Ronan told her his name.
Although he felt the name Frieren sounded somewhat familiar, as if he’d heard it somewhere before, he didn’t dwell on it.
Because whether he’d heard it or not, today was still their first meeting, and knowing her name beforehand wasn’t going to make her like him any more.
So, after their brief exchange came to an end, Frieren’s guard gradually began to lower.
She stood in place, thinking for a moment, then extended a pale finger and pointed in a direction with a hint of hesitation: “It should be over there—our village.” Seeing this, Ronan nodded lightly.
He knew this was a judgment the girl had made purely on instinct, one that might not be entirely accurate, but he didn’t care whether it was accurate or not.
Worst case, he’d use Flight—he’d find Frieren’s home one way or another.
As for right now…
never mind.
He didn’t understand this world’s power hierarchy yet, and he didn’t want to frighten a child.
…
After searching for a while, a small village faintly came into view up ahead.
Perhaps due to the terrain and the era, seen from a distance, it looked like something straight out of the Middle Ages.
The woods, the stream, the barking of dogs—it all gave Ronan a rustic, unadorned feeling.
Before they’d gotten close.
Because they were moving too fast, and worried she might fall behind, Frieren—who Ronan was carrying on his back—suddenly raised a finger and spoke: “It’s just ahead.
Seems like we’re pretty lucky.” Ronan, who had been flying along, slowed his pace.
Frieren continued, “Do you want to rest for a bit?
Come to think of it, are you a warrior?” “I’ve seen some elven warriors before, but none of them seemed anywhere near as fast as you.” “Did you cast some kind of magic?” “Magic?” Ronan’s brow arched slightly.
Before he could answer, Frieren suddenly remembered something and hurriedly added: “Oh right, put me down in a bit.
Our village isn’t very welcoming toward humans.” “They won’t chase you off on their own, but it’d be bad if it caused some kind of misunderstanding.” The elves’ sense of time differed somewhat from that of humans, so they tended to be quite slow to notice changes in the outside world.
Many of them were still stuck in the mindset of a thousand years ago, when elves were traded as commodities.
It was during that very era that a genius unmatched through the ages was born among the elves.
She’d walked, in a matter of decades, a path that would take others centuries or even millennia to complete, reaching the very peak of magical attainment in the world.
With her presence anchoring them, the elves’ situation had improved somewhat—no one dared provoke them so carelessly anymore.
But even so, unfortunate incidents still occurred from time to time.
After all, no authority could watch over every corner of the world, and human greed could never truly be satisfied.
Ronan nodded gently, understanding Frieren’s concern.
Once they neared the village, he set Frieren down.
Frieren straightened out her clothes, then walked briskly toward the village.
Ronan watched her go, waiting in place for a short while, until he saw her return with an elderly elf in tow.
This elder had the bearing of an immortal sage—one look was enough to tell he was exceptionally wise, having lived for at least several thousand years.
Upon seeing Ronan, he’d originally only intended to offer his thanks, since the village’s situation hadn’t been good lately, and food was in short supply.
Even with Ronan having brought little Frieren back safely, given the state of the whole tribe, there was no way he could make the absurd decision to let him stay here.
At most, he’d send him off with a few grimoires.
But then the elder elf looked more closely, and his eyes fell on the longsword slung across Ronan’s back.
In that instant, his previously narrowed eyes went wide, and an expression of disbelief flickered across his face.
“This…” “This is…” Then, walking up to stand before Ronan, he lowered his head slightly and spoke with reverence: “I never imagined you would be the Hero, my lord.” “Why would you be here, of all places?” “Could it be that you’re searching for companions to defeat the Demon King?” As he spoke, before Ronan could even react, the elder elf pulled Frieren over, gesturing for her to bow her head slightly so as not to appear discourteous.
Frieren was startled as well.
The Hero?
Him?
What was going on?
Though still young, Frieren had heard the legends of the Hero before.
It was said he existed for the sole purpose of defeating the Demon King—a terrifying being born a thousand years ago, the sovereign of the demon race.
The demon race was evil, bloodthirsty, and utterly without humanity, leaving ruin in their wake wherever they went; everyone had the right to strike them down.
The Demon King’s notoriety, above all, was infamous.
Over the past several centuries, no shortage of heroes and champions had challenged him, but without exception, every single one had failed.
The reason for their failure was that none of them possessed the Hero’s Sword.
According to the storybooks, the Hero’s Sword was the symbol of the true Hero.
Only a Hero who wielded the Hero’s Sword could defeat the Demon King.
But unfortunately.
For all this time, no one had ever managed to draw the Hero’s Sword.
This state of affairs had only made the demon race more rampant.
Centuries ago, they had already assembled a great army and begun seizing human territory without restraint.
By now, no small number of elven homelands had also suffered massacre, and many elves had been forced into displacement.
Though Frieren dearly wished she could protect her own people, just like the protagonists in those storybooks.
Unfortunately, she was still far too young, and did not yet possess sufficient strength.
Until she grew up, she had only ever regarded the tales of the Hero as legend.
She never expected…
Quietly studying Ronan, Frieren looked him over for a long while but couldn’t find anything about this human that resembled a hero.
At most, being human, his looks were no less striking than an elf’s.
As for everything else…
there was nothing.
Frieren couldn’t make sense of it, and Ronan was even more bewildered.
How had he inexplicably turned into the Hero?
Was this really one of those cliché worlds where anyone with the slightest bit of insight could pick the Hero out of a crowd at a glance?
Had he turned into some arrogant chosen-one protagonist?
That couldn’t be right.
Wait…
thinking about it carefully, Feng Ling Yue Ying as a cheat was more powerful than some so-called golden finger.
Becoming that kind of chosen-one type wasn’t impossible, but…
Just as Ronan was pondering this, the elder elf seemed to notice the confusion on both their faces and got straight to the crucial point: “May I ask, my lord Hero, where did you obtain the Hero’s Sword on your back?” “Might I take a look at it?” Hearing the words “Hero’s Sword,” realization dawned on Ronan.
Part of him wanted to refuse, because he really wasn’t any kind of hero—who knew if this sword was even the real thing?
But the man had put it so plainly…
“…” Letting out a soft sigh, Ronan removed the longsword from his back and handed it to the elder elf, saying helplessly: “I picked this sword up along the road.
Really, I just found it.” “I know you might not quite believe that, but that’s exactly what happened.” “I believe you.” The elder elf took the sword, speaking each word with solemn gravity.
His eyes carefully studied the patterns etched into the blade.
It seemed as though he were murmuring to himself, but in truth he couldn’t help but marvel: “The Hero would never lie.
Whatever the Hero says must surely be true.” “It’s said that legendary swords possess spirits of their own, capable of choosing their masters.
Such a thing is far from impossible.” Clang.
He gave the blade a light flick with his finger, his eyes—brimming with deep meaning—fixed unwaveringly on Ronan, his tone brooking no doubt.
“I stake my two thousand years and more of life experience on this: this sword is, without question, the true Hero’s Sword.” Well.
With things having been said to this degree, even if he wasn’t the Hero, he was the Hero now.
The real problem was—he genuinely didn’t want to be the Hero at all.
Now, who exactly was it that had left this Hero’s Sword lying around…
Oh right.
It was me.
Never mind, then.