The era resembled ancient Rome or Greece; clothing was simple white cloth, elegant in its simplicity. Robes draped over shoulders, fastened with bronze clasps. Sandals clacked softly on the sun-warmed stones as people went about their day, baskets balanced on hips, voices rising in the open air. Merchants called out from behind their carts, peddling vibrant fruits, leather goods, and faintly glowing magical implements. The scent of fresh bread and honeyed wine mingled with that of flowers blooming from rooftop gardens.
Ronan and Frieren walked along the cobblestone streets; the bustling marketplace was filled with people.
The clamor of morning commerce created a steady rhythm—footsteps, laughter, barter, the occasional squawk of a caged bird for sale. Ronan's gaze scanned the surroundings with quiet curiosity, his posture relaxed, but attentive. Frieren, more reserved, kept her steps light and close to his side.
Sunlight dappled through the leaves.
Above them, towering sycamores stretched their limbs over the plaza, casting shifting shadows across fruit stands and crates stacked with spell reagents. Light filtered through in rippling patterns, painting the street with flickers of gold. For all its resemblance to the classical past, the town pulsed with the quiet hum of magical devices embedded into the walls—sconces that glowed without fire, enchantments reinforcing crumbling stone.
Passersby glanced at Frieren; she was accustomed to such stares. Elves were rare.
Their elongated ears, ethereal beauty, and ancient grace marked them as other. Some stared with curiosity, others with unease. Children paused mid-play, mouths agape. Older townsfolk whispered, their eyes lingering just a moment too long. Frieren, used to the attention, ignored it entirely. Her mind was elsewhere.
She was pondering something: did high-temperature magic require a staff?
Her brows furrowed slightly as her thoughts drifted back to their recent travels. Every detail of Ronan's casting played back in her memory like a scene from a theatre—repeated over and over.
She'd observed Ronan's spellcasting several times on their way.
The process was always the same: fast, precise, unembellished. There were no chants, no focus objects, no dramatic gestures. Just—
Whether it was a small bird or a mountain-sized griffin, a snap of his fingers was enough.
She had initially assumed it was flair—style for the sake of presence. An affectation meant to punctuate the moment. But over time, she realized it wasn't about spectacle. It was mechanical. Measured. Intentional.
She knew it was a subconscious gesture, enhancing presence, not power, but it was still too easy. Anyone could do it.
At least, anyone could mimic the motion. The magic, however, remained elusive. She traced the principles mentally, trying to reverse-engineer the technique. Her fingers twitched involuntarily at her side.
"Still thinking about that?" Ronan asked, seemingly reading her thoughts.
She blinked, pulled from her musings, and turned to glance at him.
"Don't worry; such magic is unique… no, all magic is unique. Like the water magic you taught me."
His tone was calm, almost philosophical. He wasn't dismissing her concerns—only shifting the frame.
He looked up, lost in thought.
His gaze lingered on a tree branch above, where a pair of doves fluttered and cooed. He spoke slowly, choosing each word with care.
"Because it requires imagining water vapor condensing, it's usually used as a water cannon, attacking with force. But there are exceptions: water needles, water bullets."
Images flashed through Frieren's mind: jagged ice shards ripping through armor, narrow streams slicing through wood, pinpoint strikes that outmatched blunt force.
He paused, then continued. "Remember what I taught you yesterday? With equal power, the smaller the surface area, the greater the damage. This applies to water and temperature. Instead of expending mana to heat the surrounding area, use less mana to heat the target internally. This increases efficiency and stamina. Even a genius has limited mana."
He tapped his temple with a finger. Efficiency. That was the crux of his teaching. Not just overwhelming force—but focus, control. Precision.
Frieren understood.
The logic clicked into place. The beauty of it wasn't in complexity but in simplicity, the kind of clarity that cut through layers of dogma.
Because the mana consumption was low, a staff wasn't needed.
The staff had been a crutch—useful, but not essential. She had overestimated the importance of channeling objects.
She'd been wrong, assuming that more mana equaled greater power.
It was a common belief, perpetuated by academies and war mages. Bigger spells, louder spells, more dramatic effects—that was how mastery was measured.
That wasn't incorrect, but in the early days of magic, who would have thought of ratios?
They hadn't needed to. Survival demanded power, not elegance. But times had changed.
Her mistake was treating that as absolute truth, ignoring other possibilities.
She pressed a finger to her lips, mind still spinning with recalculations.
If this method were widespread, it would revolutionize magic…
Her pace slowed.
—Revolution…?
The word echoed inside her like a chime.
She froze.
One hand hovered over her satchel as she stood amidst the flow of the crowd. The realization weighed heavier than she'd expected.
Why a revolution?
That was the question.
Ronan had simply reduced mana output and targeted weaknesses.
Simple, yes. But simplicity in hindsight was always deceptive. Revolutionary ideas often were.
Why was this so important? Why was it unknown?
Her eyes narrowed. Was it truly oversight… or suppression?
She found it both baffling and logical.
The two thoughts warred in her head. The world of magic was old, yes—but not immutable.
She looked at Ronan with a mixture of awe and curiosity.
He was different. Not just powerful. Not just knowledgeable. But different in how he approached problems.
"Where did you learn this? Why haven't I heard of it? It's strange. If humans had known this, magic wouldn't be stagnant."
Her voice was steady, but urgent.
"Strange?" Ronan smiled. "Not at all. Having knowledge centuries ahead and not achieving this would be a failure for a time traveler. People weren't stupid; they lacked the insight. Before machines, who would have thought water could cut steel?"
He spoke with the calm of someone who had already made peace with such paradoxes. To him, this was all obvious.
He was simply standing on the shoulders of giants.
There was no arrogance in the statement—just honesty. He wasn't claiming invention, only application.
He said nothing more, walking quietly into the bustling marketplace.
The conversation was over. The crowd swelled around them once more. Smells of roasting chestnuts, caramelized fruit, and faint ozone from active enchantments drifted past. Ronan's pace never changed.
Frieren, forgetting her earlier thoughts, was captivated by the magical tools, her eyes wide with wonder.
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You can read advance chapters in my: p@treon.com/Veora
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