"Of course we can, Professor. Taking credit for this incident is a merit to you—but to us, it's completely useless. On the contrary, if those guys end up affected by the potions, that would be a huge problem. So if you're willing to help us deal with that mess, it would really be for the best!"
Allen cautiously raised two fingers, signaling two hundred Galleons—fully prepared to be turned down. He wasn't actually expecting the number to stick.
"That's far too much! How about one thousand Galleons! That's the absolute limit of what I can afford—any more and I simply can't bear it!"
The professor's teeth-gritted roar startled Allen badly.
Are Mahoutokoro's benefits really this good?
Even a professor is this rich?
Allen put on a thoughtful expression, conveniently blocking the view of the few shameless fellows behind him who had been utterly shocked by the number.
"Alright, deal. Today's solution was entirely your proposal, Professor. That point is beyond dispute."
In the end, Allen forcefully suppressed his excitement and spoke with deliberate calm.
A hint of joy flickered in the professor's eyes. He swiftly pulled out a small pouch and handed it to Allen.
"Good. Straightforward! Here—these are the Galleons. Once you sign the contract, the money is yours."
The contract itself was extremely simple, without even decorative patterns. Clearly, the other party didn't want Allen and the others were hesitating. The punishment clause was mild as well—merely having the words 'Betrayer' appear on one's face for a month. It seemed to be a simplified oath artifact unique to Japan, and surprisingly practical.
Including Allen, all nineteen of them quickly signed their names and collected a bulging bag of Galleons. They turned around and left without the slightest hint of attachment.
The money's already in hand—why wouldn't we split it right away?
Soon, the group relocated to another spot. Galleons were poured out from the tiny pouch, piling up into a glittering heap.
With a flick of his wand, Allen divided the pile into twenty portions.
"Alright, alright—time to split the money! I'll take two shares, everyone else gets one. No objections, right?"
To his surprise, as if rehearsed, everyone spoke in unison:
"Of course we object—this split is wrong!"
Marshall stepped forward first. He redistributed some of the coins from each pile, forming the largest share, and handed it to Allen.
"We all saw it. That spell of yours cost a fortune in Galleons. How could we let you take such a huge loss?"
Nothing more needed to be said—finding this many brothers in one lifetime was rare indeed.
Allen felt his eyes welling up…
But just as the others swiftly pocketed their shares, they all extended their hands toward him at once.
"Ahem, Allen—well, you've got money now, right? So… about the Galleons we lent you earlier. Time to pay up."
The tears that hadn't yet fallen evaporated instantly. His creditors' outstretched hands went straight for the Galleons he hadn't even had time to warm in his arms.
Stop! You beasts—my money!
Allen and his group were having the time of their lives. The professor who had bought merit with money was just as delighted.
Yet everyone overlooked one small detail.
The students who had just been struck by the water.
Of course, there was no chance for them to turn things around.
Blocking the first wave of water didn't mean they could withstand what followed.
More precisely, if they had known what was coming next, they might have regretted—at the very first moment—why they insisted on stopping that initial surge instead of letting themselves be scattered.
As the first wave crashed in, the young wizards cast a chaotic barrage of defensive spells. But under the relentless follow-up assaults, those defenses shattered almost instantly. And the moment the shields broke, the once-clear water began to change color.
The first to arrive was pure yellow water. Those splashed by it immediately started bubbling slightly—because the potion had been diluted too much to retain much effect.
But this was only the beginning of the nightmare.
Mixed-color streams followed one after another. The group was scattered, and when they regained consciousness, it felt as if they had been struck by dozens of vicious curses at once—there wasn't a single place on their bodies that didn't ache.
Just as they tried to flee, the final wave plunged them into despair.
Though the paralysis potion wasn't potent enough in quantity, it slowed their limbs several times over. Those attempting to escape moved as sluggishly as if they were already seventy or eighty years old.
At that moment, the wizards who had been trailing them from afar finally realized something was wrong.
Having completed its mission, the water lost its momentum and turned the ground into a muddy quagmire, further hindering their movements. The arriving wizards, however, easily cleared the path with spells.
But they had no intention of playing healers.
Their private possessions had just been reduced to ashes in a sudden fire.
To avoid causing a larger disturbance, they refrained from using magic—but fists were still a perfectly effective weapon.
"Hey, Jack, my good buddy—didn't expect me to show up, did you?"
"Oh—thank Merlin, Seven! You're an angel right now! Hurry and undo these disgusting curses—I can barely use magic anymore. Your timing couldn't be better!"
BAM!
The sound of a fist colliding with a stomach rang out.
"You've got the nerve to say that?! Do you have any idea what you've done, you bastard?! My three-year complete Playboy collection!"
BAM!
"You shameless! Filthy! Despicable! Lewd bastard!"
Each pause between words was punctuated by another heavy punch—clearly, Seven had reached the limits of his tolerance.
Similar scenes unfolded everywhere.
Let us politely ignore the wails about body pillows and strange dolls.
Even the arrival of prefects failed to stop the frenzy. In fact, they looked away with visible approval, giving those who had lost everything ample time.
After all, their own belongings had suffered greatly in the riot as well. The fact that they weren't personally joining in was already out of respect for their positions.
When the beating had more or less run its course, one of them finally shouted:
"Students, the school's assistance team has arrived! While we understand your deep concern for your friends and your desire to rescue them, it's clear that we must now leave this to the professionals. Please cease all attempts at counter-cursing—we will take responsibility for them."
Stretchers swiftly carried the troublemakers away.
As one particularly notorious prefect was lifted out, he weakly gestured for a classmate to lean closer.
"Save me with everything you've got, alright? I'll bring them all to support you and you'll get a huge sum of Galleons!"
"Sorry," came the reply, devoid of joy. "Diga, you're finished. I've never seen the headmaster this angry. No matter how tempting your offer is, no one would dare step in."
A classic case of the rabbit dying and the fox grieving.
Yet at the same time, another figure was beaming with excitement.
All three headmasters had highly praised his decisive actions, and the happiness on his face overflowed like sunlight.