Having received Ronan’s promise, the village chief was overjoyed, the wrinkles on his face smoothing out, his eyes brimming with relief and anticipation.
Though he didn’t hold out much hope for how much food Ronan could actually bring back, the mere fact that the man had this kind of good will was enough to prove he hadn’t misjudged him.
No ordinary human would have this kind of awareness—at most, they’d offer some small help and call it done.
Little did he know, the elves didn’t actually need any of that.
Faced with such long lifespans, virtually any trouble could eventually be resolved.
Except for one thing.
Money.
And so, wanting to demonstrate the elves’ generosity, the chief hurried back to his own house and brought out a grimoire.
He handed the grimoire to Ronan, meaning for him to sell it should he ever find himself short on funds.
As a spell from the mythic age, it should, barring any surprises, fetch quite a considerable sum.
Ronan looked somewhat puzzled.
He glanced at the grimoire, then at the chief, his expression asking silently…
Wasn’t this just money?
So why would the elves…
“To be honest with you.” Before Ronan could even voice the question in his mind, the chief explained with a note of regret: “We elves aren’t very skilled at trading, and we’re not particularly sharp when it comes to money.” “There was once a case where a spell worth ten thousand gold was sold for a mere five hundred.” “Ever since then, we gave up trying to earn money by selling off spells.” “After all…
spells on the market have never really had a fixed price to begin with.” “This is one of my own personal collection—created three thousand years ago, at the very dawn of the mythic age, by a Great Mage of our people.” The chief’s gaze settled earnestly on Ronan, his tone grave.
“Lord Ronan, please accept it.
The future of our village rests entirely on you now.” “As a human, I believe you’ll be able to make the most of this grimoire’s true value.” The words carried such weight that Ronan couldn’t help but feel a little embarrassed.
He took the grimoire and nodded: “There’s no need to speak so gravely, Village Chief.
Please, don’t worry.” “Since it’s an antique from three thousand years ago, no doubt plenty of mages would be interested in it.” “Of course, if it can be avoided, it’s probably best not to sell it at all—this is part of your village’s collection, isn’t it?” “Losing it would be quite a heavy blow, surely.” Three thousand years ago—just thinking about it made the timespan feel impossibly distant.
To Ronan’s eyes, going by real-world history, that would place it somewhere around the Shang or Zhou dynasty, at the very least.
Even relics from the Spring and Autumn period would seem trivial by comparison.
Though this world had none of those actual dynasties, the sheer weight of history still felt undeniable.
Yet just as Ronan was lost in his own musings, the chief waved a hand dismissively: “No, no, no—it’s merely something from three thousand years ago.
In terms of age, it’s only a little older than I am; to me, it’s nothing particularly precious.” “It’s only because it’s regarded as a legendary spell that I brought it out at all.” “And besides, this isn’t even the original from three thousand years ago—just a copy.” “I still have two or three more back home.
If it ever comes to it, I could make a few more copies…” “But out of respect for the unspoken understanding among mages, I’ve held off on doing that.” “There’s no need for you to worry over it.” “Lord Ronan.” At these words, Ronan fell into a long silence.
How had a three-thousand-year-old antique just been described as…
some ordinary keepsake?
Well, damn.
So this was how elves saw the world?
Ronan felt his eyes truly opened.
At last, he understood why a spell worth ten thousand gold had ended up selling for a mere five hundred.
If someone lived to be a hundred years old, they’d naturally look down on something from a hundred and ten years ago.
Because to them, it was practically brand new—something they’d grown up seeing.
But to people with normal lifespans, something from a hundred and ten years ago was already ancient history—far from common, something you might be lucky to lay eyes on even once in your life.
At the thought, Ronan shook his head with a sigh of admiration.
Well, never mind.
Whatever the elves’ perspective might be, he was certain a spell from three thousand years ago held tremendous value.
A legendary spell—he couldn’t even begin to imagine what it might actually look like.
…
After the chief left, Ronan put the grimoire away and stepped out of the house, wandering leisurely through the village.
Bread in hand, he walked and ate at the same time, savoring the rare peace and quiet, the scenery before him as lovely as ever.
Before long, he’d finished the bread and headed back to the house.
Checking the sky, it looked to be around nine in the morning, yet Frieren still hadn’t gotten up.
Ten o’clock came.
Then eleven.
Finally, some noise stirred upstairs.
First came the faint sound of someone turning over, followed by a series of soft mumbles and groans, as though someone were rolling around endlessly in bed, locked in battle with their blanket.
At noon, close to lunchtime, Ronan finally saw Frieren emerge, hugging a pillow, ears drooping, slowly pushing the door open and stepping out.
Creak…
the wooden door swayed with a faint groan as she walked through it, her eyes still heavy with sleep, narrowed to thin slits.
Her tousled hair didn’t make her look unkempt at all—if anything, it made her look even more adorable.
Seeing this, Ronan, who’d been reading in the living room, smiled.
“So even elves have days when they can’t get out of bed?” Hearing his voice, Frieren looked down toward him.
Yet that small motion alone drained every last bit of energy from her body.
Curled up like a little cat rolled into a ball, she retorted, her voice tinged with drowsy laziness: “You’re the one who got up too early.
I’m an elf, you know—sleeping ten-something hours a day is nothing unusual for me.” “By the way, what are you doing?” “Reading.
The chief gave me this book this morning—said it’s a legendary spell.” Ronan held up the grimoire in his hand, gesturing toward Frieren.
At that, Frieren froze for a moment.
“A legendary spell?” Instantly, most of the drowsiness drained from her, as though she’d caught a whiff of catnip—she leapt straight from the second floor down to the first, tossing the pillow in her hands aside without a second thought.
She hurried over to Ronan, asking curiously: “Is that true?” “I’ve heard vague mentions of it before, but isn’t that supposed to be one of the chief’s treasured possessions?” “Why would he give it to you?” Ronan smiled: “Not sure, myself.
Maybe it’s because he took one look at my handsome, dashing self and figured I had the bearing of a savior.” Inwardly, Frieren rolled her eyes at him—what an arrogant thing to say.
She didn’t believe that for a second.
Something must have happened between the two of them that morning.
But what could it possibly be?
She really wanted to know, because this was a legendary spell they were talking about.
As the most magically talented elf in the entire village, whenever she’d wanted to learn it before, the chief had always found every excuse to stop her, acting as though refusing her was somehow for her own good.
She genuinely couldn’t figure out the reason behind it.
Drawing closer to Ronan, Frieren unconsciously brushed past his earlier remark and, after a brief pause, continued: “So, from what you’ve read so far, do you know what spell is recorded in it?” “I do.” Ronan tilted his head slightly and nodded.
“If my translation is correct, it should be—the spell known as ‘Flameless Fire.'”