So ti later...
"What? Twenty-three magical tools?!"
The shopkeeper's voice cracked through the quiet of the cramped interior like a whip. Inside the modest establishnt—lit dimly by a single floating orb of warm light—his shout seed to echo off the walls, startling a nearby cat that had been curled on a shelf beside a stack of dusty scrolls. The creature bolted for the shadows as the shopkeeper stared, dumbfounded, at the array of artifacts laid out before him on the thick wooden counter. His jaw hung slightly open, the disbelief painted clearly across his weathered features.
He leaned forward, the tips of his fingers twitching with an urge to touch the relics—yet he held himself back, partly out of reverence, partly out of fear. Each item shimred faintly under the enchantnt light, so adorned with runes dulled by age, others surprisingly pristine, their craftsmanship immaculate. Even at a glance, they were unlike anything he had seen in all his years running the shop.
He'd never encountered such a situation before. Twenty-three tools, all seemingly ancient magical artifacts...
While it wasn't uncommon for adventurers to bring in a piece or two—usually scratched, cracked, or inert—this was sothing else entirely. These were whole. Intact. Gleaming. The air around them pulsed softly, the kind of subtle resonance only real mages could sense—a whisper of power long sealed but not forgotten.
While adventurers often brought in similar items for appraisal, they were usually damaged, or modern forgeries.
His fingers hovered inches above the nearest artifact, a wand etched with faded silver inlays. He recognized none of the marks, which sent a shiver of both dread and wonder down his spine. How long had it been since sothing truly unknown had crossed his threshold?
Mages were incredibly rare. In the Northern Continent, there were only about three hundred.
And even among them, few had both the raw magical aptitude and the discipline to craft true tools. The forging of a magical tool was no simple endeavor. It demanded materials not easily acquired, enchanting skills honed through decades, and a theoretical knowledge of spell matrices that few ever mastered.
Creating magical tools required not only masterful forging skills but also a deep understanding of the relevant magic.
These stringent conditions made such tools exceptionally rare. Most mages either lacked the patience or the resources. Even those who succeeded could only produce a handful in their lifetis. So, for a common shop to suddenly hold more than a score of such items...
Those that entered the market were usually from a few decades to a century or two ago. These were a thousand years old... twenty-three of them. Even with nearby ruins, this was excessive.
He couldn't suppress the tremor that rippled through his chest. His heart pounded like a wardrum, a thunderous rhythm threatening to drown out his rational thoughts. Sweat prickled his temples. He swallowed hard, trying to steady his breathing, but every ti his eyes swept over the pile, the pulse of greed inside him surged again.
His heart pounded, his breathing quickening as his eyes fixated on the tools. The unprecedented wealth before him sparked a flicker of greed.
How many magical tools had he appraised since opening his shop? A dozen? Maybe twenty, at most—and never more than one or two in a month. This collection, if real, was worth more than his entire livelihood. It could change his life.
How much could he earn appraising magical tools in a lifeti? This fortune was too tempting to pass up.
Yet, even through the fog of temptation, his instincts scread caution. The two figures before him weren't ordinary. The boy—young, calm, almost amused—and the girl, a reserved presence with piercing eyes, had not so much as flinched while presenting a literal trove. No... they were dangerous, or at least protected by sothing powerful.
He had so self-awareness; he wouldn't kill for them; he couldn't escape the city.
Even the idea of stealing was folly. Guards patrolled every gate. Nobles owned spies in every inn. Word traveled fast—and if soone caught wind of him running with goods like these, he'd never make it out alive.
He decided to underreport the value, pocketing so extra gold.
That, at least, was a risk he could stomach. These two didn't look like experts. They wouldn't know if he shaved off a few numbers, maybe even more than a few. It was a perfect arrangent.
They wouldn't appraise the magic themselves; this was a perfect information asymtry to exploit.
He'd play the part of the helpful professional. Smile, flatter them, then trim their profits and fatten his own purse. Just a few hundred coins. Nothing too greedy.
Even a few hundred gold coins would be enough for several years!
His expression changed, brightening into an oily, ingratiating grin.
His face broke into a fawning smile.
"Sir, you're incredibly lucky! We're honest and professional. Do you want to appraise all twenty-three tools together?"
Ronan looked at Frieren, who nodded.
"Yes."
The single word seed to hum in the air like the final note of a spell. Frieren's expression remained unreadable, her fingers still lightly resting on the cloth bundle beside her. Ronan, by contrast, appeared utterly relaxed, his gaze occasionally drifting across the room, as if bored already. The shopkeeper's throat went dry again. Still, he pressed on.
The shopkeeper's excitent intensified, but he remained outwardly calm.
"Please wait."
He disappeared into the back room, his footsteps quick and clipped. Behind a curtain of beads, shelves lined with tos and enchanted devices waited in dusty quiet. He selected the appraisal book—a thick, worn volu bound in red dragonhide and inscribed with glyphs of truth-sight—and returned with it in his trembling hands.
As he prepared to cast the appraisal spell, Ronan spoke.
"Wait. Is this book for sale?"
The words halted the shopkeeper mid-step. His breath caught. He blinked, thinking he'd misheard.
He'd almost forgotten. Since all spells were in books, why not learn them himself? It was more efficient, and the quality would be higher. He was a genius now. He could use any spell imdiately.
The shopkeeper froze, thinking he'd misheard.
Sell it? This was his livelihood!
His mind whirled. The idea of parting with the book was like being asked to sell his arms. This was no ordinary to—it contained appraisal spells, enchantnt counters, even curse-breakers. Without it, he was just a man with an empty shop and a polished smile.
He'd opened the shop three months ago, earning about thirty gold coins, with only rent as an expense.
Thirty gold coins in three months... The figure felt pitiful next to what now lay on the table. He clenched his jaw, calculating the cost of refusing. What if the boy took offense? What if they walked and told others? Could he afford to make enemies with people like these?
Selling it would drastically reduce his inco. Was this a rival trying to sabotage him?
A rival? Sabotage? His thoughts spiraled, paranoia mixing with fear and desperation. What if this was a test? What if they'd been sent by a competitor or noble family to see how loyal—or stupid—he was?
He stared at Ronan, increasingly convinced.
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