Martin glanced at Frieren, then hesitated, abandoning his attempt to mention items popular with men. He simply raised an eyebrow.
There was a brief silence as Martin's expression remained composed, but the glimmer of intent behind his eyes didn't go unnoticed. A subtle arch of his brow, paired with the faintest tilt of his chin, suggested implications he didn't want to voice aloud in the presence of a young-looking elf.
Ronan was puzzled. "Like what?" Martin's glance seemed suggestive… potions? Were those openly sold? His thoughts began to spiral. Wait, this was another world… It was legal here… He'd see what they were; hopefully, he was overthinking. He didn't need them anyway; he had a cheat code.
His mind flicked briefly to the kinds of items sold discreetly behind counters in Earth's seedier alleys and clinics, his brows twitching as he tried to imagine fantasy equivalents. But in this realm, alchemy and magic mingled freely, and perhaps what was taboo elsewhere was simply pragmatic here.
The corridor leading to the interior stretched before them, oddly narrow at first. Dust motes floated lazily through the dim light cast by arcane lanterns nailed into the warped wooden walls. The air had grown heavier, infused with the earthy scent of dried herbs and the sharp tang of alchemical ingredients reacting faintly in the background. As they walked, the tight passage echoed each footfall with a hollow cadence.
After fifty meters, the space opened up. Ronan saw Old Dick – old and… peculiar.
A cluttered chamber spread out before them, lit by strange violet crystals embedded into the ceiling, casting odd shadows over every surface. Behind a counter that looked like it might collapse under its own weight stood a figure both unsettling and fascinating.
What was that humanoid… thing? A mutation? Why were there two spheres on his head?
The spheres pulsed faintly, almost like heartbeats, encased in a translucent membrane that shimmered under the shifting lights. Ronan felt the hairs on his arms rise. The being's eyes were small and sunk deeply beneath thick folds of wrinkled skin, barely visible beneath the dangling bangs of greyish-blue hair.
Ronan refrained from commenting; Martin explained that Old Dick's appearance was due to a monster's curse after a youthful adventure into the ruins. The spheres weren't tumors; they were his brain; his skull was empty. A needle could kill him.
The revelation was disturbing. A skull devoid of bone, with the mind laid bare in visible sacs? Ronan's stomach tightened in involuntary discomfort. The quiet twitch of muscle beneath his left eye betrayed his shock, but he nodded respectfully, absorbing the gravity of it.
This explained his shyness; his life was fragile.
The thought lingered in Ronan's mind. Vulnerability so exposed, so literal—it was horrifying. No helmet could fully protect a brain on the outside. No spell, no armor. He imagined how carefully this man must have lived, the paranoia and silence he must endure daily. It cast a sobering light on the adventuring world.
Ronan felt genuine empathy; he couldn't imagine living like that. Curses were terrifying; he needed to improve Wind Spirit Moon Shadow to make it invincible.
After a brief introduction, Ronan bought the detection magic for five gold coins. The deal was quick and silent. He accepted the scroll reverently, careful not to crinkle its edges, and sat in a corner to read it while Martin spoke with Old Dick.
The corner was quiet, sheltered under a dusty beam, and smelled faintly of mildew and candle wax. Ronan unfolded the parchment slowly, eyes scanning the runes and glyphs, memorizing their construction.
Martin, eyeing Ronan, took out two gold coins and, after a whispered conversation, made a deal. Old Dick carefully produced a vial and gave it to Martin.
The vial was small, stoppered with a cork and wrapped in a faintly glowing seal. Its contents shimmered slightly, a light gold liquid with a viscosity that clung to the glass like syrup. Martin held it delicately, as though afraid it might vanish if touched too roughly.
Just as Martin considered how to give it to Ronan, Frieren appeared behind him.
"What is that? Tell me," she asked crisply. "Uncle Martin."
Martin jumped, coughing. Her sudden voice struck like a whip in the stillness. He whirled around, nearly fumbling the vial, and plastered on a strained smile.
"Ms. Frieren, please call me Martin. Compared to you, I'm an infant." While a teenager calling a thirty-year-old "uncle" was normal, Frieren was an elf.
The weight of her gaze, calm yet unyielding, seemed to pin him in place. She nodded, seemingly understanding. Her gaze fixed on the vial.
Martin knew he couldn't avoid the question. Noticing Ronan wasn't looking, he whispered, "It's a man's treasure, Ms. Frieren. You and Mr. Ronan… are you…?"
Frieren looked puzzled. What kind of relationship?
Martin's heart sank; he'd been too blunt. "My apologies. Even if not, every man wants this potion. Please keep it a secret. It's a gift for Mr. Ronan; it's very useful in the wild. It dissolves clothing without harming the skin and has disinfectant properties. Imagine encountering monsters, injured, covered in blood and poison… this ensures survival. It's a perfect potion. Want one?"
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Feel free to check out my other stories:
> Kumo desu Ga: Reincarnated as a Neighbour of a Certain Spider
> I am Mihawk In One Punch Man
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