The forest trembled under the hooves of a man destined for greatness—or at least, that’s what he kept shouting.

  Reralt, our hero.

  We say “hero” in the most generous possible sense.

  Reralt would have it no other way—

  as long as someone says it, that’s what matters.

  He rode with pride, tall in the saddle, posture unbending.

  His slim, muscular arms gleamed in the morning light, bare beneath a sleeveless leather bodywarmer.

  The secret, of course, was oil.

  Buckets of it.

  Applied each morning with the solemnity of a holy rite—

  to ensure his arms shone brightly enough to draw eyes from a mile away.

  Or so Reralt believed.

  And once Reralt believed something, prying it loose was nearly impossible.

  With every step, his silver hair caught the wind and danced—

  gracefully, almost theatrically—

  as if it meant to weave sunlight and breeze into a performance,

  set to the rhythm of the horse beneath him.

  His legs were wrapped in polished black leather trousers,

  tucked into spotless, high-shined boots.

  His face was smooth, save for a carefully cultivated stubble—

  designed not merely to highlight his cheekbones,

  but to elevate them.

  To draw attention.

  To command awe.

  It was made—very specifically—

  to let them stand out.

  ***

  This particular morning, Reralt rode out from his castle—

  inherited, of course, not earned—

  to look into the needs of his people.

  Normally, a messenger would ride ahead to announce his arrival,

  so the townsfolk could prepare themselves,

  and—as they’d kindly explained to him—

  avoid being too awestruck.

  But this morning, the messenger had suffered a terrible accident.

  It occurred when Reralt decided to hunt a duck in the courtyard.

  With bow in hand and heroic intent, he loosed arrow after arrow—

  hitting everything except the duck.

  He struck two serving wenches on the far side of the courtyard,

  a merchant on the other side of the wall,

  and, unfortunately, the messenger—

  who had the misfortune of standing exactly in the way.

  Reralt would hear nothing of waiting.

  He rode out anyway.

  “Dear people! Subjects!” he declared to no one in particular.

  “I shall face your awe head-on.

  I will bear the uncomfortable feelings it stirs within me!”

  His chamberlain—struck ill that morning—arrived just in time to wave from the manor balcony.

  Or perhaps from the parapets.

  It was hard to say, even with Reralt’s eyesight,

  which was—according to him—mythical.

  “Reralt! Please don’t do anything stupid!” the man shouted after him.

  “Do not worry, my good man!” Reralt called back over his shoulder.

  “I shall behave exactly as usual!”

  There was a pause.

  “Oh crap,” came the distant reply.

  Reralt assumed the chamberlain had stepped in something unpleasant.

  He was probably right—

  at least about the unpleasant part.

  ***

  Reralt enjoyed the ride to the first little town in his realm.

  The sun glinted beautifully off his oiled muscles,

  a small deer nodded politely as it passed,

  and birds seemed to whistle his heroic theme.

  He spotted the village in the distance

  He straightened up in the saddle—just a bit extra—

  and rode in proudly, waving to everyone he passed.

  “So this is what awestruck looks like,” he thought.

  “They’re too overwhelmed to wave back.”

  He even saw a few villagers run into their homes.

  Clearly, they were rushing to fetch loved ones—

  or to faint somewhere more comfortable.

  Suddenly, Reralt stopped.

  Just ahead, a maiden—young, perhaps ten or twelve—

  was cornered by an enormous, horned beast.

  Reralt knew at once what was required.

  He had to demonstrate his superiority.

  He had to protect his people from abomination.

  He dismounted in silence, crouched low,

  and crept forward from cover to cover.

  He knew how to do this.

  His feet, however, had other plans.

  Between cover one and cover two, he slipped—

  and landed flat on his nose.

  But Reralt recovered with grace.

  He rolled—elegantly—

  and by the fourth or fifth roll,

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  he was behind cover again.

  From there, he got a good look at the beast.

  Slime dripped from its maw.

  Its jaws gnawed endlessly—relentlessly.

  It let out a low, menacing sniff.

  Steam curled from its nostrils.

  Its horns were even more massive up close—

  two enormous impalement devices,

  sharpened by nature itself.

  The beast let out a low, bone-chilling moan.

  Reralt made his move.

  As trained.

  As relentless.

  He charged.

  The young maiden turned, startled.

  She was crouched beneath the creature with a bucket,

  collecting its pee.

  “Detestable,” Reralt proclaimed,

  already halfway through unsheathing his blade.

  He reached over his shoulder—

  for his sword. Oiled. Sharpened.

  And very much stuck.

  He bounced on his heels a few times, trying to loosen it.

  Then bent over awkwardly, yanking it free with both hands.

  After a full minute of struggle, he remembered:

  he had forgotten to undo the strap.

  He unbuckled it. Took a breath.

  Centered himself.

  Sword now in hand.

  “Not today, foul abomination!” he declared,

  and swung mightily at the beast.

  From this angle, the creature looked even larger.

  Reralt hesitated—

  then grabbed a nearby bucket, climbed atop it,

  and resumed the proper heroic height.

  “Not today, beast!” he bellowed again—

  and launched into a relentless attack.

  He hacked.

  He slashed.

  He yelled a few things in faux Elvish.

  And after several long minutes of Reralt’s full enthusiasm—

  the beast fell.

  Not dramatically.

  Just sort of… tipped over.

  ***

  “You’re free now, little girl,” Reralt said, sheathing his sword with a flourish.

  “Run to your mother and tell her: Reralt, your lord, has saved you.”

  The girl stood frozen—bloodied, silent, bucket in hand.

  She stared at the fallen beast.

  “White pee,” Reralt muttered knowingly.

  “Luckily I came along.”

  The girl began to sob.

  “No need for tears, little maiden,” he said gently.

  “You can rest easy now—freed from the clutches of the demon.”

  “What will we eat?” the girl cried.

  “This was our last bucket of milk…”

  She looked up at him. Not grateful. Just… tired.

  “Why did you kill our cow?”

  Reralt blinked.

  He turned slowly to look at the black-and-white beast, now very much dead.

  “What is a... cow?”

  “Milk comes from the market. Everybody knows that.”

  He looked at her, pity softening his face.

  “Poor child. Still under its spell.

  It must’ve been a magical demon, whispering lies into your tiny mind.”

  The girl slapped him. Hard.

  Then kicked him in the stomach.

  It hurt more than he’d care to admit.

  He took a few cautious steps back.

  “Well… you’re safe now, maiden.

  I will be on my way. Reralt is needed elsewhere, I’m sure.”

  The girl spat at him.

  Reralt nodded thoughtfully.

  “That must be how they say thank you in this village.”

  He cleared his throat, straightened up,

  and thanked her two or three times in return.

  ***

  Reralt straightened his posture, then bent down to polish his boots with a scrap of the child’s dress.

  A blessing, of course—bestowed through mere contact with his person.

  He turned to face the villagers—or rather, the completely empty street—and raised his voice.

  “Dear subjects! Inhabitants of this filthy, impoverished town!

  You are saved—by Reralt, the one and only! Your prayers have been answered.

  No need for thanks. But if you must, send them to my castle.”

  With a regal nod, he reached to sheath his sword across his back.

  It slipped sideways. He lost his balance, stepped in a pool of blood, and landed flat on his behind.

  “Be very careful here!” he shouted to no one.

  “Demon blood is highly toxic!”

  He rose with wobbly dignity and began limping toward his horse.

  Several villagers peeked out from behind shutters, their faces unreadable.

  Reralt waved solemnly to each of them, as if to say You’re welcome.

  And, as a final gesture of goodwill, he spat once toward every visible house.

  A blessing, in its own way.

  Then he hauled himself back into the saddle, straightened his spine once more,

  and rode out of town without looking back.

  ***

  The first known recording of Reralt’s slaying of the beast comes to us in the form of a ballad, written by the bard Narro under Reralt’s generous patronage.

  While many have questioned the tone of the verses, Reralt himself declared it “a worthy account of my modest glory,” and insisted it be performed nightly.

  as sung (loudly) by Reralt of Givia in five different taverns and one unfortunate funeral

  Let me sing, for boys and men, a tale both proud and sly,

  Of our hero, Witcher Reralt—how he refused to die.

  Yes, he refused to die! No feathers, children, nor small livestock

  Could ever make him cry.

  He rode into town upon his horse, with posture firm and high,

  The birds all chirped a greeting song beneath a clear blue sky.

  He spotted there, without a doubt, a beast with horns and hide!

  With courage vast, he left his steed—“This beast shall not survive!”

  Yes, this beast shall not survive!

  With three bold steps, he charged the thing—so swift, so grim, so fleet!

  “Tomorrow you shall dine in hell—tonight, you are my meat!”

  He swung his sword with strength unmatched—its head flew cleanly off!

  Well… not quite clean. It took eight swings. But still, he looked quite tough.

  Yes, quite extremely tough.

  A girl nearby began to sob—he bowed upon one knee.

  “Fear not, young maid,” said Reralt loud, “for now, you shall be free.”

  She slapped his face and shook her head, “You utter stupid sow…

  Life is hard enough already—and you just killed our cow.”

  Yes, he killed their cow.

  A vicious beast with horns and all—our only milking cow.

  Next… Reralt reveals an ancient pact.

  (Probably not the right person.)