In theory, archaeology contributes immeasurably to cultural preservation. Yet, as a tomb owner, there's no doubt this wizard would not want anyone digging him up again—whether Muggle or wizard.
So, the moment Allen and his team stepped from the worship room into the actual tomb, attacks began. That seemingly hollow chamber was far from a safe haven; on the contrary, it was a vicious trap.
Magic leaves traces. For ordinary wizards, detecting them is difficult. But the stronger a wizard, the deeper their understanding. Dumbledore could locate weak points in Voldemort's Horcrux defenses with a few attempts, even without prior experience. While the wizards in Allen's team weren't on that level, they could still notice anomalies.
Thus, in this room, there were no magical traps. Instead, Muggle-style mechanisms were employed. As Allen's group cautiously reached the center, a barely audible creak of stone triggered dozens of unknown liquids to spray toward them.
If this were an ordinary grave robber team, those liquids would have hit without fail. But Allen's team, though accompanied by three seemingly ordinary wizards, were real experts. Halfway through the spray, a wizard flicked his wand, and the liquids froze mid-air, falling harmlessly to the floor.
It all happened so fast that Allen's half-shouted warning to "collect it" never even finished leaving his mouth. Of course, that was also because by the time he sensed something was wrong, it was already too late.
A trap designed to target wizards could never be so simple. Flicking a wand to repel liquids was instinctive for skilled intruders. This liquid has to be dangerous.
Indeed, as the unknown liquid hit the floor, a rustling sound rose from beneath the ground.
Whatever it was, it was bad news. Without looking back, Allen grabbed the fox and bolted.
What? Turn back and face it head-on?
Not a bad idea—but make sure no one stabs you in the back while doing so.
Among the five, Allen didn't know anyone personally. The others were ancient, nearly a hundred years old fox wizards, working in this… grave-robbing line of business. Expecting gratitude for saving a life? As likely as pigs growing wings. At least with magic, the latter was remotely possible.
They had all joined forces out of necessity. Show too much strength, and during the loot division, someone might try to swipe your share with a flick of a wand. Trusting them? Forget it. Allen knew he wouldn't be responsible for anyone who got themselves killed out of ignorance. This wasn't a picnic.
Clearly, everyone thought the same. After all, they were millennium-old foxes. No one's playing ghost stories here.
Actually, it got worse. The three wizards exchanged glances, ready to run together. Their logic: the fox brought someone in, but his skills were untested. Facing the unknown, he might panic, revealing his true strength.
Yet, even with someone in tow, Allen ran faster than if his feet were coated in oil.
Dead allies, living self. That proverb fits perfectly in the magical world. While the others exchanged looks, Allen had already sprinted, pulling the bewildered fox along. Using Yasuo's ability, he could move with minimal magic over the stone floor at incredible speed.
He didn't run too far, nor did he maliciously block the path. He stopped at a reasonable distance—ready to watch the show, or provide long-range support.
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Meanwhile, the previously flat floor of the room erupted with holes. Tens of thousands of brown beetles, awakened from underground by the mysterious liquid, began scuttling toward the intruders. Clearly—they were hungry.
Considering how long the floor had been laid, Allen guessed something horrifying: these creatures had likely been set in place since the tomb was first built.
Over the centuries, they had not starved. Naturally, Allen assumed they were extremely hungry—and violent.
In the wizarding world, ancient things were the most valuable and powerful. Considering the true age of these little beasts, Allen, shamefully, thought about capturing them for sale. After all… antiques.
He might have considered other things, but the remaining three wizards had no time for that.
As the stories say: if you meet a bear in the forest, you don't outrun it—you let someone else take the brunt. Now, they were the bait. Though companions remained, the beetles blocked the escape, leaving them as grasshoppers on a string.
Escape was impossible—so they fought. The three wizards exchanged glances, unleashing three distinct spells from their wands: a wall of fire, a toxic mist, and a stream of acid.
The fire wall burned nearly white-hot. Even steel would melt into molten metal under it. Two meters high, three meters wide, and half a meter thick, CRACKLE, the fire incinerated everything in its path—like roasting soybeans.
The wizard releasing the toxic mist relied on a classic green cloud, dense enough to make one's scalp tingle. Allen gave him a cautious glance. A poison expert is rarely a good guy.
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