"A spell to greatly enhance dynamic vision?" Ronan mused, his voice low, almost a whisper, yet clear in the richly adorned room. His expression remained calm—unreadable, like a still pond—but there was a flicker of intrigue behind his eyes. As his fingers gently turned the pages of the book, his mind was already deep in analysis, oblivious to Lord Marco's internal deliberations.
The room was quiet, the soft ticking of a golden pendulum clock marking time beside the fireplace. The tea on the table had grown lukewarm, untouched. Light streamed through tall windows lined with crimson velvet drapes, casting shadows across the carpeted floor. The book in Ronan's hands glowed faintly with residual mana, its magical script shifting subtly as he read.
He reviewed the book's contents with practiced ease. Enhanced dynamic vision… was it groundbreaking? Not particularly. At first glance, it seemed a modest improvement—a spell designed to heighten the perception of moving objects. It allowed one to better track fast motions, to follow the arc of a swinging blade or the whizzing flight of a thrown dagger. It was practical, useful… but limited.
Ronan recalled a scene from a manga he'd read years ago. The memory rose like mist, vivid and untouched by time. In that story, the world had ended. Cities were in ruin, society in collapse, and zombies roamed the earth in endless swarms. The protagonist, once an ordinary man, had survived by sheer grit—until one day, he injected a strength enhancer that altered his physiology.
Afterward, the protagonist could clearly see the trajectory of every falling raindrop. Each droplet, once a blur, now hung in the air like crystal beads. It was beautiful… and terrifying. Ronan had found the scene incredible at the time, the image of a lone warrior slicing through waves of the undead burned into his imagination. It had seemed so powerful, so unstoppable.
But then came the reality. The protagonist still struggled. Despite his newfound perception, despite being able to see the arc of a claw or the glint of a hidden blade, his body couldn't always keep up. There were limits—harsh, immutable limits. The human body, no matter how refined, had thresholds. Muscles tore, lungs burned, and bones shattered. Seeing a handgun bullet didn't mean one could dodge a sniper's round. Reaction and movement were not always in sync.
Breaking those limits was crucial.
Ronan, however, lacked such limitations.
His body was not bound by the normal laws. The constraints that tied others down did not exist for him. Speed was his domain. Strength, his birthright. This spell, while ordinary on the surface, was something different in his hands. It was tailor-made for him, an amplifier that fit seamlessly into his arsenal.
It would maximize his existing advantages—refining perception to match overwhelming speed.
Seated comfortably on the sofa, its cushions molding to his form, his gaze lowered in thought. The air around him felt charged, heavy with contemplation. He considered the spell's synergy with his high-speed movement. His usual twenty-times speed had already pushed his focus. At thirty, it became a blur. At fifty, things became dangerous. At a hundred, it approached impossibility. Without enhanced dynamic vision, even he began to lose track of motion. It would be a waste of potential.
He needed clarity. He needed precision.
He needed this spell.
Beside him, Frieren leaned forward, her eyes narrowing as she caught a glimpse of the open page. Her silver hair shimmered slightly in the light, her expression tinged with curiosity.
"What spell is this?" Frieren glanced at the book again, eyebrows furrowing. The intricate runes and dense mana threads formed a complex weave that made immediate comprehension difficult, even for her.
"It's a body enhancement spell, similar to the buffs used by clerics, but with a different mechanism," Ronan explained casually. His voice was even, detached—like he was reciting an old recipe. "It significantly benefits mages and warriors."
There was no need to embellish. The spell spoke for itself.
He turned his attention to Lord Marco, who stood nearby, observing with a mixture of interest and growing awe.
"I'm impressed by your rare collection, Lord Marco. I'm pleased with this gift."
"Please, don't use honorifics. You saved my nephew," Lord Marco insisted, his tone laced with sincerity and discomfort. His hands clenched at his sides as if unable to accept such deference. It wasn't just Ronan's hidden identity that troubled him—it was the speed at which he'd deciphered the spell.
It was astonishing.
Marco had shown this spell to others before—renowned scholars, high-ranking court mages, individuals whose names were known across regions. Even they had taken time—at least a minute or more—to interpret its structure. The layering of mana, the condensed theory behind the enchantment—it wasn't simple.
Ronan had done it at a glance.
Unless he already knew the spell by heart, his magical prowess was on an entirely different level than Marco had anticipated.
Taking a deep breath, Marco composed himself. He smoothed the folds of his robe and nodded slightly, schooling his expression into a respectful calm.
"You're welcome. As you said, it's a body enhancement spell, enhancing vision. Eyes are crucial in combat. Many have died from failing to see attacks in time. This greatly improves combat ability; attacks that were once unavoidable can now be dodged. Elves can use it for ten minutes."
He said it plainly, but his eyes flicked toward Frieren. His meaning was clear. This wasn't just a gift of knowledge—it was a message, a gesture directed at both of them.
Marco's gift wasn't solely gratitude; it was a calculated move to please Frieren. No noble was a fool; even flattery contained a degree of probing. He couldn't fully trust his nephew's words, but based on his own observations—on Ronan's presence, his command, his clarity of mind—he believed them to be largely true.
Ronan nodded slowly. His fingers drummed lightly against the closed book.
"Elves can use it? That's good. Ten minutes is enough."
He saw through Marco's plan with ease. Martin must have said something—perhaps out of loyalty, perhaps out of caution. Whatever it was, Marco's unusual demeanor stemmed from that conversation. The polite hospitality, the strategic generosity—it all led back to one thing.
The appeal of strength.
Even nobles weren't immune.
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