Certainly! Below is the expanded version of your chapter, bringing it to approximately 1,000 words. All original lines and plot details have been kept exactly as they are. The expansion focuses on enriching the setting, internal thoughts, emotional undercurrents, and sensory details, while carefully preserving the original pacing and tone.
A wave of satisfaction washed over Ronan, even though he'd expected this. The feeling crept up on him slowly, settling like warm sunlight on a winter morning. It was subtle but deeply gratifying. Seeing a powerful noble—someone with wealth, soldiers, and the authority to decide the life and death of others—be so deferential to him sparked a quiet thrill. There was something undeniably exhilarating about it. This was respect, unmistakable and sincere, and it wasn't given freely in this world. It had to be earned… or, in Ronan's case, carefully orchestrated.
And it was all thanks to Wind Spirit Moon Shadow.
Without that cheat code—the infinite life, the boundless reserves of stamina, mana, and talent—he would've been nothing more than a novice mage. Even now, he knew that if you stripped away those impossible gifts, he was still far beneath someone like Frieren. She was born with centuries of experience and power at her fingertips. Compared to her, he was just a lucky newcomer riding a wave of hidden advantages.
That knowledge didn't upset him. It grounded him. He wasn't drunk on power, not yet. He understood where he stood and how fragile the illusion could be.
He needed to grow stronger.
Not in the abstract sense, but in real, measurable ways. He needed to close the gap between himself and his cheat-code potential. To reach even a tenth of that strength—just ten percent—would be enough to change everything. With that, he could carve a place for himself in this world. With that, he could survive. Because if the cheat code disappeared one day—and such things always came with consequences—he'd be defenseless without his own foundation.
The thoughts were so intense, so all-consuming, that he barely registered Marco's words. The noble's voice had faded into a soft hum in the background, like a servant's footsteps on polished marble. It was Frieren, sitting beside him with a composed expression, who noticed his distant gaze.
She gently patted his hand.
The sensation was light, almost imperceptible, but it was enough to ground him—to pull him back from the spiraling currents of his thoughts. Her touch was cool and brief, but it carried intention. Calm down. Pay attention.
Ronan blinked, then glanced at her, offering the smallest of nods in thanks. She didn't respond, simply returning her focus to Marco, as if nothing had happened.
"Where were we?" Ronan asked, his voice steady but tinged with a hint of apology.
Marco, perhaps misreading Ronan's brief silence as boredom, offered a polite smile. He adjusted the cuffs of his embroidered sleeves, smoothing the golden trim. "The grain market. Your idea aligns with mine. But I lack the funds to raise prices and attract merchants."
The conversation returned to business, and the noble's tone had shifted slightly—more guarded now, yet hopeful. Ronan sat straighter, clasping his hands in front of him as he considered the words. He glanced around the room, at the marble columns supporting the high ceiling, the elegant chandelier glowing softly above them, the thick carpets that muffled every step. This was not a house without means.
"How much?" Ronan asked directly.
He wasn't one to waste time dancing around negotiations, especially when the intentions were transparent. Since Marco had given him such a precious gift, a rare spellbook that held genuine value, Ronan wasn't going to be stingy. Not this time. Besides, the dynamics had changed. In this world, status and power were fluid. And right now, spending money would earn him something far more valuable: loyalty and respect.
Would showing his wealth attract unwanted attention? Yes, possibly. But the situation was different now. The more money he spent, the more Marco would value him. And if done correctly, that influence could be wielded like a blade.
Marco hesitated.
He shifted slightly in his chair, the cushion beneath him giving a soft sigh. His eyes flicked up to meet Ronan's, searching. There was a pause—a breath held for too long—and then a flicker of calculation. Marco bit his lip, as if weighing his next words carefully.
"Five thousand gold coins. My Miller family can contribute two thousand; the remaining three thousand…"
The sentence trailed off, not from uncertainty, but from discomfort.
Marco's full name was Marco Miller; his family had been nobles for two hundred years. That kind of legacy carried weight in the kingdom's history, a reputation passed down through generations. Yet, despite the years of accumulation and prestige, they could only spare two thousand without damaging the family's financial stability. To ask Ronan—a virtual stranger—for three thousand felt excessive, even undignified.
It wasn't just pride. It was also risk. The grain market was volatile, and though the trade route could become invaluable, there were no guarantees. The return on investment wasn't assured. Marco had prepared for the possibility of failure, but now, in front of Ronan, that gamble felt heavier.
"Three thousand? Too little. Make it five thousand. But I have a request." Ronan was calm.
His voice didn't rise, nor did his expression change. But there was a weight to his words—a clarity that made Marco sit a little straighter.
"I saw your statue in the square. Erect one for us." His gaze was insightful, sharp. "You're trying to boost your reputation."
The room fell quiet for a moment, save for the faint rustle of fabric as Frieren shifted in her seat. Outside the window, a faint breeze stirred the leaves of the estate's courtyard trees. Somewhere in the distance, the faint neigh of a horse could be heard, and the clatter of hooves on cobblestone echoed gently.
Ronan's words had landed with precision.
Nobles sought power, fame, and wealth—those were universal truths. Especially when it came to large investments like this. Ronan didn't believe in pure altruism. It was too rare, too fragile. Most people, especially the powerful, saw the world through the lens of gain. Few viewed gold as meaningless the way he now did. In this world, money was influence. Influence was survival.
Considering his status, Ronan guessed Marco wanted to advance his career. Public favor was a valuable asset. A statue wasn't just a monument—it was a message to the people. Aligning himself with Ronan and Frieren was a calculated move to increase his standing.
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