A lone traveler walked across an open road. The cars passed by quietly, leaving trails of light in their wake. But it did not concern the man. His goal was quite clear to himself but no other. Pedestrians looked at him in awe, wondering why such a man walked the streets at this hour. But none posed the question in words. He walked silently, clad in a trench coat of dark grey, with nothing more than a black shirt and jeans underneath. It was not his clothes that gave him away, but his aura of danger and intrigue.
The traveler crossed the street to an abandoned pub. Inside, the musty chairs and rotted bar tables greeted him with solemn contempt, as though the pub itself had expected him. But it was not the pub itself that had drawn him here, rather the very musty billboard, usually posted with missing persons. But since the pub had been emptied, it also served as a place for hiring hitmen, and of course, Witchers.
The days of the Witcher had passed into memory many years ago. Very few carried on the traditions of a monster hunter when the monsters themselves are going extinct. Nonetheless, a small sect of people who knew of the Witchers existence decided to copy their ways. It used to be that Witchers (or Hexers) where taken in as children, subjected to intense alchemical processes, consumed a number of mutagenic compounds and trained relentlessly in both the physical and arcane, to be prepared to face any number of foes. The mutations that followed commonly gave them yellow, catlike eyes, inhuman speed and reflexes, and where rendered sterile.
However, in the more modern age, the Witchers training simply included the physical and magical, with mutations only few could actually consume. The Witcher in the pub, however, had undergone all of the mutations, improved. Wielding a small silver dagger, and a steel knife on his waist, a pistol strapped to his side, he was modern and deadly. He had never received an assignment yet, but hoped to this night.
But there was nothing but missing persons dated years ago. The Witcher shook his head in disappointment, and left the Bar. Walking shortly down the road, he heard a concert playing. Smiling at the music as he walked by, until stopping dead as gunshots rang out in the distance.
The Witcher ran to the stage, to see a man holding up an empty pistol, with hundreds of dead around him. In anger, the Witcher roared, charging. He blasted the man with magic, drawing his knife and slowing to a walk.
The man crawled upon the floor, hopelessly groping the faint, dark surface for his firearm. The innocents he had killed surrounded him like grim obelisks of torment as the Witcher stood above him. He drew a silver knife, spinning it towards the murderer.
"What are you doing?" the murderer croaked in dismay
"Killing Monsters."
The dagger flung down to meet its mark. Above the Witcher, someone in a white cloak watched him. She smiled.
"He is ready. It's time to begin."