Frieren: Reincarnated as an Immortal Human

Time slipped away.

The chaos of the earlier encounter had faded, leaving behind only the memory of ash and heat that still lingered faintly in the air, like an aftertaste of fire. The street had long since fallen quiet, its silence now replaced by the faint echo of footsteps as Ronan and Frieren calmly walked alongside the guard. Despite the wreckage they'd left behind, they moved without haste, as though nothing unusual had occurred.

Their boots crunched softly over cobblestones dusted with fine gravel, and the sunlight filtering through the narrow alleyways cast elongated shadows that stretched before them. The occasional breeze stirred loose scraps of paper and leaves along the path, but the tension from earlier seemed to have dissipated entirely.

During their walk, Ronan learned the guard's name: Martin. A rather plain name, but it carried unexpected weight.

Martin, as it turned out, was no ordinary guard. He was the nephew of Lord Marco, the influential noble who governed the region. That connection explained the expensive equipment and the air of importance the man carried. Though not particularly strong in combat—at least, not compared to Ronan—Martin's status gave him undeniable leverage in local affairs. His armor, a gleaming set reinforced with runes, shimmered subtly as they walked. His weapon, which now hung limply from his belt in broken pieces, was forged from dwarven mithril—a material so rare and prized that many kingdoms would pay fortunes for a sliver.

Dealing with petty thugs, it seemed, had always been child's play for Martin. That changed today.

The encounter with the pugilist had left his armor dented and his weapon shattered. Yet, Ronan noticed something odd—there was no real distress on Martin's face. No panic, no shame, not even frustration. Instead, the man walked with calm resolve, as if the outcome had never truly mattered.

Ronan narrowed his eyes. And then he saw it.

The armor—though previously battered—was quietly restoring itself. With each step they took, small runes along the plates shimmered, pulsing with soft light. Crushed segments began to straighten, cracks sealed with faint glowing lines, and scratches vanished as if time itself had reversed them. Within minutes, the armor looked as if it had never seen battle.