Five Years Before the Era of Himmel's Passing
The Northern Lands.
Fortress City of Roggley.
—
The sunlight was warm today, pleasantly so.
The streets bustled with life. Vendors lined the roadside, enthusiastically advertising their wares to passing townsfolk.
On small stalls one could spot minor magical tools and grimoires of various kinds. Some spells were simple enough that even ordinary citizens could learn and use them. Large buildings were adorned with magical ornaments, subtle enchantments woven into their very structure.
After the death of the Great Mage Flamme, the world she had envisioned — a world where anyone could use magic — seemed to be slowly becoming reality.
Though it could not compare to the Imperial Capital of Auberst in the Central Lands, Roggley was still among the more prosperous cities of the Northern Territories.
Garan walked through the street with a sack slung over his shoulder, humming an off-key tune. Children ran past him in laughter.
As he passed through the city center, his gaze lingered on the statue standing proudly in the plaza — the statue of Himmel the Hero.
He was a reincarnator.
Years ago, an untimely death in another world had sent him here — to this unreal world of swords and magic.
But after inheriting the memories of this body's former owner, he had discovered something shocking.
The original Garan had been a "Shadow Warrior."
Operating under the identity of an apothecary, he had long lain in wait here.
The Shadow Warriors had been a covert organization established during the era of the Unified Empire — a secret force created specifically to counter mages. They were nameless from birth, dispatched across various regions under fabricated identities, blending into society while carrying out assassination missions.
Not hiding within the Empire's borders, but instead sent to the Northern Lands?
Strange…
Yet because of that deployment, he seemed to have been forgotten.
For years, no contact had come. The individual he had originally been assigned to monitor had already died long ago. In other words, Garan was currently… unemployed.
Only the commander who had assigned him knew his mission. Even his identity records had been destroyed before departure.
Perhaps that commander had already died on some forgotten mission.
"That's not so bad," Garan muttered to himself.
Shadow Warriors carried out assassinations. If he were summoned back to the front lines, he might very well die for the Empire shortly after reincarnating.
A quiet life was far more comfortable.
After a long moment, he turned away from Himmel's statue.
At this point in history… perhaps he might even one day see the hero who defeated the Demon King with his own eyes.
He crossed the noisy crowd and followed memory into a secluded corner of the city.
The alley was dim, filled with a peculiar scent — damp air mixed with a faint herbal fragrance.
Garan pushed open an old wooden door.
It creaked loudly.
Inside was chaos.
Unclosed cabinets. Scrolls covered in dense script scattered across a table. Bottles of potions in various colors. Empty liquor bottles rolled across the floor.
The candle flame flickered as the door opened, casting the room in wavering shadows.
"Locke, could you at least tidy up once in a while? One day you'll soak the herbs I ordered in alcohol."
Pinching his nose, Garan looked at the short man emerging from the back room with visible exasperation.
"Heh. You've known me long enough. I've never messed up your orders," Locke replied with a crooked grin, rubbing his hands together. His face was flushed, and he reeked of alcohol — clearly hungover again.
He moved to a cabinet and retrieved an intricately carved wooden box from a hidden compartment. Carefully lifting the lid, faint mist drifted out. Inside lay a violet medicinal flower.
"The Purple Moon Dragon Grass you asked for. It arrived the night before last. Preserving it wasn't easy."
The box was enchanted — Garan could sense the magic woven into it. This rare herb grew only in perilous terrain and would wither within four hours of harvesting. Keeping it viable required considerable skill.
Locke, however, was a well-known underground herbal broker in the Northern Lands. That expertise was precisely why Garan relied on him — maintaining the appearance of an apothecary required access to rare ingredients.
Even if the organization had forgotten him, Garan had long accepted this peaceful life.
"I understand. Including the deposit, I'll give you four Shutrarl silver coins."
It was a steep price — originally three silver. But judging by Locke's expression, he was angling for more. Garan did not argue. Shutrarl silver was among the highest-value circulating currencies, and even at this price, few could acquire such pristine Purple Moon Dragon Grass.
For an apothecary, quality mattered. Even slight degradation could ruin a concoction.
"I knew you were sharp! Doing business with smart people is comfortable," Locke laughed, clearly pleased.
After biting each coin to confirm authenticity, he pocketed them.
"Pleasure doing business."
"You reek… Even if you gave the money back now, I wouldn't take it," Garan said dryly. "I won't need anything else for a while. I'll contact you next time."
He carefully stored the wooden box in his sack and turned to leave.
"Wait."
Locke's eyes flickered as if recalling something.
"Hmm?"
"Yesterday a certain underground mercenary group shoved a… 'hard item' onto me. Interested? But if you look, you can't speak of it. I swear it's not my doing."
That caught Garan's attention.
What could make this seasoned fox call something a "hard item"?
Before dealing in herbs, Locke had trafficked in all manner of gray markets — even intelligence. Much of Garan's early information about this region had come from him.
The way he phrased it suggested something highly questionable.
"Show me."
They entered a hidden chamber filled with rare herbs, magical tools, and curiosities — a collection impressive enough to rival minor nobility.
Garan idly picked up a grimoire titled "Magic That Prevents Mosquito Bites."
"So this is the 'hard item'? I might actually need this one."
Ever since Flamme spread magic among humanity, mages had invented all sorts of peculiar everyday spells.
Exactly the kind Frieren would collect, Garan thought.
"Not that. Over here."
Locke opened yet another concealed door.
Inside the dim room sat only a bed — and a golden-haired girl.
Her long, pointed ears marked her unmistakably as an elf.
She raised her head slightly at their arrival. Her eyes were empty.
Bruises marred her exposed skin. Bandages wrapped her limbs. Blood had seeped through the cloth at her ankle — likely an arrow wound.
Blunt force trauma. Garan could tell at a glance.
"You did this?"
"Hey! I told you, she came like that. The mercenaries couldn't sell her openly, so they dumped the hot potato on me. I bandaged her wounds myself."
Garan said nothing, but disgust rose in him.
Human trafficking had long been outlawed across nations. Yet here, in the borderlands…
Even in his previous world, selling people was unforgivable.
And they dared to capture an elf.
"Her village was slaughtered by demons. She's the sole survivor. Mercenaries hunting in the northern forest found her and seized the opportunity," Locke said, his gaze carrying faint pity.
"I called you because I need this dealt with. I'm no charity. I don't have the time. Elven organs fetch high prices for alchemy, you know. Ten silver. How about it?"
His expression turned unnervingly dark.
At the words, the elf trembled. Her brown eyes, filled with fear, turned toward Garan.
Garan looked at Locke with visible distaste.
He had never used elven organs for alchemy. Even as a Shadow Warrior, he never killed beyond his target list.
"Just kidding."
Locke burst into laughter, the sinister look vanishing instantly.
"I figured if you bought her, she wouldn't end up too miserable."
"…Five silver." Garan raised five fingers.
"Hey! That's not how you haggle!"
"Six. Final offer. If I don't buy her, you'll have trouble moving her at all."
Locke had acquired her from the mercenaries for five.
"…Sometimes I hate doing business with smart people."
After a moment, he sighed.
"Pleasure doing business."