Although the saying "the best defense is a good offense" isn't entirely precise, there was no doubt: once the opponent was dealt with, defense became a trivial concern.
So when the sand, sent flying in chaos, finally settled enough to see clearly, the Ilvermorny wizards noticed something unusual—after the attacks subsided, the sand mounds weren't merely chipped or worn, but had been sculpted like stone under a master craftsman's hand, taking on entirely new forms.
The shapeless sand mounds now resembled human figures. Not lifelike, but recognizable—they could be called sand soldiers. In their hands, long spears formed from compacted yellow sand glimmered like gemstones at the tips. The reflected cold light betrayed their sharpness, while the magical energy coursing through them sent chills down one's spine.
"Damn it—what is this?! Are these statues created by Transfiguration or magically controlled puppets?" Seven sand soldiers caused a shock among the Ilvermorny wizards. The earlier attacks seemed almost playful against them, raising doubts: did the last wave of spells alone create these things?
The answer was no. Even thinking purely from a magical perspective—like Professor McGonagall's protective enchantments over the Philosopher's Stone or Dumbledore's magical defenses against Voldemort—this was something else entirely. These were not mere puppets but sand soldiers imbued with the fighting will of Sumerian warriors.
With a subtle wave of Allen's wand, the sand beneath his feet turned pale, rapidly drying and yellowing as a gust of wind swept across the area. Unlike a sea breeze, it carried no moisture or salty scent, only a dryness that seemed to suck the moisture from skin.
The wizard at the front shouted over the howling wind: "Brace against this wind! My magic is disappearing!"
Too late—the seven sand soldiers vanished into the gust and reappeared at the enemy's flank. Hundreds of grains of sand shot forward like swords. The first wizard who had shouted, caught unprepared, lost an arm—the very hand holding his wand.
One glance, and a wizard fell.
But that was just the beginning. The spears of the sand soldiers plunged in unison.
Visible ridges of sand surged from the ground and exploded among the Ilvermorny wizards. Dust filled the shields they had raised against the sandstorm, covering a third of the enemy.
When the yellow haze cleared and shields fell away, Headmaster Charlid's face darkened. The enemy's strength exceeded his expectations.
As the remaining wizards hurriedly dragged their gravely injured comrades and reinforced their shields, Allen plunged both hands into the sand.
The vast sand began to churn like an angry sea. Small whirlpools formed, initially tiny but rapidly growing in speed and intensity, giving the clear impression that anyone caught within would be pulverized.
With a gentle push, Allen sent the massive vortex surging toward the enemy shields. He was ready to end the battle.
Unexpectedly, the shields shattered far faster than Allen had anticipated—they crumbled like paper, as if unguarded.
Strange… have they given up?
Allen restrained some of his power. His goal was to subdue, not massacre.
He had no personal grudge against these wizards. Killing them would create unnecessary complications for Mr. Auror, compromise their agreements, and put Allen in a very awkward position. Not to mention, killing for mere money? Ridiculous.
Even Mr. Auror would not have condoned mass slaughter.
As Allen's vortex breached the shields, Mr. Auror shouted from behind: "Don't kill them! Show restraint!"
Following his employer's directive, Allen stopped, letting the vortex halt after breaking the defense.
Seizing the moment, Mr. Auror moved a few steps ahead, fearing Allen might overdo it—though the enemy had targeted him, his position prevented total elimination.
As an Auror, his greatest wish was to strengthen the magical world he served, which explained why he had risked so much to secure authority.
Though these wizards wanted to kill the four prisoners, he couldn't allow them to die. Losing so many would throw Ilvermorny into chaos. The deaths of these professors would delay wizarding development by at least seven years, weaken high-level magical forces in the Americas, and destabilize the region.
Moreover, as the legal superior of the U.S. Magical Congress, the British Ministry of Magic had a vested interest in this large magical market. Mr. Auror had to protect them.
If Allen killed everyone, he would become an eternal criminal.
Unfortunately, they didn't understand his intentions.
As Mr. Auror lunged forward, a few unforgivable green spells shot from the center—Avada Kedavra.
The deadliest weapon in wizard dueling. Only Harry Potter had ever survived it head-on.
The enemy had sacrificed all defense, even risking wizards' lives, to unleash a decisive strike at the most opportune moment—legality be damned.
Fortunately, Allen was ready. The seven sand soldiers collided with Mr. Auror, absorbing the fatal spell. The Auror was saved in the delay.
Good—killing wasn't my plan anyway.
Allen's face darkened, prepared to strike.
Yet his movement was stopped—Mr. Auror held Allen's leg, blood trickling from a collision, a grim smile on his face: "And spare them… for our friendship."
A momentary hesitation, then magical waves swept across—they all vanished via Apparition.
Allen glanced at Mr. Auror, shook his head, and sheathed his wand, abandoning pursuit.