"You like these things?" Ronan asked, following Frieren's gaze to a small, inconspicuous stall tucked between larger ones. Unlike the boisterous vendors, this one was quiet, with a cluttered display of objects on worn velvet.
He didn't recognize the tools , bottles, jars, and sticks? The jars and bottles looked like antiques, with intricate etchings and dusty seams. So glass was cloudy, as if buried for centuries. The sticks had delicate carvings.
It felt more like a collector's table than a rchant's display. A strange stillness hung in the air. Frieren's intense gaze confird his suspicion: there was more here than t the eye.
"Of course, I do," Frieren murmured, her voice low, sharing a secret. Her eyes sparkled , a subtle, unmistakable reverence. "I heard there are nearby ruins. They say they're full of treasures and lost magic books. If I'm not mistaken, these items are from there. I wish I had the money; I'd buy them all."
Her gaze remained locked on a pale green bottle sealed with wax, a sigil etched into its base. To most, it might have looked like junk. But Frieren saw history, possibility, magic. Her hands curled at her sides, restrained.
Ronan, seeing her longing, patted her shoulder. The touch was light, yet Frieren turned, surprised. Her expression was vulnerable, unguarded.
"Stay here; I'll be right back."
He didn't wait for a response, weaving confidently toward the stall. Frieren watched as Ronan spoke to the vendor, who bead, took sothing from Ronan, and hurried away, abandoning his stall.
The transaction was too quick, too smooth. She glimpsed the rchant's eyes , wide, almost teary. His lips moved in hurried thanks. Then he vanished into the alleys like a man given a new life. His feigned limp was gone, replaced by a comical spring in his step.
, What happened?
She hadn't seen money exchanged. A barter? A magical contract? Sothing about Ronan unsettled expectations. He didn't act like a local or a foreigner.
Frieren frowned, suspecting sothing. Ronan wasn't careless, but his actions were unpredictable. One mont he seed clueless, the next, commanding.
She knew magical tools were expensive. These items, antiques and practical tools, commanded high prices. She hadn't rushed to the vendor herself; a single piece could cost years of savings. Most were passed down through bloodlines.
Her wood carvings had taken thirty years of saving. Each was infused with spells she'd discovered or restored. Even then, she'd barely managed one mid-grade focus gem. These... were worth at least forty or fifty carvings. And there were at least a dozen tools.
Thirty tis fifty... Her mind short-circuited. The magnitude overwheld her. It was a gift that invited suspicion more than gratitude.
Ronan returned, buoyant. He took Frieren's hand and led her to the stall. The warmth of his palm contrasted the cool air.
"It's settled. These tools are from the Pure Land Dynasty, thirteen hundred years ago. I don't know their exact value, but they're yours now."
Her heart skipped a beat. Her suspicions were confird. She'd expected generosity, not extravagance. Gratitude felt inadequate. Protest felt rude. Yet, a part of her wanted to do both.
She lowered her gaze, struggling to form a sentence, fingers hovering over an orb shimring with internal mist. This was a debt she couldn't repay in centuries.
Even if she followed him for decades, helped him in a hundred battles, she wasn't sure it would be enough. These tools were usually sold individually; no one ever bought them all at once. The absurdity took her breath away. She'd dread of owning just one. Now she had a collection. Because a stranger had noticed the way she looked at them.
Can humans live for centuries?
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