Just as Allen was about to leave, the mouse that Alberta had thrown into the corner suddenly spoke.
"Mr. Cecil!" the mouse shouted, "You're Mr. Cecil, right?"
Allen stopped and turned to look at the mouse. "Do you know me?"
"Come on now, who doesn't know you? Your bounty on the black market has risen to 50,000 Galleons," the mouse laughed, stood up from the ground, and blocked the door.
50,000 Galleons?
Alberta abruptly raised his head and stared at Allen with astonishment in his eyes.
"Mouse, are you out of your mind? Why would a kid be worth that kind of money? Did he offend someone powerful and get a price put on his head?" Alberta asked, puzzled.
"Heh, you've got it all wrong. Those people don't want Mr. Cecil dead. In fact, they're desperate to keep him alive—unharmed, even. Think about it, Alberta. That's 50,000 Galleons! Not 500, not 5,000—fifty thousand!"
The mouse's throat moved as he swallowed nervously, clearly excited. "Just one job, and you'll be rich!"
Allen remained silent, merely glancing back at Alberta.
Alberta's eyes reflected a storm of inner conflict, clearly battling with his conscience.
This was beyond Allen's expectations. He had only made a few dishes, and now someone had issued a black-market bounty for him? Apparently, the special effects of his dishes had aroused some people's greed.
Now he understood why he always felt eyes on him while walking down that alley. The passive effect of [Breath Concealment] must have been working overtime.
Looking back, he realized that to some wizards, he had probably looked like a walking 50,000-Galleon jackpot. That price was even higher than Sirius Black's wanted notice. [Breath Concealment] was impressive, but without actively turning it on, it couldn't suppress the greed of men for 50,000 Galleons.
Surprisingly, security in Diagon Alley must be quite decent. No one had made a move to kidnap him—yet.
Now, after hearing the mouse's words, Allen finally understood.
Then he looked again at Alberta.
Fifty thousand Galleons—a life-changing amount. Enough for anyone to take risks.
So what would Alberta choose? He seemed like someone in need of money.
Allen quietly watched the struggle on Alberta's face, while keeping an eye on the mouse, who was already getting restless.
He had to prepare for the worst—Alberta turning on him. He'd be flanked from both sides, and although the mouse wasn't difficult to handle, Alberta's magic could be a real threat.
"Go!" Alberta panted heavily, as if he had just made a huge decision.
His eyes were bloodshot. He waved Allen off with a weary expression. "If you know you're worth that much, don't walk around so casually next time."
This man's character was difficult for Allen to assess. He was so noble it made Allen feel a little ashamed.
But just because Alberta was noble didn't mean the same applied to the mouse.
As soon as Alberta spoke, the mouse jumped up, unable to contain his greed. He reached into his robes and pulled out his wand.
"Well, if you don't want it, Alberta, I'll take this fortune myself. Don't worry, I'll give you a commission," the mouse sneered. He stretched one hand toward Allen, while the other aimed the wand, ready to cast a spell.
As an alley veteran, the mouse knew he was no match for Alberta—who could slay fire dragons like nothing. So he never intended to fight him. All he had to do was grab the golden pig and run.
He wasn't an expert at Apparition, but he figured he could manage. Even if the process was painful, he wouldn't let the golden goose escape—not even with a scratch.
"Damn it!" Alberta cursed, but it was too late to pull out his wand. The mouse's hand was already reaching for Allen's shoulder.
The black crow let out an anxious cry and flapped its wings in a rush to protect its master.
But before it could even get there, Allen turned his head and looked at the mouse with undisguised disdain.
Are you kidding? With a D-level [Neural Reflex Enhancement], his reflexes were nearly double that of an average human. How could a scrawny, malnourished rodent like this guy possibly catch him?
Allen simply stepped back to dodge the filthy hand, scooped up the frantic black crow, and—without any flourish—delivered a swift, resounding slap across the mouse's face.
Snap!
The crisp sound echoed through the room.
The mouse spun in place like a top. When he finally stopped, a bright red handprint burned across his cheek. The shape was flawless—five fingers and half a palm, crystal clear.
The mouse stood dazed, blinking. He knew he'd been slapped, but couldn't comprehend how a small, delicate hand could hit so hard.
Was this kid a giant in disguise?
His knees gave out and he dropped to the floor. Allen calmly retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his hand clean, and tossed the cloth onto the stunned mouse's face.
"Sorry for being rough with your friend," Allen said to Alberta, "but he was really too jumpy. You don't mind, do you?"
Alberta was still in shock and didn't respond until Allen's voice snapped him out of it.
"He's not my friend," Alberta said quickly, his eyes drifting to Allen's slender arms. "You're really strong."
"I was born with supernatural strength," Allen replied, shaking the bottle of dragon blood in front of Alberta. "Our deal stands—90 Galleons per pint. And this isn't just a short-term arrangement. I think you're a good person. We can consider long-term cooperation."
He glanced disdainfully at the mouse. "Someone like him has his uses, but don't lower yourself by associating too much. You're better than that."
"You..." Alberta's expression grew complicated.
He no longer saw Allen as a clueless brat unaware of how the world worked.
Fifty thousand Galleons—not even the son of the Minister of Magic could command such a bounty.
The mouse's greed and recklessness had, unintentionally, given Alberta insight into Allen's true value.
Not only that, but Allen's calm demeanor, strategic thinking, and confident pride had left a deep impression on him.
"Any questions?" Allen raised an eyebrow.
"90 Galleons is too cheap. Shouldn't we raise the price a bit?" Alberta asked in a negotiating tone.
That was a good attitude—at least he was no longer treating Allen like an ordinary child.
Allen smiled, pleased by the shift, and casually responded, "Dream on."
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