Although this unidentified individual had died without so much as a clear cause—or even a will—causing countless alpacas to stampede through Allen's mind, it did absolutely nothing to dampen his enthusiasm for looting the spoils. After all, he had finally—somehow—won the fight. How could he possibly let a full set of magical equipment go to waste so easily?
With the belief that wasting things was shameful, Allen immediately bent down and picked up that wooden stick.
Mm. Plain and unremarkable. There was even a chipped notch at the bottom, as if it had been smashed against a rock. Pair it with a broken bowl, and you could probably roam the world as a beggar without issue.
Although the system had zero interest in this thing, there was no doubt it was a genuine treasure—just one whose origins were unclear.
Due to regional differences, wizards across various magical communities used different kinds of wands. In Uganda, some even used their bare hands as wands,² so calling this wooden stick a "wand" was perfectly reasonable. The only regret was that, despite clearly being a fine item and excellent material, it simply did not suit Allen.
A wizard and a wand choose each other. From the day he enrolled until now, Allen's ideals and stance had never changed. His own wand had loyally served him all this time—and had done so brilliantly. Therefore, even if this wooden stick was incredibly powerful, even if it might become even stronger after being processed by Mr. Ollivander, it would not affect Allen's choice in the slightest.
Yes. He was just that willful.
And so, this incomparably powerful wooden stick was tossed into Allen's bag, reduced to nothing more than something to be exchanged for Galleons.
Very good. Next item.
The second thing he pulled out was a tattered straw sack, covered in several magical traps. Fortunately, they were all small-time tricks.
Although spatial folding spells were not standard wizard equipment, reaching Allen's level without mastering such magic clearly meant one wasn't qualified to play in the big leagues. Given that the other party had claimed to have stayed here for over two hundred years, there was no doubt that all of his possessions were stored inside this sack.
The moment Allen excitedly opened it, he immediately flung the bag away—while countless mythical beasts galloped through his heart once more.
Wizards were still very different from cultivators. After all, they couldn't survive without eating or drinking. Sleeping, eating, and relieving themselves were still very much necessary. Although Allen's plan could not be interrupted at will, once the absorption process stabilized, he could definitely leave—much like how Polyjuice Potion needed to be brewed for an entire month.⁶
Humans have urgent bodily needs.
When he couldn't leave, this old bastard had, for the first time in history, invented a so-called divine artifact…
In any case, Allen's heart had completely collapsed. He was in utter despair. Some people, even in death, still insist on disgusting you—and there's absolutely nothing you can do about it. After all, the man was already dead. What could Allen possibly do to him?
After muttering several rounds of bad luck in his heart, Allen cautiously reached out again.
This time, surely there couldn't be a problem with this deerskin bag, right?
A moment later, he set it down once more.
Inside were strips of dried meat and clear water. The man probably only went out to restock supplies once every long while, so everything he stored was like this.
Allen almost felt a little sorry for this unknown opponent. He worked so hard—so how did he lose without even using a single ultimate move?
This was practically dying with eyes wide open! Hanging his head from a beam and stabbing his thigh with an awl for two hundred years, he probably hadn't lived comfortably for more than a few days. And yet, after all those years of effort, everything turned to nothing in a single moment. After striving for so long, he just… breathed his last.
Oh vast heavens, how unfair you are!
Though his mouth and heart were full of sympathy for the old man, Allen's hands never stopped moving.
Time was money, my friend.
Mm. The last bag.
This time, surely there was no way it could go wrong. If something went wrong again, he would truly lose his mind.
He patiently undid the magic sealing the bag and carefully took out the contents.
First, there was a thick stack of papers—this wizard's diary. He decided to ignore it for now. Although the information inside was extremely valuable, it could wait.
A change of clothes.
Get lost. Who would be interested in a filthy old man's clothes?
A shriveled coin pouch so pitiful it made one question life itself.
The gold Galleons inside could be counted on one hand. The Sickles and Knuts together weren't even worth a single Galleon.
And then—
Nothing.
Not even a single Knut.
That was how poor he was.
The bag was so empty that even a rat would cry and run away.
Unwilling to accept this, Allen began flipping through the diary at high speed.
Maybe the old man had written it down because he was afraid of forgetting, right?
The result?
If he hadn't looked, it would have been better. After reading it, Allen's eyes started rolling white nonstop—purely from anger.
Aside from true magical artifacts, most disposable items would expire after a few years, just like ordinary Invisibility Cloaks. As for genuine magical artifacts, they were regarded as heirlooms and were never allowed to circulate casually.
At first, the old man had owned a magical artifact.
Unfortunately, he sold it.
Two hundred years of living expenses were no small sum. He had no place to earn gold over the years, and as for robbing others—something that would attract attention—he would never do that before achieving success.
He had been born into one of the three Servant Families.¹⁰ By the time he was born, the other two had already perished. Although he was extraordinarily talented, in such an environment, the inherited magic of his family was insufficient to satisfy his need to grow stronger.
As for why he wanted to grow stronger and the rest of that melodramatic family history, Allen skipped it all. Anyway, later on, the man began setting his sights on this tomb. Since his family was still relatively powerful at the time, he had to search for another path.
And clearly—
He succeeded.
Half of his earlier claims were true, and half were false. The great being within the tomb had also attempted to revive using the power of Yamata no Orochi,but this man had a sudden inspiration and hijacked that power instead. The magical artifacts placed on the shelves were used by him as a secondary conduit.
Every six months, he would go out once to replenish food supplies, but his money quickly ran dry. To avoid being disturbed by anyone, he even hid from his own clansmen—completely unaware that they had already died out, which resulted in several family treasures falling into someone else's hands.
In order to survive, he had no choice but to sell the only magical artifact he could still use.
And thus, he managed to hold on for this long.
Then—
Hardworking.
Resilient.
Indefatigable.
He died.
This was a very sad story.
As for Allen, there was only one thing he could say:
What the hell.
His luck this time was absolutely atrocious. The treasure chest dropped nothing.
As for the magical artifacts displayed over there, everyone had been watching them the whole time. Unless he decided to stab his teammates in the back, there was no way for him to take them. And for now, Allen had no intention of betraying his companions. That would violate the bottom line he had set for himself from the very beginning—especially since Fox was someone he absolutely had to protect.
Even though it might only be crossing the line by a tiny bit, once you do it once, the next time would likely be worse.
That line was one he would never break of his own accord.
"Poor bastard!"
Allen angrily walked toward the pile of stones.
This was the last thing here that was worth any money.
…..
180+ Advance Chapters on [P]atreon.[c]om/Veltoria [remove brackets]