Time flew by swiftly.
Having just weathered a brief skirmish back in the alley, Ronan and Frieren now walked at an unhurried pace, following the captain out of the narrow passage.
As they walked, Ronan chatted casually with the captain, and through their conversation, he learned the man’s name was Martin.
He turned out to be the nephew of Viscount Marco, the lord of this territory.
Though his own combat ability wasn’t particularly impressive, having such a well-connected uncle still afforded him a certain standing in the local community.
The armor he wore was a magic tool, and his weapon had been forged from dwarven mithril—dealing with a few common thugs was normally child’s play for him.
Yet today, he’d suffered a complete rout, his armor beaten to ruins, his weapon snapped clean in two.
Even so, despite everything that had happened, Ronan noticed the man’s expression showed no particular trace of sorrow.
Before long, Ronan understood exactly why.
The armor could repair itself.
In a mere ten minutes, every dent and crack had mended back to its original state, without leaving so much as a trace that any battle had ever taken place.
Seeing this.
Ronan fell into thought, musing quietly to himself: “Seems like magic tools are more impressive than I gave them credit for.
Not sure if this one’s a special case, but it’s clearly high-end stuff.” “Stealth.
Enhanced speed.
Self-repair.
Quite the all-rounder.” “As for the ones I bought earlier…
let’s hope six thousand gold coins’ worth doesn’t disappoint me.” Ronan planned to have them properly appraised once he got back—it was too inconvenient to do here.
There was no telling how greedy the viscount might turn out to be, once he got a look at real wealth.
Better not to tempt fate.
People had betrayed one another over far less.
At the thought, Ronan gradually let his mind settle.
Before long, following Martin, he arrived at Viscount Marco’s grand, imposing estate.
Whether word had somehow reached him ahead of time or not, Viscount Marco was already standing outside the estate with an attendant at his side.
Judging by his posture, the middle-aged man before them, blond-haired and blue-eyed, appearing to be in his forties, had to be Viscount Marco himself.
Unlike the typical pampered, portly nobility one might expect.
Viscount Marco’s body was clearly well-muscled, his taut frame filling out the finely tailored noble attire he wore.
The man carried himself with a fierce, almost predatory presence.
So…
it seemed the nobility here weren’t all just idle gluttons living off their wealth.
“Lord Ronan, if you’d please wait just a moment.” Martin came to a stop, giving Ronan a respectful nod, then stepped forward and murmured a few words into Viscount Marco’s ear.
It wasn’t clear what exactly he said, but the expression on Viscount Marco’s face shifted noticeably.
The stern look he’d worn gradually faded, replaced by a flicker of confusion.
His gaze also flicked briefly, discreetly, toward Ronan.
That look seemed to say: “Are you serious?” Martin nodded.
Absolutely certain.
Seeing this.
Viscount Marco took a deep breath and strode forward, his expression flipping as quickly as turning a page, instantly filling with warm, welcoming smiles: “I never imagined that Lord Ronan and Lady Frieren themselves would grace my humble estate today—truly, you honor this house…” He rattled off a string of flattering remarks, then, with the utmost enthusiasm, personally ushered Ronan and Frieren into the estate.
The attendant standing nearby watched, utterly dumbfounded.
Having served his lord for many years, he’d never once seen him behave with such humility.
Even when meeting a certain earl once before, his lord had kept things brief and dignified, maintaining his proper composure throughout.
Not like this—practically throwing his own pride to the ground, going to every possible length to flatter these two guests…
Could they be some kind of royalty?
The attendant could only guess.
Meanwhile, Frieren found herself equally puzzled.
Walking through the estate grounds, she took in the flowers and plants around her, when out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Ronan beside her.
In that instant, her eyes lit up.
As though she’d figured something out.
—Was it because of his strength?
Or was it because of his status?
She couldn’t quite tell.
Frieren’s discreet, watchful gaze didn’t escape Ronan’s notice.
He instinctively turned his head, only to see Frieren swiftly averting her eyes at the exact same moment, feigning indifference.
The two of them continued walking briskly in silence.
From the way their gazes kept slipping past each other, it was clear both had plenty they wanted to say, and yet, in that very moment, both chose to say nothing at all.
“If the two of you would…” Up ahead.
Viscount Marco was rattling on endlessly about the estate’s layout.
But Ronan’s mind was entirely occupied with thoughts of what was to come, leaving him with little attention to spare for the man’s chatter.
By the time they crossed through the courtyard, entered the main building, and reached a lavishly decorated sitting room, Ronan and Frieren settled onto a set of plush sofas.
Before long, several well-trained servants came forward to attend to them.
Steaming cups of black tea were set before them, giving off an inviting aroma.
Ronan took a sip.
Perhaps because Martin had already relayed his request to the viscount beforehand.
The moment Viscount Marco returned, he hurried straight to his study, and moments later emerged with a grimoire in hand.
“I’m afraid I have little worth offering, but I hope the two of you won’t mind.
My deepest thanks for saving my nephew.” Viscount Marco took a seat across from Ronan, his tone outwardly gentle, yet carrying a faint, barely perceptible edge of nervousness.
He solemnly held out the grimoire to Ronan: “I understand Lord Ronan has been collecting rare spells, is that correct?” “As it happens, I have one here myself.” “It’s hardly worth mentioning, but I do hope you won’t turn your nose up at it.” “There will be further gifts of gratitude to follow as well.” In truth, when his nephew had first told him that Ronan was some kind of powerful figure out experiencing life among the common folk, Viscount Marco hadn’t believed a word of it.
As far as he was concerned, with the demon race practically at their doorstep and tensions running this high, no truly powerful figure would have the leisure to do something like that.
But his nephew’s unwavering conviction, even staking his own life on the truth of it, had left Viscount Marco with little choice but to hesitate.
In the end, he’d decided there was no harm in testing the waters—after all, his own life was on the line here.
If he took it lightly and let his guard down, it would be himself and his entire family who paid the price in the end.
And so, if he was to treat Ronan as a genuinely powerful figure, then this gift of gratitude became a matter of the utmost importance.
Offering money outright was clearly out of the question—far too crude, utterly unbefitting someone of Ronan’s supposed stature, and there was no telling whether the man even needed it in the first place.
After turning it over in his mind, he’d concluded that the grimoire his nephew had mentioned was the most fitting choice.
Viscount Marco figured that a powerful figure like Ronan surely wasn’t lacking for grimoires of his own.
And yet, if the man had specifically requested one…
contradictory as it seemed, there had to be some reason behind it.
Taking the elf at his side into account…
perhaps this was merely a pretext.
The real purpose, he reasoned, was to collect treasures through adventuring, then quietly pass them on to the elf—a way of nurturing both her strength, and their relationship, all at once.
Something like some sort of companion-raising game…
Honestly, in all his years alive, this was the first time he’d ever come across something like this.
He couldn’t help but marvel—people of true power really did know how to enjoy themselves; these days, apparently, not even elves were safe from that kind of attention.
Still, thinking it over, there didn’t seem to be any real harm in it, since the elf genuinely was growing stronger because of it.
No need to call it out—if the man wanted to play this particular game, so be it.
Compared to someone like Lord Ronan, his own task now was simple: make sure the man enjoyed himself to the fullest.
With an inward sigh, Viscount Marco felt a faint pang of melancholy settle over him.
Watching Ronan take the grimoire, glance at it only briefly, and immediately hand it over to Frieren beside him…
Viscount Marco thought to himself, quietly satisfied—his suspicions had been right after all.
Good thing he’d exercised such caution and made the right call.