Frieren: Reincarnated as an Immortal Human-Chapter 36: FRIH -

"Don't joke," the shopkeeper sneered. His lips curled back with a mixture of disdain and disbelief, as though the very idea offended the foundations of his livelihood. The lights in the shop flickered slightly, not because of magic, but because of the fraying connection of the floating glowstone above. The soft humming it gave off suddenly felt louder in the tense air between them. He leaned forward, protectively closing the appraisal book just a little, as though afraid Ronan might snatch it. "I won't sell it, even for three hundred gold coins."

The number hung in the air like a drawn blade, sharp and deliberate. It wasn't just a price—it was a declaration. But to his surprise, Ronan didn't flinch.

"Three hundred? That's cheap?" Ronan was surprised, not by the shopkeeper's attitude, but by the openly stated minimum price.

His voice carried no malice, only mild curiosity. He stood relaxed, almost too casual for someone dealing with an obviously opportunistic merchant. He tilted his head, blinking slowly as if calculating the value in his head. It was the kind of look a person gave an innkeeper offering an extra room for a silver piece—mild skepticism, not outrage.

He wasn't serious about selling. He was a seasoned haggler.

The kind who tested the boundaries for fun. Not out of desperation, not even out of greed—just for the principle of the thing. The number, to him, was abstract. The cost of convenience. Whether it was thirty or three hundred didn't matter; what mattered was utility, and whether he wanted it.

Three hundred was too high, but Ronan didn't care; it was worth it.

The shopkeeper, however, was shocked. His brain reeled, his internal sense of economy trembling. Three hundred? Cheap? That book wasn't even worth a hundred when he bought it ten years ago—sure, it had gotten him through countless appraisals and dozens of scams, but still... cheap?

Three hundred? Cheap? This kid had no concept of money!

His initial assumptions came rushing back. Ronan's glance at Frieren had led him to believe the tools were hers. She had that look—an air of quiet power, tempered with patience. Elves were long-lived and deliberate. If he could fool her with some jargon and confidence, maybe she'd fall for inflated pricing.

Elves were slow; he could easily overcharge them.

He looked down on Ronan – a human sponging off an elf.

That's all he was. Just a leech, tailing after the one with real value. But if that was the case, why did he talk like someone who didn't need to worry about gold? That kind of arrogance had to be learned—either through wealth, or ignorance so deep it circled back to confidence.

He wanted that too.

He gritted his teeth. His mind raced for an excuse, a new price point that wouldn't shatter the illusion of generosity he was barely maintaining.

"Three hundred was the old price. With the ruins, more tools will appear. Five hundred. No less."

He puffed up his chest slightly, crossing his arms as if the added posture could justify the sudden jump. It wasn't just about the gold anymore—it was about control. He could let the boy think he was winning. Yes, that was it. Let him believe he was getting a bargain, when really, he was paying extra. Besides, what could a brat like that really do with an appraisal book? Even if he could read the incantations, he wouldn't grasp the nuances.

He'd let him think he was getting a deal.

He wouldn't understand the magic quickly; he'd need appraisal later.

And when that time came, who would he return to? This very shop. He'd get five hundred now, and more in the future. It was a long-term investment—cheat now, profit later.

He'd get five hundred now and more later. He'd leave after this.

Ronan was about to respond, his lips parting as he began to raise a casual hand—when the shop door slammed open with a thunderous crash.

Bang!

The sound shattered the tense quiet like a war drum. Dust from the doorframe floated into the air, catching in the glowstone light as Martin stormed in.

"You greedy merchant! I've tolerated you long enough! They're Lord Marco's guests! This is how you do business?!"

His voice was like a physical force, vibrating through the small shop. Shelves rattled, a display case of lesser talismans trembled, and the cat from earlier darted out from beneath the counter with a distressed meow. Martin stood tall, broad-shouldered, his face flushed with anger and indignation. His hand was already on the hilt of his sword.

Martin was furious. If Ronan had been cheated, he'd be in trouble.

His sense of duty flared like wildfire. As Lord Marco's aide, he was the unspoken wall between their household and petty injustices like this. He knew Ronan had no common sense when it came to money. The lad would spend ten gold coins on something worth a silver without blinking. It wasn't stupidity—it was detachment.

He didn't question why Ronan would be cheated; such a person would spend several gold coins on a meal; not knowing prices was normal.

And that made him easy prey for men like this. Men who thought a smiling face and a fast tongue could hide their greed.

This shopkeeper was too cunning; he deserved punishment.

Before the shopkeeper could react, Martin charged in, sword drawn.

The blade gleamed in the dim light, the sharp metallic sheen a stark contrast to the soft glow of magic in the room. The shopkeeper backed up immediately, hands raised, eyes wide with panic. His mouth worked uselessly for a moment as he tried to process what was happening.

The shopkeeper panicked. Lord Marco's guests? No one had mentioned that.

He felt the blood drain from his face. Had he really just tried to scam someone under Lord Marco's protection? Had he walked into his own noose?

He was in deep trouble.

Martin's blade was already at his throat, the cold edge kissing his skin with terrifying intimacy. He dared not move. Every instinct screamed submission.

His face paled. He might be an outsider, but he had to follow local rules.

He licked his dry lips, forcing his expression into something vaguely resembling a smile, though it looked more like a wince.

With the sword at his throat, he swallowed hard.

He forced a smile. "M-Martin sir, I didn't mean to... Please forgive me! I often... uh... gave you gifts... This appraisal spell is free! I'll give it to these guests!"

His words tumbled over each other in a desperate rush. The sweat on his brow caught the glow of the light above, and his hands trembled as he lifted the book like an offering to a god, silently cursing the moment greed overtook common sense.

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