Frieren: Reincarnated as an Immortal Human-Chapter 33: FRIH -

The following day, as dawn broke, the first light of morning crept through the tall, narrow windows of the guest chamber. Pale golden rays filtered past the lace curtains, dancing across the wooden floor and casting faint shadows on the walls. Outside, birds were beginning their tentative calls, and a soft breeze rustled the trees beyond the stone balcony, whispering like a waking breath through the still estate.

Ronan and Frieren were already seated in a room, lost in their own thoughts.

The room was quiet, yet brimming with an anticipatory energy. A small brazier crackled softly in the corner, sending thin wisps of heat into the crisp morning air. The scent of old parchment, wood polish, and faint traces of mana from the tools on the table lingered like subtle perfume. The light danced over Ronan's silver-threaded cloak and Frieren's sea-colored robes, reflecting off the various magical tools strewn in front of them.

Frieren hadn't slept well; she'd knocked on Ronan's door early, eager to examine the magical tools she'd acquired.

Her face still bore the traces of sleeplessness—her pale skin slightly dull, her hair loosely gathered, stray strands falling into her eyes—but her gaze was focused, almost glowing. There was a certain spark in her movements, the kind only true curiosity and excitement could stir. Her fingers, slender and steady, hovered above the artifacts with a reverent kind of restraint.

For Frieren, the acquisition of unique magical items was perhaps the greatest source of joy, even if she might not use them all.

The mystery, the potential, the ancient craftsmanship—all of it fascinated her. It was a quiet obsession. She didn't seek treasure for wealth, nor power for dominance. To her, each object held a whisper of the past, a glimpse into forgotten ages of magic and ingenuity. These were not merely tools; they were stories sealed in metal, wood, and crystal.

"Let's begin," she said, her expression focused as she picked up a moss-covered tool.

The object felt cold and damp in her hand, the moss clinging like a second skin. As mana flowed from her fingertips, the moss curled and withered, disintegrating like dry parchment. Beneath it lay a polished golden bell, its surface unblemished by time, as if it had only just been forged. It gleamed softly in the morning light.

She didn't shake it; it was clearly a sound-based tool.

She could feel the vibration coiled within it, like a taut string ready to snap. Tools like these could emit destructive frequencies or be tied to enchantments that were best not triggered carelessly. Frieren, ever cautious, trusted her instincts. She gave the bell one last look of interest and placed it carefully back on the table.

She didn't want to risk activating something potentially dangerous.

She set it down and picked up the next item.

Ronan, despite his unfamiliarity with such objects, followed Frieren's example.

He was more deliberate in his movements, occasionally glancing at her for silent cues. His fingers brushed over cold metal and worn etchings, feeling the residual mana within. Each object seemed to hum with age, exuding a presence that was more than mere craftsmanship. The faint scent of ancient herbs and aged wood clung to the items like memory.

Soon, a golden gong appeared.

It was slightly larger than the bell and etched with intricate patterns that spiraled outward like sound waves. Ronan raised an eyebrow, holding it up to the light. The gold reflected with a brilliance that seemed excessive, even garish to his modern sensibilities.

The matching gold bell and gong made him frown.

It was an odd pairing, a little too coordinated. The over-the-top aesthetic reminded him of gaudy loot in low-level treasure chests—flashy but not necessarily valuable. Still, he reminded himself, this wasn't his world. The norms here were different, the culture alien. Value, he was learning, wasn't always about appearance.

The color scheme was rather gaudy, but it seemed perfectly normal for this era.

He set it down and continued.

The third item was an ornate, hollowed-out wooden stick inlaid with gems.

It looked like it had once been elegant, maybe even ceremonial. The wood, once richly dark, was now faded and brittle, the surface flaking at his touch. Time had eaten away its strength. Only the embedded gems—sapphire, garnet, and an unknown pale crystal—retained their luster, glinting with faint magical resonance.

The wood, even if special, was severely decayed after thirteen centuries.

Only the gems remained usable; Frieren handed one to Ronan.

"Here. It's a gem for a staff. You don't have one, and I don't know if you need it, but mana-conductive gems of this quality are rare. It could save you about a thousand gold coins if you were to sell it. But you probably don't need the money, do you?"

Ronan, through their interactions, had learned about staffs.

He'd picked up the theory quickly. Staffs weren't just flashy props for mages—they were precision tools. The wood needed to match the mage's mana type, while the gem acted like a magical amplifier and channel. Cheap staffs bled mana like cracked pipes. A good one was like a flawless lens, focusing power with minimal waste.

They were essentially sticks; the wood was important, as some types conducted mana, but the gems were more crucial.

A high-quality gem could reduce mana loss by over 90%. Frieren didn't have one; they were too expensive; only the village elder possessed one, and even his only reduced loss by 30%.

Ronan's gem reduced loss by about 70%.

Ronan looked up. "You're giving this to me? Seriously? Don't you need it? Remember, it's my gift to you."

"I know, but it's too expensive," Frieren replied, shaking her head.

There was a quiet conviction in her voice. Spending six thousand gold coins on tools of unknown function was an investment, like buying lottery tickets.

If they won, the prize money had to be shared; otherwise, she'd feel guilty.

Ronan understood her principles and let her be.

He accepted the gem, knowing it was useless to him; with infinite mana, reduced loss was irrelevant. Still, there was warmth in her gesture. In this world of nobles and greed, a moment of honest generosity felt oddly grounding.

He'd have it crafted and return it later; it was an investment in goodwill.

Sometimes, treating this world like a game wasn't a bad idea.

As time passed, more tools were revealed.

The pile on the table grew smaller, while the assortment of discovered artifacts steadily expanded. Some glowed faintly. Others crackled, buzzed, or simply vibrated under their fingers. Each one carried a story they could only guess at—a fragment of lost magic, now theirs to decipher.

By daybreak, they were finished.

Ronan counted two damaged, twenty intact, and three dilapidated tools – twenty-five in total, costing six thousand gold coins.

The morning sun now poured fully into the room, catching the dust motes in midair like floating stars. Ronan stretched, glancing at the tools with a calculating eye.

Excluding the damaged ones, the average cost was 260 gold coins per item. The gem alone was worth over a thousand.

A typical tool cost about 240 gold coins. 240 * 22 + 1000 = 6280.

It was a good deal; they'd even made a profit.

The damaged ones were less valuable, but still antiques.

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