Year 29 of the Himmel Era, Gil Village.
Back at Hans's place, the hunter's wife—her violet hair spilling like a waterfall—had already prepared dinner: stew meat cooked until it fell apart, and a few chunks of dark bread.
At the table, Ren made a request.
"Sir… I'd like to stay here for a while."
"Sure, no problem!" Hans said through a mouthful of meat on the bone. "But I don't feed freeloaders."
"I can work," Ren replied with a small smile. "And I'd like the village blacksmith to forge me two swords. I'll repay both the lodging and the smithing costs—one way or another."
Hans set the bone down and studied him with curiosity. "What do you need swords for? You don't look like a warrior."
Compared to a man like Hans—built from years of hunting—Ren did look lean.
"I need to learn how to protect myself," Ren said.
"…Fine." Hans didn't press further. He wiped grease from the corner of his mouth. "I'll put it on my name with the blacksmith. But how do you plan to pay it back?"
"One boar should cover it."
Ren had already done the math based on what he remembered about prices in this world.
---
The next morning, the fog still hadn't lifted when Hans tossed him two sheathed longswords. The leather on the scabbards was already peeling away.
"Old man Gelerte had these two swords stashed away. Five silver coins total. He says that's only because I asked."
"Thanks," Ren said.
He crossed the two swords at his waist and headed out of the village.
He'd asked around at dawn and learned there was a beast nearby called a tusk boar—its meat was prized, it sold for good money, and for Ren, it would make a decent trial.
"Be careful out there!" Hans called.
Ren waved without turning back, and soon his figure vanished into the morning haze.
After inheriting the Hero of the South's physique, his senses and body had sharpened dramatically. In the forest, scattered sounds and mingled scents sorted themselves in his mind as if neatly labeled.
So this is what the senses of "the strongest of humanity" feel like…
It really is something.
Before long, following hoofprints and freshly churned earth, he found the boar's lair.
A roar exploded through the brush.
A tusk boar—nearly the size of a calf—burst out, rancid saliva dripping from its long, sharp tusks.
Ren lowered his stance, his body settling into a fighting posture on instinct.
A scene flickered through his mind—an image of a twin-blade warrior cutting through a battlefield.
Yes.
This feeling.
At the instant the boar was about to slam into him, Ren shifted left and swung.
The boar's massive body carried forward by momentum, charging several more steps before crashing into an old oak with a thunderous boom, shaking loose a rain of leaves.
It twitched twice.
Blood erupted from its throat.
Then it went still.
Ren flicked the blood from his blade and formed a rough estimate of his current strength.
"About… two times of stark's maybe?"
He chuckled at his own sloppy comparison, then grabbed the boar's carcass—hundreds of pounds—and began hauling it back to the village.
With the Hero of the South's physique, dragging something like this wasn't difficult at all.
When he dumped the boar at the blacksmith's doorway, the smith and nearby villagers froze in shock.
"Y-you killed this by yourself?"
Gelerte's eyes nearly bulged. Even an elderly woman inside the shop—likely a family member—peeked out, startled.
Ren nodded calmly. "For the debt. This should be enough, right?"
The blacksmith stared at the clean, decisive cuts and nodded again and again with a grin. "More than enough."
With the boar meat used to settle everything, Ren's life finally stabilized—for now.
Next, he needed a way to slip into Frieren's party.
To deal with Frieren, he'd need leverage.
And the opportunity came quickly.
---
The next day, a plump woman from the neighboring house came to see him, worry written all over her face. She begged him to gather a medicinal herb called Moonlight Grass from deep in the forest—said to be the only thing that eased her husband's chronic joint pain.
"Please, Mr. Ren… it grows on a cliff where monsters nest. No one in the village dares go. But if you can take down a tusk boar, you should be able to handle the beasts there."
Her pleading was almost too earnest.
"No problem," Ren agreed immediately.
For him, it was perfect: practice, and goodwill with the villagers.
The request went smoothly. When he handed over the Moonlight Grass, the woman thanked him profusely—and then, with a conspiratorial air, pressed an old spellbook into his hands.
"This is something I stumbled across when I was young," she whispered. "A spell that makes a woman… fuller. More charming. Treat it as a reward. But the effect only lasts one hour."
Ren smiled and accepted the spellbook.
For a certain elf, this was the kind of magic she'd dream about.
...
More than a month passed in the blink of an eye.
Every day, Ren fought beasts and monsters in the forest, his dual-wielding growing steadily more refined.
At the same time, he didn't forget his real objective.
To reach the Northern Plateau, a First-Class Mage was essentially a passkey.
The Hero of the South's physique leaned toward a warrior's path, but his perception and control of mana were still far beyond ordinary people. So he spent time learning basic offensive and defensive spells from the priest at the village church.
On this day, he said goodbye to Hans's family and traveled to the nearest city—Gréal—to take the mage rank exam.
Gréal was the largest city in the region, and the Magic Association stood at its center.
The exam wasn't complicated: basic theory, practical casting.
After passing, Ren received a parchment certificate stamped with a gilded emblem.
Fifth-Class Mage Certification—the entry ticket required before one could even apply for the First-Class exam.
But the Hero of the South's physique wasn't suited for deep magical specialization. The odds of him reaching First-Class on his own were slim.
Which was why his plan from the beginning had been to rely—just a little—on Frieren's party.
More specifically…
On Fern.
As long as he traveled with them, Fern's status as a First-Class Mage would allow him to pass the northern border checkpoint and reach the Northern Plateau.
Truthfully, he hoped he could accompany them all the way to the Aureole—but he knew the party's "extra slot" was meant for Sein, so he didn't cling to that hope.
...
...
When Ren returned to the village, another ten days passed.
He sat beneath the large tree at the village entrance, polishing the twin swords the blacksmith had just re-sharpened.
In a little over two months since arriving here, he had fully adapted to this world's rhythm. He'd also confirmed something important:
For now, the only power he could synchronize came from statues of the Hero of the South. He couldn't inherit from other legendary figures—Himmel included.
Maybe he had to fully complete one legacy before another could begin.
And judging by the timing…
Frieren's party would arrive today.
Sure enough, three small silhouettes at the horizon gradually sharpened into view.
The white haired elf.
The purple haired mage.
And that tomato-like warrior.
Ren stood, brushed grass from his trousers, and walked forward to greet them.
"Hello," he said. "Great mage Frieren."
Frieren stopped. Her bright eyes swept over him, then she blinked.
"…Who are you?"
"My name is Ren," he answered politely. "A traveler."
Frieren stared at him for three seconds.
Then—zip—she slid behind Fern like a frightened cat, only half her head peeking out, her face showing faint disgust.
"Fern," she said at a perfectly audible volume, "this person smells like trouble."
"We should leave. I feel like we'll get dragged into something weird."
Ren's smile stiffened.
Being rejected to his face didn't feel great.
"Frieren-sama," Fern sighed, looking helplessly at her master. "That's rude. And this gentleman doesn't seem hostile."
"It's not hostility," Frieren insisted, shaking her head. "It's trouble. I hate trouble."
Ren looked straight at Frieren.
"Lady Frieren. I only wish to travel with you for a while."
"Rejected," Frieren replied instantly.
"Just as far as the Northern Plateau."
"Rejected."
"I'll pay," Ren said calmly. "With a rare spell."
He offered the bait without hurry.
Frieren's ear twitched.
The disgust in her eyes turned into curiosity in an instant.
"What spell?"
Ren's lips curved slightly. "A spell that makes you more… feminine. More charming. It lasts one hour."
Fern's expression instantly turned icy. She raised her staff across her body.
"Frieren-sama. This man really is dangerous. Let's go."
But Frieren immediately popped out, grabbed Ren's hand, and shook it enthusiastically.
"Deal."
"Frieren-sama!"
Fern looked ready to explode.
"So we're companions now?" Ren asked, withdrawing his hand.
"Give me the spell first," Frieren said, curling her fingers impatiently.
Ren handed over the spellbook at once.
Frieren snatched it like a cat guarding food, then carefully opened it—completely ignoring Fern's gaze, which could've frozen a person solid.
Stark scratched his red hair and leaned in, whispering to Ren.
"Um… Mr. Ren. How do you know Frieren?"
"I've seen her statue," Ren replied.
"Just from seeing a statue, you recognized her right away?" Stark blinked.
Before he could ask more, a hand suddenly grabbed the back of his collar.
Fern, expressionless, dragged Stark three meters away from Ren as if hauling a contagious patient out of range.
"It's getting late," Ren said, glancing at the sun sinking behind the mountains. "There's only one inn in the village—west side of the square. I'll take you there."
"Mm. Thanks," Frieren said without looking up, already absorbed in the spellbook.
Fern let out a heavy sigh, tugged her hopeless master toward the inn, and as she passed Ren, shot him a glare that had real weight behind it.
As they walked place after place...
They reached the inn quickly.
Ren didn't want to interfere too much with Frieren's party's private routine, so he chose to keep staying at Hans's home instead.
Keeping a healthy distance was the foundation of long-term cooperation.
At dinner time…
Fern, face dark, carried a tray to Frieren's room and knocked. A moment later, her voice—furious but forced down—rang through the hallway.
"Frieren-sama! Please don't test that kind of spell on the inn's bed!"
Down in the lobby, Ren took a quiet sip of ale, listened to the commotion above, and then returned to Hans's house.
*Sigh...*
Early the next morning, Ren packed his bag and waited outside the inn.
Not long after, Frieren's party came downstairs.
Frieren looked refreshed—she was even humming a little tune under her breath.
Fern was puffed up with anger, clearly still stewing.
Stark trailed behind, listless, like he'd been caught in the crossfire of a mage war the night before.
"Good morning," Ren greeted.
"Morning," Frieren replied with a nod.
Fern only glanced at him, saying nothing—still upset about the spell.
"Let's go," Ren said, not minding it. He stepped forward first.