Allen, who had just finished showing off his cuteness, now acted completely calm.
What happened to being cute? I rely on my face to make a living—that's my ability! Even if the results aren't always obvious.
Is it shameful to rely on your own strengths to survive? Of course not. On the contrary, Allen was quite proud of it.
After leaving Snap Pulse Clothing Store, Allen continued wandering down a narrow alley that ran alongside it.
In this alley, a few shabbily dressed wizards were sitting on the roadside, casually setting up their stalls.
These products looked just as dusty as their owners. Some were defective items discarded by shops, others clearly came from questionable sources. It wouldn't be an exaggeration to call them fakes.
But after all, this was Diagon Alley—not Knockturn Alley. These were, at worst, smuggled goods. They weren't bloody stolen relics or anything as serious as that.
Naturally, the prices here were far cheaper. But buying anything required sharp eyes and experience. Otherwise, these down-on-their-luck wizards wouldn't hesitate to sell you trash disguised as high-end goods and gleefully rip you off.
And forget about trying to show off your skill by finding treasure here. These stalls sold magic materials, not artifacts or antiques. The latter were banned from public sale. If you wanted those, you'd have to dig around in the back alleys and under-the-counter markets.
Finding truly valuable magical materials here was unrealistic. Most of the real stuff had already been taken by the wizards who discovered them—and they knew exactly what their worth was.
Except Allen.
Because Allen had a skill the others didn't: a special eye for discerning truth from illusion.
He walked through the crowded alley, which was hidden from the main streets but still full of people. For some reason, he kept sensing eyes on him.
Probably just the burden of being too handsome, right?
He whistled softly, letting his sharp eyes scan the knockoff goods around him.
After ignoring some of the more obviously dubious items like [Unicorn Horn], [Dried Fire Dragon Heart], and [Acromantula Fangs], Allen stopped in front of one particular stall and picked up a jar labeled [Dragon Blood].
The price tag made him raise an eyebrow—50 galleons a pint.
A joke.
The going price for real dragon blood was at least 150 galleons per pint. This ridiculous price gap clearly meant something was off.
It was said that dragon blood was even more expensive than dragon liver. Allen never really understood how wizards priced these things—after all, blood could be drawn continuously over time, unlike organs.
Allen crouched in front of the stall, letting his eyes drift to the vendor's bandaged arm for a moment.
"Don't sell this stuff," Allen said, pointing at the bottle. "It's way too fake."
The vendor barely looked up. "Fifty galleons a pint and you expect the real thing? Kid, you must be dreaming."
He didn't even bother to lie—just laid it out bluntly.
Allen didn't answer right away. Instead, he smiled as he looked at the suspicious-looking bottle of dragon blood.
Because to his eyes—his special, analyzing eyes—it wasn't just a fake.
[Dragon Blood (mixed with a lot of impurities)]
So, it was technically dragon blood—but heavily diluted and mixed with who knows what. Its value was slashed drastically, but the genuine component couldn't be denied.
Which told Allen something important.
Someone here had access to real dragon blood. And considering the quality of the mix, maybe—just maybe—this very vendor had pure stock stored somewhere.
But that wasn't all. Allen turned his attention to the stall owner himself. Floating just above his head was a stat Allen paid close attention to:
Hunting Level: 85
That was no joke.
A wizard of that level had power comparable to Professor McGonagall.
Which made Allen suspicious.
With strength like that, why would someone like him be peddling diluted blood and dusty fakes in an alley?
It would be easier for someone that powerful to obtain the real thing directly, rather than fake it.
"Let's cut the small talk," Allen said. "I want real dragon blood. How much for it?"
The vendor gave a raspy laugh. "You? What do you want it for—playing house? Don't waste my time. If you're just here to talk big, get lost."
"That doesn't make sense," Allen said, unbothered. He pulled out a pouch and poured a small pile of glittering galleons into his hand. The golden coins caught the sunlight and sparkled, immediately drawing the eyes of everyone nearby.
"You don't need to worry about why I want it. Just answer me—are you selling it or not?"
The vendor stared at Allen for a long moment. Then a slow grin stretched across his face.
"Kid, you've got guts," he said and suddenly stood up.
Allen's pet, Black, flapped his wings in alarm at the sudden movement and tried to fly off, but Allen caught him mid-air and tucked him safely under his arm.
It was then Allen realized the vendor had been curled up the entire time. Hidden under his oversized cloak, his true height had been completely disguised.
Now standing, the man towered over Allen. He was at least two meters tall—twice Allen's height of 1.4 meters.
Allen had to tilt his head all the way back just to look at the man properly.
"My real stock is stored elsewhere," the vendor said with a crooked smile. He brushed aside his messy hair, revealing a face covered in hideous burn scars.
Allen, who possessed the Dragon Breath ability, immediately recognized the nature of those scars.
They were from a dragon's breath—direct exposure.
"Follow me if you dare," the man said flatly.
With that, he turned and walked away without looking back, leaving his stall and its contents completely unattended.
Allen blinked, then followed quickly. "Aren't you going to take your stuff?"
"It's all junk anyway," the tall man replied coolly.
The two of them—one large and one small—walked side by side and slowly disappeared into the depths of the alley.
Back at the stall, the surrounding vendors watched them leave, eyes filled with something like pity.
They seemed to want to speak, maybe even stop Allen, but in the end, no one moved.
Then, their gazes turned to the "garbage" left behind by the tall vendor.
Like a pack of hyenas sensing weakness, they pounced.
The fakes, dismissed by the man as worthless, were immediately scavenged, divided, and stuffed into nearby stalls. Fights even broke out as a few vendors tried to grab the same item.
After all, even counterfeit goods had value.
If you found someone clueless enough, those fakes could still be sold for a decent price.
And making a small fortune off a fool?
Now that was real wizard business.
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