[ Geralt's eyes don't quite roll, but it's close. He tips back his drink while Michael goes on about it. ] I'm aware. I've read the scripture and its accompanying notes.

[ And evidently, he's grown weary of the constant presence of a theology that has no application to him. Other than his association with Dean.

The humans are not created by anyone, for him. They curried no favour. They fell onto the Continent, same as every other species and monster, and claimed it for themselves. Now the elves wish to claim it back. Perhaps in another century, the dwarves will see fit to do similar. Who knows? His world has never seen peace for long.

He leaves the matter of souls alone with a shrug. Souls, too, have no bearing for him. He doesn't believe in the existence of something that grants a conscience or humanity. People are far more complicated than that. Did the men who set fire to Kaer Morhen not have children they loved and mothers they grieved?

Even Voleth Meir only wanted to return home. ]

It's not what I am. [ The answer comes simply. ] I don't see why I should wish to be likened to humanity. There are plenty of monsters amongst their ranks.