Alberta was certainly a man with a story—a story as deep and layered as the burn scars that covered his entire body.
But Allen wasn't interested in digging into Alberta's past. He only needed to know that the man was reliable. And from Alberta's words and actions, Allen had already confirmed his trustworthiness.
Though Alberta was engaged in illegal smuggling, he still upheld a sense of moral justice. He preferred to pay rent to live in a run-down shack rather than take up a space on the wall near the street where the rent was almost nothing. That stubbornness spoke volumes.
He had grit. He had values. He held justice close to his heart but wasn't blinded by idealism. To Allen, that made him an excellent and comfortable choice as a partner for future dealings.
Stepping out of the dilapidated shack, Allen immediately noticed the shift in the air—the weight of eyes watching him. It was one of the perks brought on by enhanced nerve reflexes, similar in effect to a sixth sense.
Following the source of the gaze, Allen spotted an Auror standing guard at the border between Diagon Alley and Turnover Alley.
The Auror held his wand at the ready, his entire posture alert. But when he saw Allen, a flicker of surprise crossed his youthful face. That astonishment quickly softened into a knowing smile. The Auror nodded at Allen in acknowledgment.
A decent Auror. Judging by his expression, he must have noticed the rat-like man entering the shack earlier but was unable to intervene due to his duty. If Allen had shouted from inside, the Auror might have rushed in to help.
It seemed the Ministry of Magic still had its competent forces. Maybe the real incompetence lay with the Minister of Magic and his clique of sycophants.
Despite just having bought contraband, Allen didn't show the slightest hint of guilt. With a generous nod to the Auror, he turned and walked away from the secluded alley—dragon's blood in hand.
Allen left feeling content, but Alberta, still inside the shack, was in no such peaceful mood.
He stared at the rat-like man, who remained on his knees, semi-conscious. Alberta's thoughts circled around Allen's final words before leaving. His expression was complex.
Time passed.
Eventually, the rat—known in certain circles as Mouse—stirred awake. Groaning, he clutched his face the moment his eyes opened.
"Hiss…" Mouse winced, gasping in pain. "Damn, my face... What the hell just happened?"
Alberta's eyes narrowed as he remembered Mouse's behavior just moments ago.
A nearby thug stepped forward and grabbed Mouse by the face, lifting him up like a ragdoll.
"What were you trying to pull just now?" Alberta's voice was cold as steel. "Trying to abduct someone right in front of me? You've got guts, I'll give you that. Did you forget I was here?"
"Uuuuuhhhhhhhhhh!!" Mouse's voice was muffled by Alberta's palm. Struggling to breathe, he finally found a small pocket of air and ignored the pain to whimper, "Alberta! Don't forget—it was me who fed you when you were down and out! You ungrateful bastard!"
That sentence made Alberta pause. Just as he was about to strike, he hesitated.
For a moment, he stood still, clearly torn. Then with a frustrated grunt, he raised his arm and hurled Mouse across the shack.
"I hope this is the last time I see you in Diagon Alley," Alberta bellowed. "Get out!"
Mouse rolled several times before stumbling to his feet, dazed. He was just about to spit out a curse when he looked up—and froze.
Not far away stood the young Auror, still on duty, and staring straight at him.
A frequent visitor to Turnover Alley, Mouse instantly recognized the danger. He shuddered and bolted, tail between his legs, not daring to linger a second longer.
…
Back at the bar, Allen had no idea that Alberta had completely severed ties with Mouse. Allen had only intended to keep Alberta at a professional distance—sometimes, the crooked road yields better results than the straight one.
But Mouse? Allen didn't care if he vanished entirely.
His thoughts were focused elsewhere—on ingredients.
Today had been a stroke of luck. Not only did he get a bottle of dragon's blood essentially for free, but he also found a cheap, reliable supply channel for rare ingredients. In Allen's mind, this harvest was on par with receiving an acceptance letter to Hogwarts.
"Dragon's blood... What should I make with it?" Allen mused, returning to the bar and contemplating possible recipes. He activated his Eye of Analysis to examine the properties of the dragon's blood.
Dragon's Blood (Norwegian Ridgeback)
Hunting Level: 72
Special Abilities:Explosive Dragon Breath A (inactive in ingredient form)Magic Resistance BPhysical Resistance A (inactive in ingredient form)
Properties: High-temperature resistance, compatible with magical ovensSo it came from a Norwegian Ridgeback. A rare and dangerous breed among fire dragons. Materials from this species were almost impossible to find on the market, for one very simple reason: hunting Norwegian Ridgebacks was illegal.
"Tsk, tsk. Alberta's got skills," Allen chuckled. "He even got his hands on Norwegian Ridgeback blood. If I ask him to get some dragon liver, that shouldn't be a problem either."
Joy spread across Allen's face. But then, as he continued analyzing the high-temperature resistance property of the dragon blood, his eyebrows furrowed into a knot.
When it came to blood as an ingredient, Allen had no shortage of ideas. In the past—especially when high-quality ingredients were scarce—blood, rich in nutrients and trace elements, was often used. Countless civilizations had their own blood-based recipes.
But no matter how he sliced it, no known method seemed to suit dragon blood.
In the kitchen, Allen carefully poured a single drop of the deep red liquid from the bottle. It clung to his fingers and shimmered under the light like a polished ruby.
Then, a spark ignited at Allen's fingertip. Magic surged through him. The sparks flickered orange, then deepened to blue as Allen poured in more magical energy. Finally, a miniature blue flame enveloped the tiny droplet.
And yet… nothing happened.
Despite being wrapped in Allen's dragon-breath fireball—an extremely high-temperature spell inspired by the flame of the Australian Opaleye Dragon—the droplet remained unchanged.
Not even a slight deformation.
Meanwhile, large beads of sweat rolled down Allen's forehead. Controlling such a flame consumed an enormous amount of magic, and Allen couldn't hold it much longer.
But the properties of the dragon blood had become clear.
Frying? Useless. Roasting? Pointless. Even the dragon's breath—the most intense flame available to him—couldn't cook it.
This was no ordinary ingredient. This was the culinary equivalent of a riddle wrapped in a puzzle and dipped in lava.
For more chapters
patreon.com/Albert213