Our Family Has Fallen

Lance was unaware of the feud between Amanda and Sela, nor did he care. In fact, he had just deliberately leaked information to draw Sela’s attention.

Low-concentration potions could be consumed through Hamlet’s channels, but high-concentration healing potions were not something the average person could afford.

Meanwhile, the Romani’s channels catered to the Transcendents and the wealthy. Lance needed their help to break into the market and also required their guarantee.

There’s no future in cutting chaff; Lance was already prepared to ruthlessly exploit the rich men’s gold coins.

Another consideration was that Lance had decided to establish ’new medicine,’ which would inevitably provoke a backlash from the Association of Healers.

Lance could maintain control within Hamlet’s territory, but outside this area, he did not trust other medical-related channels, as all of those bastards were connected to the association.

The interest groups formed over centuries are not so easily toppled, so it’s still necessary to use the Romani as a façade, letting them earn some is fine, and in any case, Lance was making full use of Romani intelligence for free.

Others had to pay for filtered intelligence, but he could obtain firsthand information. This was Amanda’s value, and it justified the significant investment Lance had made in her.

Geralt remained silent, and Lance did not waste words, directly taking people to the sanatorium nearby.

"Five bottles of advanced healing potion, another five bottles of strengthening potion, plus antidotes, hemostatic bandages..."

Lance rattled off a long list as if he were ordering from a menu, and Grendel, upon hearing this, couldn’t help but focus her gaze on Geralt, seemingly aware that the plan was encountering issues, but she said nothing more, quietly turning to fetch the medicines.

"You know about Hamlet’s recent operations; most supplies go to the front lines. These items have limited production; it’s all we can provide."

"No, no, these items are too important. It’s I who owe My Lord."

Geralt was aware of the value of these potions and medical tools, and therefore understood their incredible worth.

He previously had some healing-effect potions, but they were left to him by a magician friend, and a single bottle would be worth hundreds of gold coins.

Those potions helped him survive several near-death experiences, evidencing their value. But that was merely the cost of materials; hiring someone to craft them required extra, even if wealth couldn’t obtain such life-saving items.

And now, at My Lord’s mere word, so much was entrusted to him — worth thousands of gold coins — and these were things money couldn’t buy, exclusively supplied to the Honor Guard.

Upon hearing this, Lance merely waved his hand with a smile. "Between friends, there’s no talk of debts. If you can’t help someone in difficulty, what’s the point of friendship?"

These words from My Lord left Geralt silent, but emotions surged uncontrollably within him.

Why he initially decided to stay after learning about Hamlet’s situation, he could barely recall. What he did remember vividly was the feel of a bag of gold coins being handed over with remarkable ease — an unforgettable weight in his hand.

In his time at Hamlet, he had undergone the most unique experiences of his long life, with an endless stream of new things that sometimes even made him feel caught off-guard by the pace of the times.

Unlike anywhere else, Hamlet lacked the stifling rules leading to stagnation, instead bursting with pure passion and vitality.

There was also an incomparable sense of belonging because here, he could be acknowledged.

He roamed the continent, tracking the trails of monsters to protect humanity against these creatures.

But people regarded Witchers as villains that provoke monsters, believing they extorted ordinary people, or simply refused to pay their bounties.

Lags and withholdings were the least of it; some folks had the courage to strike Witchers but not the creatures.

Some Witchers didn’t fall to monsters but were killed by despicable humans.

To some extent, the Witchers’ poor reputation had reasons in those people, only proving how corrupt this world was, rotten to the core.

Sometimes, even Geralt wondered about his existence’s meaning. But in Hamlet, he received positive feedback for his actions.

Once people knew he was an instructor for the Honor Guard, they thanked him for his efforts for Hamlet, even without knowing the details.

Passersby would greet him; soldiers would salute him. Even the drunks in taverns and the prostitutes in brothels showed him respect.

The reverent looks gave him an unprecedented sense of fulfillment; it was a testament to his self-worth.

Let alone that My Lord granted ample bounty, he had a habit of carrying all his money, but there came a time when it was untenable — the money was excessive, hindering his actions, necessitating an account instead.

What brought about all these changes was My Lord. Geralt firmly believed that this was the hope for humanity’s future, not those fallen feudal lords, nor the various chaotic organizations, nor those religions.

Grendel soon returned with the items, though they amounted to a lot, they actually fit into a small cloth bag.

This backpack-like cloth bag was designed by My Lord, available in multiple styles: double-shoulder, single-shoulder, and waist pouch. The better ones were leather, the lesser waxed waterproof canvas, and of course, the cheapest were simply burlap.