Time slipped away.
The chaos of the earlier encounter had faded, leaving behind only the memory of ash and heat that still lingered faintly in the air, like an aftertaste of fire. The street had long since fallen quiet, its silence now replaced by the faint echo of footsteps as Ronan and Frieren calmly walked alongside the guard. Despite the wreckage they'd left behind, they moved without haste, as though nothing unusual had occurred.
Their boots crunched softly over cobblestones dusted with fine gravel, and the sunlight filtering through the narrow alleyways cast elongated shadows that stretched before them. The occasional breeze stirred loose scraps of paper and leaves along the path, but the tension from earlier seemed to have dissipated entirely.
During their walk, Ronan learned the guard's name: Martin. A rather plain name, but it carried unexpected weight.
Martin, as it turned out, was no ordinary guard. He was the nephew of Lord Marco, the influential noble who governed the region. That connection explained the expensive equipment and the air of importance the man carried. Though not particularly strong in combat—at least, not compared to Ronan—Martin's status gave him undeniable leverage in local affairs. His armor, a gleaming set reinforced with runes, shimmered subtly as they walked. His weapon, which now hung limply from his belt in broken pieces, was forged from dwarven mithril—a material so rare and prized that many kingdoms would pay fortunes for a sliver.
Dealing with petty thugs, it seemed, had always been child's play for Martin. That changed today.
The encounter with the pugilist had left his armor dented and his weapon shattered. Yet, Ronan noticed something odd—there was no real distress on Martin's face. No panic, no shame, not even frustration. Instead, the man walked with calm resolve, as if the outcome had never truly mattered.
Ronan narrowed his eyes. And then he saw it.
The armor—though previously battered—was quietly restoring itself. With each step they took, small runes along the plates shimmered, pulsing with soft light. Crushed segments began to straighten, cracks sealed with faint glowing lines, and scratches vanished as if time itself had reversed them. Within minutes, the armor looked as if it had never seen battle.
Ronan quickly understood why.
The armor was a magical tool—far beyond what he had expected. Its properties included self-repair, among other high-end functions. He'd also seen it aid Martin with bursts of speed and even a temporary cloak of invisibility earlier.
Ronan fell into thought.
"Magical tools are more powerful than I imagined," he murmured to himself, his brows slightly furrowed. "I don't know if this is typical, but it's high-end. Invisibility, speed, self-repair… it's all-purpose. I hope my six-thousand-gold-coin purchase doesn't disappoint."
The items he'd acquired were sealed away for now—he'd bought them recently, sight unseen, trusting only the merchant's boastful claims and his own intuition. He'd intended to appraise them in private, but it wasn't convenient at the moment. Too many variables.
He cast a subtle glance toward Martin, then to the road ahead. He didn't know the lord's financial situation, but flashing valuable items in front of others, even nobles, could provoke unwanted greed. Better to play it safe. Human avarice was never to be underestimated.
Ronan had read enough stories, watched enough shows, where trusted servants slipped poison into meals or schemers framed innocent bystanders for ambitious plots. It was always better to avoid unnecessary trouble, no matter how confident one was in their strength.
Soon, they reached Lord Marco's grand estate.
The structure loomed ahead, towering over the rest of the buildings in the district like a sleeping giant. Its stone walls were pale, pristine, and decorated with ivy crawling up its sides. Elegant banners bearing the family crest fluttered in the wind, and polished bronze lanterns flanked the high archway at the entrance. The estate had a distinct air of authority—structured, well-guarded, yet undeniably ostentatious.
Outside the manor, two figures awaited them.
Lord Marco stood at the top of the marble steps, his posture upright and commanding. A man in his early forties, he possessed the sharp features of nobility—short blond hair, trimmed and slicked back, and striking blue eyes that observed every movement with quiet intensity. His finely tailored coat, embroidered with gold thread, did little to hide his muscular build. He was clearly a man who took his strength seriously, a rarity among the pampered upper class.
Beside him stood a servant, rigid and silent, holding a polished cane that may or may not have been ceremonial. His gaze darted uncertainly between Marco and the approaching guests.
There was no mistaking who was in charge.
Marco's stance exuded control, and yet something shifted when he saw them.
"Mr. Ronan, please wait a moment," Martin said respectfully, inclining his head. He stepped forward and spoke in a low voice, briefing his uncle.
Marco listened intently. As the explanation progressed, his expression shifted from seriousness to puzzlement. His brows raised, lips slightly parted. His gaze flicked toward Ronan, as if asking silently, Are you serious? Martin, still battered and breathing unevenly, nodded in response.
It was true.
Marco inhaled slowly, held the breath for a moment, and then let it out as if clearing the slate. With that breath, his demeanor transformed. He straightened, rolled his shoulders back, and descended the steps with purposeful grace.
His face bore an enthusiastic smile—one honed by years of diplomacy. "It's an honor to have Mr. Ronan and Ms. Frieren grace my humble abode…"
The words rolled off his tongue smoothly, practiced and deferential. He offered compliments, expressed concern, and gestured warmly toward the estate as if welcoming royalty. The shift in tone was staggering.
The servant, who had until now stood still as a statue, blinked in disbelief. He'd served Lord Marco for years. Never had he seen his master bow so low. Even when a visiting count arrived from the capital, Marco had remained composed and aloof.
But now? He was practically groveling.
Was this royalty? the servant wondered, swallowing hard.
Frieren, too, was puzzled. She stepped through the estate's gate beside Ronan, her eyes briefly scanning their surroundings. The elegant garden beyond the entrance was well-maintained, but her attention quickly returned to her companion.
She glanced sideways at Ronan, a flicker of curiosity in her violet eyes, like a puzzle slowly beginning to take shape in her mind.
—His strength? Or his identity?
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