Some time later.
“What—twenty-three magic tools?!” Inside a shop specializing in appraising magical items, tucked away in the bustling market district.
The shopkeeper stared at the items Ronan and Frieren had brought in, utterly stunned.
Had he seen this kind of thing before?
(scratch that) No, he genuinely hadn’t.
Twenty-three pieces.
And every last one of them looked like an ancient magic tool…
Though plenty of adventurers had come by before with similar items for appraisal, most of it had been damaged goods, or fairly recent craftsmanship at best.
Mages, after all, were an extraordinarily rare breed across the entire world.
Take the Northern Continent alone—there were only a little over three hundred of them, all told.
And crafting a magic tool required not only a mage skilled in the art of forging, but also deep mastery of the corresponding spell itself.
With such demanding conditions stacked against it, magic tools remained exceptionally precious and rare.
Whatever normally trickled into the market tended to be pieces from a few decades to a century or two old, at most.
But what sat before him now…
items from a thousand years ago—a full twenty-three of them.
Even with the ruins nearby, this was still an absurd amount!
As thoughts churned through his mind, a quiet flicker of greed began to stir—nothing so extreme as robbery, of course.
Simply the realization that, since these two had come to him for appraisal, it meant they clearly had no way of assessing the magic themselves.
This was a golden opportunity born of an information gap, one he had to make the most of.
Even if he could only squeeze a few hundred gold coins out of it, that would set him up comfortably for years!
As these thoughts flashed through his mind, the shopkeeper’s face instantly filled with an obsequious, flattering smile.
He rubbed his fingers together and looked at Ronan: “My, aren’t you a lucky customer.” “Please, rest assured—our humble shop has always operated on principles of honesty and integrity.
We’ll provide you with the most sincere, most professional service available.” “Might I ask, would you like all twenty-three magic tools appraised together?” Ronan said nothing, instead turning to look at Frieren.
Frieren nodded lightly.
“Yes.” Seeing this, the shopkeeper’s excitement surged like a rising tide.
Still, he forced himself to remain composed, accepting the commission with a practiced smile.
“One moment, please.” He turned and disappeared into the dim room behind the counter, emerging shortly after with a grimoire in hand.
Just as he opened it, preparing to cast the appraisal spell, Ronan suddenly spoke up: “Wait.
That grimoire of yours—is it for sale?” He’d nearly forgotten about something.
Since every spell was recorded in a grimoire anyway, why not just learn it himself and become self-sufficient?
Constantly relying on someone else was such a hassle, and there was no telling whether their skill was even any good.
With his cheats active, he was, without question, an absolute genius.
Any spell, the moment he picked it up, he could put to immediate use—more skillfully than even seasoned veterans.
Hearing this, the shopkeeper froze completely.
He was certain he’d misheard.
His right hand, halfway through casting the spell, hung frozen in midair.
Sell it?
Was this some kind of joke?
This was his livelihood—if he sold it, how was he supposed to make a living?
He’d opened this shop three months ago, and in that time, he’d earned about thirty gold coins total, with rent as his only real expense…
If he sold the grimoire, his income would take a massive hit.
Was this some rival shopkeeper coming here deliberately to stir up trouble?
He stared hard at Ronan.
The more he looked, the more it seemed to fit.
The shopkeeper let out a cold snort, his tone thick with irritation: “Don’t joke with me, sir.
This spell is absolutely not for sale, not even for three hundred gold coins.” “Three hundred?
That cheap?” Ronan looked somewhat surprised.
He wasn’t surprised by the shopkeeper’s attitude—he was surprised that the man had just casually revealed the rock-bottom price for the appraisal spell.
That wasn’t even that expensive.
Ronan was about to say something further, but on the other side, the shopkeeper had gone into a panic of his own.
—Three hundred?
Cheap?!
Did this kid have any concept of what money was worth?!
Narrowing his eyes, he did some quick mental math and decided to try raising the price: “Three hundred was the old rate.
Now that the ruins have turned up, there’ll only be more magic tools flooding the market from here on.” “Five hundred gold coins.
I won’t go below five hundred.” Inside, he was thinking: cheap, was it?
I’ll show you cheap.
Wealthy outsiders like this didn’t come around often these days.
It would be a genuine shame not to fleece him for all he was worth.
Ronan had no idea about any of the shopkeeper’s roundabout scheming, and genuinely had no sense of local prices either, so he was just about to respond.
But right at that moment, Martin—standing outside the door, serving as their guide and guard—had had enough.
Bang!
He kicked the door open, eyes blazing with fury, and bellowed: “You scheming merchant, I’ve put up with you long enough!” “These two are distinguished guests of the Viscount himself—is this really how you do business?” Martin was practically shaking with anger.
Thank goodness he’d been present today.
Because if Ronan had been swindled by this crooked shopkeeper, he himself would have been the first to suffer the consequences.
After all, as their guide, he’d have utterly failed in his duty.
He didn’t stop to question why Ronan might have been vulnerable to being cheated in the first place.
In his mind, someone as important as Ronan—the kind of man who could drop several gold coins on a single meal without a second thought—being unfamiliar with local prices was only to be expected.
The fault lay entirely with this scheming shopkeeper.
He absolutely had to be punished, severely!
With that, before the shopkeeper could even process what was happening, Martin drew his longsword and stormed into the shop, radiating menace.
At that moment, the shopkeeper finally panicked.
Wait—distinguished guests of the Viscount?
No one had told him that!
He was done for.
He’d stepped in something serious now.
Replaying his own earlier behavior in his mind, the shopkeeper’s face turned ashen.
Though he was an outsider himself, doing business in this city meant falling under the jurisdiction of the local nobility.
Staring at the gleaming blade now pressed against his throat, the shopkeeper swallowed hard, his throat painfully dry.
Wearing the most wretched expression imaginable, he forced a smile toward Martin, stammering out: “That—that’s, Lord Martin, I truly didn’t mean any harm.” “Please—please forgive me just this once, for the sake of all the favors I’ve paid you in the past.” “Favors…
right, favors!
This appraisal grimoire—no charge at all!
I’ll gladly gift it to these two distinguished guests, out of my own pocket!”