Frieren frowned, incredulous. The burning could be explained by magic, but teleportation?
She stood there, her lips slightly parted as her eyes darted toward the trail of dust Ronan left in his wake. The subtle hum of residual mana still lingered in the air, vibrating through the stones beneath her feet. She had seen many spells in her life, complex incantations and runes drawn with millimeter precision. But this—this was something else entirely.
No chant. No circle. Just boom—and he was gone. Her brows furrowed as she struggled to rationalize it. Even high-speed movement spells required buildup. Was it acceleration magic combined with spatial manipulation? Or some unknown technique? The afterimage that remained of Ronan shimmered faintly, like heat rising off scorched earth, as if the world hadn't caught up with his motion.
She watched, puzzled and surprised, as Ronan punched the pugilist into a wall, creating a human-shaped dent in less than a second.
The impact was thunderous, a low, crushing sound like boulders colliding. Dust and debris exploded outward in a wide plume as the wall cracked and groaned, chunks of stone falling in slow motion to those watching. The pugilist, previously fleeing in desperation, now lay embedded in the stone, arms slack, head tilted at an unnatural angle. The shape he left behind was grotesquely accurate—his limbs splayed like a flattened insect. Yet somehow, unbelievably, he still clung to life.
Frieren's eyes traced the faint shimmer of Ronan's afterimage—an echo of his motion imprinted upon her vision. She blinked rapidly, but it didn't vanish right away.
...
...
Some time later…
The wind had settled, and the dust in the alley had long since returned to the ground, coating broken cobblestones and bloodstained footprints in a dry, pale haze. The silence that followed was almost sacred—unnatural in a town that should have echoed with life. And then, footsteps.
Heavy, deliberate.
Ronan emerged from the far end of the alley, a faint breeze trailing behind him. Over his shoulder, he carried the battered pugilist, who now resembled a sack of broken bones wrapped in torn clothing. The man's limbs dangled uselessly, twitching occasionally with involuntary spasms. A fine line of blood trickled from his mouth.
Beside Ronan walked the guard—barely. The armored man limped, clutching his side, blood staining the gaps in his armor. His breaths were shallow, each inhale wheezing and strained, a wet cough escaping his lips as he struggled to keep pace.
Ronan halted before Frieren, unceremoniously dropping the pugilist onto the ground with a thud. The beaten man groaned, a sign of life—but just barely.
"Hmm, still alive. Enough for you to report," Ronan said, his voice calm, devoid of emotion.
He folded his arms as he glanced at the guard, his gaze unreadable. The faintest trace of amusement crossed his expression as he observed the man's shocked, exhausted state. The guard, for his part, was barely able to stay upright.
Coughing, the guard nodded. He spat blood onto the ground, wiped his mouth, and tried to regain some semblance of composure. "I didn't expect…" he began, then shook his head. "Didn't expect him to be that strong. Thought he was weak after being knocked back earlier."
There was a beat of silence. Frieren said nothing, though her gaze flickered briefly between the guard and Ronan. Her analytical mind worked quickly, already cataloging this event into mental compartments—power levels, spell theories, possible origins.
Ronan broke the pause.
"So, about that compensation…" he said, his voice low but direct, eyes resting on the guard with an air of casual expectation, as though discussing payment after delivering a package.
The guard stiffened at the words. His muscles tensed as if instinctively preparing for another impact. Then he straightened, nodding with effort, still swaying slightly. "I'll ask Lord Marco," he replied quickly, a hint of anxiety in his tone. "But I won't disappoint you."
He paused, hesitant, as though weighing the next words carefully. "What would you like?" he asked. His gaze flicked briefly toward Frieren. He assumed Ronan wouldn't care for trinkets or money—men of power often had other desires. Perhaps the elf girl had more earthly interests.
Ronan confirmed his thoughts with ease.
"Magic books. Rare ones. I'm collecting unusual magic. If you find any, buy them for me; I'll pay."
The response came so casually, so matter-of-fact, that it took the guard a moment to process it. Magic books? That was it?
But to Ronan, the answer made perfect sense.
He didn't need material things. Not gold, not jewels, not lands or titles. His needs were beyond those of typical mercenaries or noble lords. What he sought was knowledge—power that came from understanding the unknown. Books were his keys, magic his language. With every new spell he encountered, he expanded his arsenal. The more magic he collected, the more abilities he could attribute to it, rationalize through it.
Imagination was limitless; this was his goal.
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You can read advance chapters in my: [email protected]/Veora
Drop some spirit stones if you like the story ^^
And Reviews ^^
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You know what, I'm just gonna keep uploading daily chapters like usual, I'm very sorry if the story is slow, but if you want you can wait for a few days to rack up some chapters or you can even come back in a week or month if you want, I'm really sorry, and for those who still show support thanks.
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