You, lost shut-in… don't blame yourself too much… Not wanting to work hard is the world's fault. A rotten nature is the environment's fault. Being ugly is the fault of your genes. Don't reproach yourself—just shift the blame onto others…
Cough, cough—sorry, wrong script.
That said, nothing about it was actually wrong. All Allen wanted was a splash of clear water to wash their faces—and if the water happened to be a bit excessive, that certainly wasn't his fault, right?
As the magic circle lit up, the young wizards who had been trying to drag Allen away to take cover witnessed a scene as if thousands of wizards had cast Aguamenti at once. From the glowing formation beneath Allen's feet, torrents of water burst forth like wild horses freed from their reins, surging nonstop in the direction his wand pointed.
The flow was fierce and sudden. As a result, the ring of onlookers who had been happily spectating became the first unfortunate victims—swept straight into the raging current. If not for others reacting quickly and yanking them out with magic, they might have become casualties of the riot—friendly-fire casualties, no less.
Still, once rescued, none of them were angry. Allen had deliberately restrained the magic within the water; at worst, they'd just taken an involuntary bath.
"Wow—go, Allen! That's some serious water pressure! Give those idiots a good face-wash!"
"Exactly! They've gone completely mad—I refuse to believe this won't sober them up!"
Suddenly, someone seemed to remember something. He hurriedly rummaged through his luggage, pulled out a potion bottle that looked nauseating at a glance, popped the cork, and poured it straight into the water.
"Hahaha! This is my very first successfully brewed Bubotuber Pus Potion—I've treasured it for ages. Time to give those guys a little surprise!"
His explanation earned nods of approval. Getting dragged out in the middle of the night to pack up because of lunatics—who would be in a good mood after that?
Seeing such clear water rushing by without adding a little flavor would be a terrible waste. Not spicing it up just wouldn't do.
Potions was a compulsory subject at Hogwarts, and students capable of brewing independently were plentiful. For hard-earned successes, most people kept a few bottles as mementos.
Naturally, during the frantic packing, those treasured potions surfaced—and fueled by simmering anger, they were poured in one after another with oddly satisfying glug sounds.
All mAnnier of bizarre potions collided and reacted within the summoned torrent. The resulting changes were impossible to predict—even for the greatest potions masters. Amid the cheering and jeering, more and more concoctions were dumped in, producing ever stranger transformations.
Maintaining the spell, Allen desperately wanted to free one hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead. What are these little demons doing?! This potion-laced wave was rapidly approaching weapon-grade lethality. He had painstakingly suppressed the spell's power to avoid injuries—so no one could use it as an excuse to withhold his money! Sure, this was satisfying, but wasn't it completely undermining his effort?
Just then, a local professor assigned to assist rushed over. He had intended to prevent students from getting hurt—only to find a whole group still gathered here instead of evacuating. Wasn't this sheer recklessness?
"Children! Listen to me—the headmasters are already having capable professors brew paralyzing potions. The disturbance will be quelled soon. You must abandon this camp now—it's become dangerous. Otherwise—"
The professor broke off mid-sentence when he saw the massive water flow Allen had summoned, and the students beside it tossing ingredients in like they were seasoning a festival stew. He froze completely.
The cheering crowd also fell silent. As exhilarating as this was, it was obviously against school rules. This was no longer crisis management.
"Oh—children," the professor said at last, a mischievous smile spreading across his face. "Why didn't you suggest such an excellent solution earlier?"
He pulled out a large bottle of potion. "This was prepared in advance—meant for emergencies if they tried to damage any ancient structures. But now…"
His hand slipped. The bottle fell neatly into the torrent.
"Ahem. Since the situation escalated far too quickly, the water we summoned unfortunately swept up several potions that couldn't be retrieved in time. A tragic story—but I'm sure the headmasters will understand."
"Yes, yes—exactly!" a student chimed in solemnly. "My poor hemorrhoid ointment that I couldn't pack in time!"
With that, the bottle in his hand also dropped into the water.
As Allen's magical reserves neared exhaustion, the leading edge of the torrent finally reached the oncoming marchers. It didn't take effect immediately—those at the front reacted quickly, casting spells to block the first wave.
Instead of watching the outcome, Allen hurried straight over to the professor.
"Ahem—dear Professor. Are you… interested in some glory?"
The professor hesitated.
Allen then raised his voice so everyone could hear. "Right—so who handled this just now? Wasn't it this brave professor who, at the critical moment, led us students in casting Aguamenti to stop the riot?"
The crowd below looked baffled. Wasn't that Allen's spell?
But someone caught on quickly. "Of course! Absolutely right! And the professor even generously treated us to some drinks—uh, I mean, wheat juice." Remembering the night's cause, he hastily corrected himself.
Realization spread through the crowd. What they'd done was excessive. Even with the professor's assurance, nothing was guaranteed—but pulling him in solved that problem. For the professor, this wasn't blame; it was honor—the honor of resolving a campus emergency.
Soon, voices echoed: "Yes, that's right!" "Exactly—no problem at all!"
Most of those remaining were students familiar with Allen. Anyone inclined to oppose him had already withdrawn—who would stick around to gamble on whether his spell would change the situation?
The professor was tempted.
This was simply too perfect. Resolving the crisis at this moment would solidify Mahoutokoro's professorial image—pure profit, no loss. As for the rioters, even if the potion-laced flood hurt them a little, it could easily be suppressed. As a native local professor, he knew the headmaster would fully support him—troublemakers made excellent sacrifices for a positive public image.
"Is… is this really acceptable?" the professor asked cautiously.
••┈┈┈┈┈༓┈┈┈┈┈•••
100 Power Stones = Bonus Chapter
160+ Advance Chapters on P@treon(.)com/Veltoria