To be honest, at first Allen felt a flicker of nervousness about the arrival of the others—after all, the terrified expression on Mr. Auror's face had left a deep impression on him.
Even though Allen had fought to a standstill with this opponent before and was confident he could easily defeat Mr. Auror, it didn't stop him from giving a little extra caution to an opponent that Mr. Auror himself respected. However, this time his judgment was off.
The scene looked chaotic, and Mr. Auror was struggling badly—but to Allen, all of this was utterly trivial.
To be precise, the pressure from these people was only slightly greater than that of the fox he had faced before. Once he concealed his identity and could freely use magic he had previously held back, the trouble these people could cause seemed even lighter.
In the end, it was Dumbledore's fault.
Dumbledore had been far too strong, leaving Allen with the illusion that any headmaster must be formidable.
But reality told him otherwise—the position of headmaster wasn't what made them powerful; it was the individual. Take Karkaroff, for example. Even as headmaster of Durmstrang, nearly on par with Dumbledore, he was chased around like a rabbit by Voldemort.
Previously, Allen had overlooked this, but the current headmaster reminded him clearly: there are also weaklings among headmasters.
Although Allen could probably suppress Mr. Auror handily in a one-on-one duel, the Auror was still too weak—weak enough that Allen shook his head with pity, slipped into spectator mode, and poured himself a cup of hot cocoa. His stomach felt cold after being in that rickety truck for so long.
Forced out of his spectator mode, Allen casually set the cup down and effortlessly blocked the enemy's opportunistic spells with his own magic. His expression remained relaxed, completely without strain.
Even a fool would know something was wrong—anyone acting so flashy on a battlefield generally had absolute confidence, because anyone without real skill would have already been obliterated.
"Friends on the other side—these are Ilvermorny Academy personnel at work. If you leave now, you will earn the friendship of Ilvermorny!" The attack halted briefly as Headmaster Charlid shouted.
Worried Allen might not understand English, he quickly repeated the warning in Japanese. Clearly, they didn't want unexpected variables on a stabilized battlefield. Mr. Auror and the escaping students could have been easily caught, but if delayed by even a few minutes, escape might be possible—the people in front clearly had the capability to make this happen, and they didn't want to waste time.
Of course, at this moment, they hadn't anticipated another terrifying possibility: being beaten so badly that they would have to retreat in disgrace. Absurd—how could that happen?
Allen, wearing a face altered by a complex potion, scoffed. Friendship? What a joke. Even if they offered him a thousand Galleons, he wouldn't betray Mr. Auror—their bond was worth at least ten thousand!
Obviously, they couldn't match that, so Allen lazily tapped his wand on the ground.
With each tap, the sand at their feet began to churn like water being boiled. Out of the bubbling sand, a few malformed sand mounds slowly rose, growing barely distinguishable arms and legs as they climbed out.
Allen's demeanor gave no hint of negotiating or surrender.
At the very first bubbling of the ground, a massive wave of magic shot toward him. Allen merely sidestepped a few paces—the subtle motion alone caused the flying attacks to miss entirely. Not a single spell even touched his shield. He had assessed the trajectories and found a position utterly unreachable by their attacks.
Wizarding magic has almost no auto-targeting. With skillful movement, one could dodge even Avada Kedavra. Though the speed of these spells was extreme and no one had successfully dodged them before, Allen's ghostly footwork posed no problem.
This dodge left Mr. Auror dumbfounded and the attackers stunned. Such moves exist?
Fortunately, as the commander of these wizards, Headmaster Charlid remained composed. Seeing his wizards terrified by Allen's ease in dodging, he bellowed:
"Don't stand there! This is a battlefield! The opponent is an enemy! Stop aiming so precisely—attack randomly in that area! Your concentrated attacks are what allowed that fellow to succeed!"
True to a headmaster's instinct, he had hit the point—but his command wasn't late; it was fundamentally wrong from the start. Late commands can be excused; a wrong foundation cannot be corrected.
Allen was now using the heritage he had preserved at school—the Emperor of the Sands's legacy.
Once reclaimed, its power was explosively strong. Normally unusable, it was no problem now since Allen had already integrated traditional wizarding methods into his fighting style.
When the enemy launched their second wave, forming a net-like assault, the sand mounds had fully emerged and moved to shield Allen. Spells hit the sand and sent particles flying into the air.
"Damn it! You cowardly turtle! Despicable fellow!"
The most hot-headed attacker shouted in frustration. One sand mound alone had blocked spells capable of hitting Allen—and with the number of mounds, the enemy realized this turtle was practically unkillable.
Concentrated firepower? A joke—the opponent's agility was clearly visible. Even if they tried to focus, Allen could dodge it all.
The problem: quickly ending the battle was impossible. Behind, Mr. Auror's face showed a satisfied smile. He could tell this was secure. Ten minutes? Half an hour? Allen could hold it no problem.
Yet they were all mistaken—Allen had never intended to defend; he had chosen to attack.
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100 Power Stones = Bonus Chapter
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