "We don't."

The flames crackled, dancing in the night.

Geralt's POV

The road to Vizima was too quiet. Geralt rode at the front, his golden eyes scanning the tree line, senses on high alert. Behind him, Eskel, Lambert, and Leo followed on horseback, their silhouettes barely visible in the dimming light. The air smelled of smoke and blood, thick with the stench of something burning in the distance.

Eskel spoke first. "Something's wrong."

Lambert pulled his horse to a stop and sniffed. "Yeah. Smell that?"

Geralt already had—the acrid scent of charred flesh. He raised a hand, signaling them to stop. Dismounting from Roach, he crouched low and ran his fingers through the muddy tracks on the road. Hoof prints. Wagon wheels. A struggle.

Leo frowned. "Bandits?"

Geralt shook his head. "Look ahead."

Through the mist, the remains of a merchant caravan lay in the road—wagons overturned, bodies strewn across the mud. Eskel cursed under his breath. Lambert jumped off his horse and walked toward a slumped-over corpse, kicking it onto its back. A bloodied insignia glistened on the man's armor. A red rose.

Lambert scowled. "The Order of the Flaming Rose."

Leo, still new to all this, tensed. "You think the Scoia'tael did this?"

Eskel knelt beside one of the bodies, inspecting the wounds. "Arrows. Quick slashes. It's their work."

Geralt stood, scanning the ground. The hoof prints continued south, toward Vizima. Someone had survived. And that meant they were leading him straight to Salamandra.

Geralt exhaled, gripping his reins. "We're close. Let's move."

Kaer Morhen – Third Person POV

The wind howled through the ruins of Kaer Morhen, carrying the scent of winter and old stone. The ancient keep, once a stronghold of the Witchers, stood as a shadow of its former self. Broken walls, shattered battlements, and half-collapsed towers bore witness to centuries of decline.

Vesemir stood on the fortress walls, his gaze heavy as he looked over the valley below. Snow covered the old training grounds, blanketing the memories of the past. There was a time when this place had been filled with the sounds of steel clashing, the shouts of young apprentices, and the murmured wisdom of older Witchers. Now, it was quiet. Too quiet.

The School of the Wolf was dying.

He had seen it coming for years. With each passing winter, fewer Witchers remained. No new apprentices. No new recruits. Without the Trial of the Grasses, there was no future for Kaer Morhen.

Beside him, Yunan leaned against a broken parapet, idly tossing a small golden coin between his fingers. The Magi seemed unaffected by the biting cold, his green and gold robes flowing lightly in the wind. Unlike Vesemir, his expression held no sorrow, no nostalgia—only curiosity.

"You're thinking about bringing in new blood," Yunan said casually, watching Vesemir out of the corner of his eye. "New Witchers."

Vesemir exhaled slowly. "I am." His voice was rough, aged by years of battle and loss. "But it's impossible."

Yunan raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

Vesemir turned to face him, crossing his arms. "The keep is in ruins. Even if I could find recruits, where would they train? What would they eat? The old alchemy labs are broken, and most of our knowledge on mutations is gone. Without the proper facilities, the Trials would be nothing more than torture leading to a slow death."

Yunan hummed in thought. "So, your problem isn't just knowledge—it's infrastructure. Kaer Morhen itself."

Vesemir nodded. "And resources. We don't have enough supplies to keep ourselves alive, let alone raise and train new Witchers."

Yunan flicked his coin into the air, catching it smoothly. "I can fix that."

Vesemir frowned. "Fix what?"

Yunan stretched lazily, rolling his shoulders. "The keep. The walls, the towers, the drainage systems—you name it. I can rebuild Kaer Morhen, make it even stronger than before."

Vesemir studied him carefully. He had seen Yunan's magic before—vast, effortless, and unlike anything he had encountered. But this? Restoring an entire keep? Even the Brotherhood of Sorcerers couldn't do something like that without years of effort.

"How?" Vesemir asked.

Yunan's smirk widened. "With a little something called Al-Kimia Al-Qadima—Ancient Alchemy." He raised a hand, golden light gathering around his fingers, swirling like liquid fire.

Vesemir's eyes narrowed. "Alchemy?"

"Not the kind you're used to," Yunan admitted. "This is beyond potions and mutagens. It's the reconstruction of matter itself. Stone, wood, steel—I can reshape them as I see fit." He gestured to the ruins around them. "Give me a day, and Kaer Morhen will be as good as new."

Vesemir's lips pressed into a thin line. "Even if you do that, we still lack supplies. Food, weapons, armor—"

"I can make those too," Yunan interrupted, tapping his temple. "Alchemy and magic can recreate what you need. If it exists, I can duplicate it."

Vesemir hesitated. If Yunan was telling the truth, then the Witchers might have a future after all. But there was one thing that troubled him.

"…Where does your magic come from?" Vesemir finally asked.

Yunan's playful demeanor faded slightly. He glanced toward the sky, watching the clouds drift above the valley.

"My magic," he said slowly, "comes from the Rukh."

Vesemir frowned. "Rukh?"

Yunan nodded. "It's… the essence of life itself. Every world has a flow of energy—yours calls it Chaos, others call it Mana. But the Rukh? It is endless. A Magi can never run out of magic because we are directly connected to it."

Vesemir narrowed his eyes. "You're saying you have infinite power?"

Yunan chuckled. "More or less." He spread his arms wide. "If I wanted, I could turn this entire valley into a golden palace, carve rivers of wine, and have statues of Lambert's scowling face lining the walls."

Vesemir rubbed his temples at the mental image. "Please don't."

Yunan laughed. "See? I have restraint."

Vesemir sighed, shaking his head. "Fine. Do it. Fix Kaer Morhen."

Yunan grinned. "Now we're talking."

He stepped forward, raising both hands as the air around him shimmered. Light began to swirl, golden Rukh appearing in the form of butterflies and birds, dancing around the ruins like spirits of old.

Then, the ground trembled.

The shattered walls groaned as they pieced themselves back together, cracks sealing, stone fusing seamlessly. The broken towers rose, their missing sections reforming as if time itself had reversed. The once-ruined courtyard smoothed out, its old training dummies and weapon racks restored.

The castle came alive.

New furniture appeared in the halls. Fireplaces roared to life. The alchemy lab was rebuilt, complete with fresh tools and ancient knowledge inscribed onto waiting parchments. New weapons lined the armory—silver swords gleaming, fresh armor waiting to be worn.

Within moments, Kaer Morhen stood not as a relic, but as the stronghold it had once been—a place of power, reforged by magic beyond comprehension.

Vesemir exhaled, a rare look of astonishment crossing his features. "…I don't believe it."

Yunan dusted off his hands, looking far too pleased with himself. "Told you I could do it."

Vesemir turned, taking in the sight. For the first time in decades, Kaer Morhen felt alive. He could almost hear the echoes of the past—children training, masters guiding, swords clashing.

Hope.

"…Maybe," Vesemir murmured, "we can bring Witchers back."

Yunan clapped him on the shoulder. "That's the spirit, old man."

Then, with a playful smirk, he added, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a trip to make."

Vesemir shot him a look. "Where?"

Yunan grinned. "Toussaint. I need to borrow something from Tomas Moreau's old lab."

Before Vesemir could argue, the Magi snapped his fingers. The air shimmered, and with a flash of golden light—

—Yunan was gone.

Triss Merigold's POV – Vizima, Capital of Temeria

A shimmering portal flickered before vanishing into the dimly lit chamber, leaving Triss standing in the familiar comfort of her private quarters. The air smelled faintly of enchanted oils and parchment, the flickering candlelight casting elongated shadows on the stone walls.

And at her feet?

Two enormous chests overflowing with gold and jewels, their polished surfaces catching the light, and two bulging sacks filled with strange antiques and artifacts of unknown origin.

Triss let out a breath and placed her hands on her hips. "I should really start asking more questions before following that man into madness."

She nudged one of the sacks with her foot. It let out a soft metallic clink, a reminder that these weren't just any relics—these were treasures from another world.

A sharp knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.

"Triss?"

The voice was familiar—light, playful, and distinctly amused.

Triss smiled despite herself. "Come in, Keira."

The door swung open, revealing Keira Metz, dressed in flowing blue robes, her golden hair draped elegantly over one shoulder. She stepped into the room with the grace of someone who knew they were beautiful and fully intended to use it.

The moment her eyes landed on the treasure chests, she let out a delighted gasp.

"Well, well, well…" Keira sauntered closer, her fingers skimming over a handful of golden coins. "And here I thought you spent all your time helping Witchers, not robbing Nilfgaardian treasuries."

Triss rolled her eyes. "It's not stolen."

Keira smirked. "Oh? Then where did it come from?"

Triss hesitated for a fraction of a second before answering. "A Dungeon."

Keira blinked. Then blinked again. "A Dungeon?"

Triss nodded. "Created by a Magi from another world."

Keira narrowed her eyes. "You've had quite the adventure."

Triss exhaled. "You have no idea."

Keira, ever the curious scholar, abandoned the gold and turned her attention to the sacks of artifacts. "Forget the coins—this is the real treasure." She knelt beside one of the bags, tugging it open and pulling out a beautifully carved statuette of a woman in flowing robes, her hands outstretched as if cradling the stars.

Keira let out an appreciative hum. "This… this is exquisite."

Triss watched as her friend examined the artifact with fascination, running her fingers along the smooth curves of the sculpted figure.

Keira turned the statuette over, her brows furrowing. "The craftsmanship… this isn't elven, nor human. Dwarven? No… too delicate. Whoever made these had flawless technique." She held it up to the candlelight. "Triss, where did you really get these?"

Triss crossed her arms. "I told you. From the Dungeon. And according to Yunan, they're from a place called Alma Torran."

Keira's lips parted slightly as she turned the name over in her mind. "Alma Torran… Never heard of it."

"You wouldn't have," Triss murmured. "Because it doesn't exist in our history. Yunan claims it's from a world before ours. Before the Conjunction of the Spheres."

Keira's fingers tightened slightly on the statuette.

For a long moment, there was silence. Then—

"…I don't believe you."

Triss exhaled, already expecting that reaction.

Keira huffed and shook her head. "A civilization predating the Conjunction? That's impossible. There were no recorded societies before the monsters arrived. Humans weren't even here yet, and the elves—"

"—came after," Triss finished. "I know. But look at these."

She reached into the sack and pulled out a silver mirror framed in delicate gold filigree, its surface unnaturally smooth.

Keira's eyes flickered with curiosity as she took it from her hands. "Gods, this is flawless."

Triss nodded. "Everything in these sacks is like that. Too perfect. Too advanced for our world. There's no wear, no tool marks, no sign of how they were crafted." She met Keira's gaze. "Doesn't that seem odd to you?"

Keira frowned, running her fingers over the mirror's surface. A flicker of something just beyond sight moved within the glass—a whisper of magic so faint that even Triss barely caught it.

"…Alright," Keira admitted. "It's strange. Very strange."

Then, just as quickly, her serious expression faded. She grinned and held up the mirror, admiring her reflection. "But gods, would this look divine in my room."

Triss blinked. "What?"

Keira smirked. "I'm keeping it."

Triss pinched the bridge of her nose. "Keira—"

"Oh, don't give me that look," Keira said, waving her hand dismissively. "You came back with chests full of gold and priceless artifacts. You can afford to let me keep a few things."

Before Triss could argue, Keira reached into the sack again, pulling out a crystal perfume bottle, its glass shimmering faintly. She turned it over in her hands, marveling at the design. "This too."

Triss sighed. "Are you just going to loot my entire collection?"

Keira grinned. "Obviously."

Triss shook her head, exasperated but amused. This woman…

Keira examined a candelabra next, her eyes practically sparkling with admiration. "Whoever made these had a divine sense of style. Are you sure they weren't just rich nobles with impeccable taste?"

Triss snorted. "Considering their world was destroyed, I don't think 'rich nobles' quite covers it."

Keira waved a dismissive hand. "Tragic. But their aesthetic? Impeccable."

Triss sighed, sitting on the edge of her bed. "You're seriously just going to use relics from another world to furnish your room?"

Keira smirked. "Unless you'd rather I sell them to the highest bidder?"

Triss groaned. "Fine. Keep what you want. But if you wake up cursed, I will say 'I told you so.'"

Keira laughed, carefully setting the artifacts aside. "Deal."

Triss allowed herself to relax—just for a moment. It was easy to forget, sitting here with Keira, that the world was still changing, that she had stumbled upon something far bigger than she had anticipated.

But as she glanced back at the treasures, at the strange engravings and unfamiliar magic woven into them, the weight of their significance settled back onto her shoulders.

These weren't just trinkets.

And if Yunan had access to them so easily…

Just how much did he know that no one else did?

Toussaint – Yunan's POV

A golden shimmer flickered in the air, and in an instant, Yunan reappeared—right in the middle of a vineyard.

The warm sun of Toussaint bathed the rolling hills in golden light, rows of grapevines stretching as far as the eye could see. The scent of fresh soil, ripe fruit, and sweet summer air surrounded him.

Yunan exhaled, stretching his arms above his head. "Ahh… much better than Kaer Morhen's snow-covered deathtrap."

He adjusted his wide-brimmed hat, scanning the landscape. In the distance, the grand white walls of Beauclair Palace gleamed under the sun, standing tall like a monument of chivalry and excess. Beyond it, the city bustled with life—nobles in extravagant silks, knights in shining armor, and bards singing tales of honor and romance.

It was exactly as he remembered from the games.

Except bigger.

More details, more vibrancy, more life. Toussaint was no mere fantasy—it was a world of its own.

Yunan smirked. "Guess I should head to the lab before someone—"

A loud voice interrupted his thoughts.

"You there!"

He turned his head lazily.

A group of Toussaintois guards, clad in shining silver armor with red plumes atop their helmets, were approaching rapidly. Their ornate swords gleamed in the sun, and their expressions were stern, full of the usual bravado of knights who believed in their own righteousness.

"By decree of Her Grace, Duchess Anna Henrietta, all foreign sorcerers must declare their presence and intent upon arrival!"

Yunan sighed. "I was really hoping to avoid this."

One of the guards stepped forward, gripping the hilt of his sword. "You appeared out of thin air—which means you teleported into Toussaint without proper clearance."

Yunan tipped his hat back slightly. "Correct."

The knight frowned. "Then you admit to violating the Duchess's magical regulations?"

Yunan raised a finger. "I admit to being here." He smirked. "I don't recall signing any laws."

The guards narrowed their eyes, clearly unimpressed.

"I'd rather not cause a scene," Yunan said, raising his hands in mock surrender. "So, let's make this easy. Take me to your Duchess."

The knights hesitated, exchanging glances.

"…Very well," one of them finally said. "You will answer directly to Her Grace."

Two guards stepped forward, gripping his arms as if to restrain him.

Yunan sighed dramatically. "Oh no, how will I ever escape from this?"

The sarcasm went unnoticed.

With the click of armored boots and the clatter of weapons, they began marching toward Beauclair Palace.

Yunan allowed himself to be escorted, enjoying the scenic route.

This was going to be fun.

Beauclair Palace – Anna Henrietta's POV

The grand hall of Beauclair Palace was as breathtaking as ever—soaring marble pillars, vibrant stained-glass windows, and golden chandeliers illuminating the polished floors. A dozen noble courtiers milled about, draped in fine silks and lace, whispering about the latest scandals.

At the heart of it all, upon a grand throne, sat Anna Henrietta, Duchess of Toussaint.

Elegant, fierce, and sharp as a dagger in velvet.

She rested her chin on one hand, her piercing amber eyes locked onto the man standing before her—a rather unusual man.

He was nothing like the mages she was used to. No long flowing robes of the Brotherhood, no extravagant gestures, no air of arrogance. Instead, he stood lazily with his hands tucked into his sleeves, his dark green coat trimmed with gold, his wide-brimmed hat casting a slight shadow over his amused expression.

Yunan.

That was what the guards had called him.

And right now, he looked completely unbothered.

Anna Henrietta sighed. "So this is the sorcerer who appeared in the vineyards?"

A guard saluted. "Yes, Your Grace. He claims to be a mage from Kaer Morhen."

That made her pause.

"Kaer Morhen?" Anna repeated, her brows furrowing. "The ruined keep of the Witchers?"

Yunan smirked. "Not so ruined anymore."

The Duchess's eyes sharpened. "Explain."

Yunan stretched lazily, cracking his neck. "Long story short? Kaer Morhen was falling apart, so I fixed it. Now the Witchers can actually train again instead of freezing to death in a broken castle."

The courtiers gasped.

Anna's fingers tapped against her throne. "You restored Kaer Morhen?"

Yunan shrugged. "Yep."

"That would take an army of stonemasons years."

"Or…" Yunan's grin widened. "One very competent Magi."

Silence.

Anna studied him carefully.

If he was telling the truth, this was huge. The Witchers had been a dying order for decades. If Kaer Morhen had truly been restored, that meant they could rebuild.

And this man had done it alone?

Her mind raced.

A powerful sorcerer, acting outside the control of the Brotherhood? Someone capable of reshaping ruins in mere days?

Dangerous.

But also… useful.

She leaned forward slightly. "And what, exactly, do you want from Toussaint?"

Yunan's smile never wavered. "I need access to Tomas Moreau's laboratory."

The court stirred. Nobles whispered to one another, shocked at the request.

Anna narrowed her eyes. "Moreau's research has been locked away for a reason. His experiments on Witcher mutations were forbidden by the Brotherhood."

Yunan waved a hand. "The Brotherhood doesn't control me."

Anna exhaled through her nose, irritated. "And why do you need his work?"

"For the Witchers," Yunan said simply. "If I can refine his research, I can improve the mutation process—make it safer, make Witchers stronger."

Anna tilted her head, considering his words.

If what he claimed was true, then this could change everything.

But that was a big if.

Finally, she spoke. "I could grant you access…"

Yunan raised an eyebrow. "But?"

Anna smirked. "You will explain everything in those notes. If I allow you into that lab, I expect full transparency."

Yunan chuckled. "Fair enough."

Her eyes gleamed. "And if I find out you're hiding something?"

Yunan's smirk widened. "Then I owe you a favor. A big one."

Anna's lips curled. "I will hold you to that, Magi."

Toussaint's Grand Lake – Yunan's POV

Toussaint was massive.

As Yunan strolled through its winding streets, he couldn't help but admire the city's beauty. The game had never done it justice. The polished marble streets reflected the golden afternoon sun, while vibrant flower arrangements spilled over ornate balconies. The scent of ripe grapes and aged wine drifted through the air, mixing with the sounds of lutes and idle chatter.

It was a land of excess. Perfect.

But it was missing something.

Chaos. Challenge. Wonder.

And Yunan?

He had just the thing.

His destination was a forgotten ruin hidden near Toussaint's Grand Lake—Tomas Moreau's lost laboratory.

With a flick of his wrist, Yunan unraveled the protective wards woven over the entrance. Magic pulsed through the air as the doors creaked open, revealing a long-forgotten workspace frozen in time.

Dust lay thick on the workbenches, but the scent of old parchment and alchemical residue still lingered. Crystals of unknown origin pulsed faintly in their stands, and scattered notes detailed formulas—dangerous ones.

Moreau had been trying to perfect the Witcher mutation process.

And his research?

Brilliant.

Yunan skimmed through the notes, his eyes flicking over complex symbols and equations. "Oh? Now this is interesting…"

Moreau's theory suggested a way to reduce the mortality rate of the Trials while enhancing a Witcher's abilities. Faster reflexes. Stronger bodies. Even greater resistance to magic.

Yunan grinned. "This changes everything."

With a flick of his hand, the notes and key ingredients vanished—stored safely within his pocket dimension.

But he wasn't done yet.

He stepped outside, looking toward the lake.

Toussaint was a land of wine and song. A paradise of knights and poets. But it lacked something vital.

A test.

A trial.

A Dungeon.

Yunan raised his hands, his voice low. "Let's shake things up a little."

Golden Rukh—light-filled butterflies—burst into existence, swirling around him as the air hummed with energy.

The ground shook.

The lake rippled, its waters surging unnaturally.

Then—

Stone erupted from the depths.

A massive fortress of dark obsidian rose, adorned with intricate golden runes that pulsed like a heartbeat. Jagged spires pierced the sky, their inscriptions whispering of ancient power.

The people of Toussaint froze.

The wind carried Yunan's voice across the land, a proclamation woven with magic:

"Hear me, warriors and dreamers alike! Beyond these treacherous halls lies a fate only the bold may claim. Those who dare to conquer the Dungeon shall not walk away as they once were. No, they shall rise—bathed in glory, crowned with riches, and wielding power that shakes the very foundations of the world! Step forth, if you have the courage, for destiny favors the brave!"

His words echoed, carried by forces beyond mortal comprehension.

Toussaint had never seen anything like this.

And then—

He vanished.

Beauclair Palace – Anna Henrietta's POV

The entire court was in chaos.

Nobles and advisors spoke over one another, their voices rising in panic and confusion. The guards shifted uneasily, unsure whether they should be preparing for war or praying to the gods.

Duchess Anna Henrietta sat upon her throne, her grip tight on the golden armrests.

She had just received reports.

A fortress—an impossible structure—had risen from the Grand Lake, towering over Toussaint like something out of myth. The glowing runes that adorned its black stone walls pulsed with alien magic, unlike anything the court's scholars had ever seen.

It was not elven.

It was not Nilfgaardian.

It was not something born of this world.

And now, the man responsible for it stood before her.

Yunan.

The Magi stood at the center of her throne room, arms crossed, a lazy grin playing on his lips, utterly unfazed by the storm of emotions raging around him.

Anna inhaled sharply. "What have you done?"

Yunan chuckled, tilting his hat slightly. "Oh, just… added a bit of excitement to your kingdom."

Her eyes narrowed. "You summoned a fortress in my lands—without my knowledge. Without my permission."

Yunan tipped his hat. "You're welcome."

The court erupted in disbelief.

Anna rose from her throne, descending the steps with a measured grace, stopping just inches from Yunan.

"What is it?" she demanded. "That thing in the lake—what have you done to Toussaint?"

Yunan exhaled, his smirk softening just slightly. "It's a trial, Your Grace. A challenge for those who seek power, glory, and riches beyond imagination."

Anna's amber eyes burned into his. "A trial?"

Yunan nodded. "It's called a Dungeon."

Murmurs of uncertainty rippled through the court. The word meant nothing to them—it carried no weight, no history, no legend.

Anna's jaw tightened. "And what, exactly, is a Dungeon?"

Yunan's golden eyes gleamed. "A place where only the worthy succeed."

The Duchess's expression darkened. "And those who fail?"

Yunan's smile faded just slightly. "Then they weren't meant to walk away."

Gasps echoed through the room.

Anna's fingers curled into a fist. "You expect me to allow this—this thing to exist in my lands, knowing it will claim lives?"

Yunan shrugged. "Lives are claimed every day, Your Grace. On the battlefield. In taverns. Even in your knightly duels of honor." He tilted his head. "At least in the Dungeon, there's a reward."

Anna exhaled through her nose, struggling to keep her temper in check. "You speak as though this is a game."

Yunan's smirk returned. "Isn't life?"

Anna grit her teeth.

The arrogance of this man.

She had no idea what this Dungeon truly was, how it worked, or if it posed a threat to Toussaint. And yet, in Yunan's eyes, it was already decided—a fixture of reality, immovable and untouchable.

She needed more information.

Her voice was sharp as a blade. "You stand in the land of chivalry, Magi. Toussaint is not a place for reckless trials. Here, we uphold five sacred virtues—Valor, Honor, Compassion, Generosity, and Wisdom."

She took a step closer, her voice lowering dangerously. "Tell me, Yunan—does your Dungeon respect these ideals?"

Yunan raised an eyebrow, then smiled.

"Your Grace," he said smoothly, "your knights will have their chance to prove their Valor. Those who fight bravely will be rewarded."

He took a casual step forward, unbothered by the guards tightening their grip on their weapons. "The Honorable will find that the Dungeon does not reward deception or cruelty. Only those who follow the path of righteousness will claim its greatest treasures."

Anna remained silent, listening.

Yunan's eyes glowed faintly. "The Compassionate will find that the Dungeon is more than just a place of battle. There are trials of the heart, moments where one must choose between selfish gain and the well-being of others."

The court hung onto his every word.

Yunan smirked. "As for Generosity… Let's just say that those who hoard their rewards might find themselves lacking when the final challenge arrives."

Anna crossed her arms. "And Wisdom?"

Yunan's smirk widened. "Only the wise will make it to the end."

Silence fell over the court.

Anna hated how convincing he sounded.

Her gaze flickered toward the open balcony, where the massive black fortress loomed in the distance, pulsing with golden runes.

If everything he said was true… then this was more than a simple test.

It was a trial by chivalric code.

"…Toussaint will not fall into chaos over this," she said finally, her voice like steel wrapped in silk. "If you have brought something dangerous upon my people, you will be held responsible."

Yunan placed a hand over his heart, mock-offended. "Me? Cause chaos? I'm hurt, Your Grace."

Anna shot him a look.

And then—

Before anyone could react—

Yunan vanished.

A golden shimmer flickered in the air, and he was gone.

Leaving behind only questions.

And a world forever changed.