Silence hung in the air for a mont, thick and palpable like a weighted curtain drawn between the three of them. The stillness wasn't awkward—just surprising. The kind of silence that follows an unexpectedly large gift. In that brief hush, the musty scent of parchnt and ink drifted up from the ancient book the shopkeeper reluctantly handed over, the golden letters embossed on the leather cover gleaming faintly under the flickering glow of the magical ceiling lamp.
Ronan, sowhat bewildered, accepted the magic book.
His fingers curled around the aged spine, the leather smooth and worn in the way only long-used items could be. It was heavier than he expected, filled with thick vellum pages dense with ticulously penned arcane script. For a mont, his eyes scanned the cover, the title unfamiliar yet inviting. Power whispered beneath his fingertips, restrained by ink and symbols. He hadn't truly expected the rchant to give it up. That made the victory all the more satisfying.
The sudden acquisition felt surprisingly pleasant; he'd avoided owing a favor to the village elder.
That in itself was rare. Favors, after all, were like debts written in ink only magic could erase. And with soone like the elder, accepting one ca with unseen strings. This—this was clean. Effortless. Almost funny.
Martin, anwhile, nervously observed Ronan's expression.
His boots tapped lightly against the wooden floor, shifting his weight from foot to foot as though balancing between caution and pride. The tension that had tightened around his shoulders was slowly easing, like a drawstring being loosened. His eyes flicked between Ronan's unreadable face and the shopkeeper's absence, trying to asure the fallout.
Seeing the growing amusent on his face, he visibly relaxed, offering a fawning smile.
His shoulders dropped. A short exhale escaped him, almost a laugh, but not quite. "You're welco, sir," he said quickly, stepping forward, tone deferential. "Shops that prey on outsiders deserve to fail."
There was steel beneath the politeness, a sharp undertone that suggested this wasn't the first ti Martin had stepped in. Not every visitor had soone like him to shield them.
"If you're still unhappy, I can ensure he can't do business anywhere nearby. He won't do this again. Lord Marco has the power to do so."
He straightened slightly, invoking the na of the old noble like an incantation. Marco's reach, his influence—it was real. It extended through the town like a network of roots, subtle but strong. Connections, favors, debts owed. All tools Martin could wield in Ronan's defense.
The old lord had extensive connections.
The shopkeeper, having just recovered from his earlier fright, trembled again.
He was out of sight but not out of earshot. From just beyond the doorway, his knees buckled slightly, barely holding his weight. Sweat clung to the back of his neck like glue, and a surge of bitter resentnt surged in his chest. It twisted through his gut like a hot poker.
He was furious and inwardly cursing.
This had gone too far. It was just a book! Why had things escalated like this? Who were these people?
Who was this guy?!
He'd given away a valuable appraisal spell, a cornerstone of his trade, and now he stood at the edge of ruin. And this wasn't over yet?
Why was he being targeted so intensely?
Every fiber of his being scread at the injustice. He wanted to shout, to accuse, to lash out. But he couldn't. Not now. Not with Marco's man still inside. Not with that sword. He swallowed the anger down like poison.
Ronan, unfazed, waved dismissively.
He made a small, casual gesture, as if brushing away a cloud of smoke. His mind had already moved past the confrontation. He was in a good mood and didn't want to be ruthless.
Extorting money wasn't murder; imdiate retribution was extre.
His logic was cold but pragmatic. The man had tried to scam him. A slap on the wrist was fine. Total destruction? That wasn't necessary. Especially not now. Especially not with Frieren watching.
Frieren was with him; pushing the shopkeeper to desperation might lead to a bounty being placed on his head, causing more trouble.
And Ronan had no patience for the consequences of petty vengeance. Let the man stew in his humiliation. That was enough.
Martin breathed a sigh of relief; the shopkeeper was his main source of tips.
Tips that ca in the form of whispered rumors, subtle warnings, and the occasional insight into other rchants' dealings. If Ronan punished him, if he went too far...
He'd have to choose between loyalty and self-preservation.
Martin didn't want to make that choice. Not yet. Thankfully...
"See? Get out! Don't let see you again!" Martin said, kicking the shopkeeper, his relief palpable.
His boot thudded dully against the man's side—not enough to injure, just enough to emphasize the command. The shopkeeper scrambled to his feet, stumbling backward as if gravity had beco a personal enemy. He mumbled barely coherent apologies, tripping over every word.
The shopkeeper scrambled to his feet, muttering apologies, his deanor even more subservient than Martin's.
With his head bowed low, he hurried off, the door clanging shut behind him with a mournful creak. The atmosphere seed to breathe for the first ti in minutes.
Once he left, the shop fell silent.
Dust motes drifted lazily in the air. The magic lamp overhead buzzed faintly again, as though it, too, were weary from the tension. The faint rustle of turning pages ca from Ronan as he idly thumbed through the spellbook.
Frieren looked at Martin with a curious expression, subtly indicating, "You chased him away; what about the tools?"
Her glance was slight, her expression serene, but there was a subtle flick of her eyes that communicated her thought perfectly. She didn't speak—she didn't need to. Her gaze was eloquent enough. It landed like a nudge between Martin's ribs.
Martin's heart skipped a beat; he'd been careless.
Panic stirred in his chest like a sleeping cat abruptly woken. He turned, suddenly very aware of the empty shop. His boots scuffed the wooden floor as he rushed toward the door.
He rushed out to find the shopkeeper.
He had to drag him back, sohow. Or find another appraiser. Anything. He couldn't let the mission falter now—not after things had just settled down.
Just as he was panicking, Ronan called out.
"Wait."
The word was sharp, steady—enough to freeze Martin in place like a spell.
Ronan quickly scanned the magic book.
His eyes flicked across the pages with inhuman speed, absorbing line after line of complex sigils and diagrams. The room dimd slightly as the magic within the pages resonated with him. Each word glowed faintly in his mind's eye.
Within seconds, he understood the appraisal spell's chanism – it was simple.
Martin stopped, despite his anxiety; he couldn't disobey a guest.
He turned back, swallowing his instinct to rush. He was ready to offer assistance, apologize, anything—but then he saw Ronan again, standing at the counter.
He turned, ready to offer assistance, but was stunned.
Ronan's hand moved with fluid precision. The magic swirled around him in faint tendrils, focused and efficient. The spell activated with no chant, no hesitation.
Ronan was expertly using the appraisal spell, as proficient as the shopkeeper...
Martin blinked, his mouth slightly agape.
He knew Ronan didn't have the spell; he'd wanted to buy a book.
But this level of skill implied at least five years of practice.
The implications hit him hard. His chest tightened with regret. He'd co here, even chased away his main source of inco...
Martin wanted to curse.
He took a deep breath, regaining his composure.
He represented the Miller family; he couldn't lose his composure or show disrespect.
He watched as Ronan swiftly appraised the twenty-three tools, his speed increasing from a minute to under three seconds.
The spells were smooth, automatic—almost as if Ronan were rely recalling sothing he'd known for years. Each artifact glowed briefly, revealing its secrets under his gaze.
Frieren was equally astonished.
Her usually placid expression shifted, eyes widening ever so slightly. She hadn't expected this. Not from a human. Not so quickly.
"You said you couldn't appraise, yet..."
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> Kumo desu Ga: Reincarnated as a Neighbour of a Certain Spider
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