Serious person, who is learning magic in Marvel?

A man is sweating profusely under the scorching sun.

At the end of October, the weather was not too hot. However, working at noon was another concept. He took a carpentry saw and sawed some wooden boards into a suitable shape bit by bit in the courtyard of his home.

Two men on horseback passed by the street corner, and he looked up. One of them had particularly conspicuous white hair. The man stopped working and stared at him carefully. Then, he stopped working.

"The purpose of poetry is to say something that people would never say," He Shenyan said. "If this is indeed what your friend Dandelion said, then he is obviously a smart man."

"Yeah, smart, but the smart part is used in the wrong direction."

Geralt pulled the reins, and Novigrad was as bustling and crowded as ever. Even at noon, the circular square to their right was still crowded with people.

A statue of Lebidaou was placed on the fountain pool, and clear water gushes out from the pre-set outlet. A dozen different vendors are selling different items in their respective locations.

The shouts are endless.

"Used in the wrong direction?"

"Yes... Actually, I very much suspect that Dandelion chose poetry as his main direction because it is very convenient for him. He can always get in touch with some beautiful women, just a few words, and a few words...

poem, and then they can go to bed.”

Geralt described this matter in such a vulgar way that He Shenyan couldn't help but laugh: "Why do I feel that you are jealous?"

"Jealous of him? Come on, He. You've never seen him being chased and beaten by several different women."

They chatted and walked across the square. Several children ran across the stone road barefoot, with smiles on their dirty faces. One of them was fascinated by Geralt's white hair and cat eyes. He stood there blankly.

The ground was motionless - it was in the middle of the road.

Geralt raised his hands in a threatening gesture: "Get aside, kid! Don't block the way!"

"Why are you carrying two swords on your back?" The child asked in confusion. "Is one sword not enough? I think all soldiers only need one sword."

"Because he is a demon hunter, kid." He Shenyan replied patiently. "A silver sword is used to conquer demons and eliminate demons. A steel sword is used to protect yourself."

"Witcher!"

The child suddenly realized: "No wonder you carry two swords! A demon hunter has come to Novigrad!"

He cheered and ran away as if he had encountered some great happy event. Geralt was too late to stop him, and what was even worse was that the children now started shouting this sentence in unison.

"A witcher has come to Novigrad!"

They shouted, running through the streets and alleys, from the cobbled squares to the squalid shantytowns made of wooden planks. And they didn't stop: "A witcher is coming to Novigrad."

!”

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"A witcher has come to Novigrad?"

Hearing this, Alphonse Willy raised his head in surprise. He was originally reading a newspaper. Now he put it down. On the open page, there was written in big black letters: "Nilfgaard"

People don’t retreat without a fight!”

"Yes, boss."

The guy who brought him the information looked like a skinny monkey. He was wearing a dirty open-chested shirt, and his arms were swinging restlessly at his sides. Behind him, two bulky bodyguards were standing on one side.

Surround him on the right.

The thin monkey was sweating profusely and nodded repeatedly: "White hair, two swords on his back - what I told you is absolutely correct."

Alphonse Willie, the Novigrad gang leader known as ‘Hawthorne’ (raised by his cousin) nodded thoughtfully: “Okay, I understand.”

He waved his hand, and two bodyguards walked up quietly and took the thin monkey out of his office door. The place became quiet again.

Hawthorne didn't care about the sour smell left by the thin monkey in his incense-lit office. In his opinion, it would be strange if the thin monkey didn't have that smell. Not to mention those low-level gangsters, they had to take a shower.

You don't even have to wear shoes.

However, after today, he should be able to have enough food and new clothes. This is one of the rewards for bringing information to Hawthorne.

Thirty years have passed since 1234 to 1264. He has not forgotten the demon hunter who came to his office and killed everyone when he was young, and almost beat him to death.

Never forget it for a moment.

Now, he already has a son, and he is already sixty-two years old. At such an advanced age, he could have retired and given up his position to his son, 'Hawthorne II', but he did not.

Old Hawthorne knew very well what kind of virtue his son was.

If he is a cruel and ruthless scumbag with sadistic tendencies, then his son is an enhanced version of the bastard, even worse than his father. The most important point is that old Hawthorne knows that his

The son never knows what not to do.

And he knows.

He neatly folded the newspapers and put them aside. Then he opened the drawer of his expensive mahogany desk and pulled out a thick stack of documents. They were house deeds, bank deposit certificates, and some people 'voluntarily' wrote to him

debt guarantee letter.

Old Hawthorne took out a copy from it. He didn't even count it, as if he knew the location of the document.

The sentence written in black and white above is brief but clearly written.

"I, Walpole Roy, on November 7, 1248, mortgaged three properties in Bishop's Square to Mr. Alphonse Willey to pay off gambling debts."

In one sentence, tens of thousands of crowns of money were condensed on this document. Old Hawthorne looked at the document with deep eyes. He stretched out his right hand, flexed his index finger, and tapped the table three times.

The door was opened again.

A lean man walked in. He was tall and bald. He was clean shaven, and the nails on both hands were neatly trimmed. There was no decoration on his clothes, just a simple set of civilian clothes.

"Where are the people from the Sharp Sword Regiment?" asked old Hawthorne.

"It's all done, sir. They bring more people and more money each time."

The man bowed slightly and answered.

"money?"

Old Hawthorne snorted coldly: "You come to Novigrad with money and want me to help them sell people? Go to hell. They are a bunch of bastards without buttholes. If the goddess Meriteri really exists, why don't you sell this person to Novigrad?

Help the bastard to be hacked to death."

The man listened quietly to him swearing, motionless, like a solidified sculpture.

Old Hawthorne cursed for a while and then stopped. This was not some low-level vocabulary contest. He put the document on the table and pushed it back. The man immediately stepped forward and took it.

"Go to Walpole Roy. Tell him to let him and his beggars find a white-haired witcher. Once found, the three houses in the Lord's Square will be returned to their original owners."

"Understood, sir."

"Besides, Jack... let the words out, don't let that smart-alecked idiot do anything to the demon hunter, understand? I have something to do with him, not to kill him."

"Understood, sir."

Jack bent slightly again, then immediately turned around and left Hawthorne's office. He closed the heavy solid wood door lightly with one hand, and even withdrew his strength so that it didn't make much sound.

Hawthorne leaned on his chair and put the files back into the drawer. He stood up. His back was no longer as straight as when he was young, and his face had become much older, but his eyes looked older than when he was young.

Much wiser.

"A bunch of bastards," he muttered to himself. "They're all going to die."

He suddenly became furious, his old face twisted into a ferocious look in an instant, his wise eyes disappeared, and he once again returned to the irritable look of his youth.

Hawthorne roared: "They all must die!"

－－－－－－Digression－－－－－

There are three more chapters.

Damn it, I got off work early today, and I wanted to write early. But the damn network came to install broadband and unplugged my telecommunications network cable...

Please ask a broadband technician to come over and fix it. Ridiculous.