Ronan glanced at Frieren.
Her expression was calm, with no sign at all that she intended to leave with Serie.
He turned back to Serie.
“Killed for nothing, maybe.
But that’s just your opinion.” “Have you even asked Frieren what she thinks?” Serie didn’t bother asking.
As the strongest mage in existence, she’d always done exactly as she pleased.
Faced with Ronan’s question now, she didn’t feel like answering either.
Seeing him refuse to back down, she flicked a hand and launched a bolt of magic power, ready to simply take Frieren by force.
But— The next instant.
Bang.
With a crisp snap, the bolt scattered into nothing, as easily as flicking away a speck of dust.
Serie froze.
Her eyes snapped up.
“You—!” What the hell — a human?
Even a monster wouldn’t have that kind of body.
She’d only put about one percent of her magic power into that shot, and condensed like that, it could’ve shattered diamond with ease.
Yet here she was, stumbling in front of some insignificant human.
Ready to strike again, she let her cold magic power surge without restraint.
The power rolled outward like a tidal wave, spreading in every direction with Serie at its center.
Its sheer volume was enough to bend reality itself, sweeping everything nearby aside.
But right then, Frieren showed a stubbornness she’d never displayed before.
Some elf appears out of nowhere claiming to be her elder, and just like that, decides to drag her off?
Sure, the woman was powerful — but did that give the strong the right to decide other people’s choices, other people’s lives?
Since when did elves have someone this shameless throwing their weight around?
Frieren summoned her staff, taking a stance to fight alongside Ronan.
“Who exactly are you?
Why are you trying to stop us from exploring the ruins?” The question caught Serie off guard.
Why?
Obviously because she was afraid of this brat— …Wait.
Only now did it dawn on her, belatedly, that there was a gap between how Ronan looked and how he actually performed.
She narrowed her eyes, suspicion flickering in her eyes, forcibly pulling herself out of her battle-ready stance.
She fixed Ronan with a cold stare, sharp as a blade, as if trying to see straight through him.
“Are you messing with me?” “Messing with you?” Talk about unfair — Ronan smiled.
“Where’s that coming from?
I never provoked you.
You’re the one who attacked first, start to finish.” By then, the howling winds around them had begun to die down, the residual magic power fading away.
Ronan glanced sideways at Frieren, and seeing how she’d sided with him, warmth filled his eyes.
He went on: “Well…
at most I’ve got a bit of pocket change.
Nothing worth mentioning.” “I’d like to ask something myself, though.
Elf lady — why do you care so much about Frieren?
Just because she’s an elf?” “…” Serie fell silent.
She had no answer to that.
She wasn’t the kind of elf who ignored reason.
Besides, losing her composure in front of a youngster wasn’t exactly dignified.
So, after a brief silence, Serie gradually calmed herself and offered the two of them a quiet apology.
At the same time, worried about Frieren being swayed by a human, she spoke in a low, deliberate voice: “I’m Serie, Archmage of the elves.
Frieren, you must have heard my name before.” “I was born in the Mythic Era, and I’ve mastered the vast majority of magic in this world.” “Judging by what I just saw, you must be a mage too.” “So, seeing as you’re one of my own kind and clearly no coward, as a form of compensation — Frieren, would you become my disciple?” With that, she shot a pointed glance at Ronan, clearly meaning something by it, and continued: “Human lives are far too short.
Only elves can truly rely on one another.” “It’s been a long time since I’ve found a worthy successor.” “For the sake of our people, Frieren — come, join me.”