Martha's idea was reasonable, grounded in common sense. But Allen, unfortunately, was not someone who fit into the realm of common sense.
In Allen's opinion, his past was far from a hardship. Even during the harshest winters, he could survive in the wild on his own skills. That was still better than starving in the orphanage.
Martha knelt down so she could look Allen in the eye and gently brushed his light blond hair.
"Then, do you want to consider coming to your sister's place for Christmas?" she asked with a hopeful smile.
"I'm afraid that won't work," Allen replied helplessly. "It's not something I can just decide."
He wasn't even sure if he'd be allowed to leave the school during the holidays.
"Alright." Martha gave a small sigh, sharing in his helplessness. No matter how much she wanted to, it was impossible to take a student out for the holidays. "Then we'll say goodbye here. But remember to come and say hello to your sister before school starts again."
Martha affectionately patted Allen's hair again, still clinging to the dream of one day bringing him home.
"Okay," Allen replied happily.
Allen's new clothes were an instant hit.
Everyone who saw him in them had something to say. Those with low emotional intelligence would simply comment on how beautiful and unique the clothes looked. But those with high emotional intelligence would praise Allen's aura, saying it elevated the outfit and made it look especially noble.
Allen wasn't someone who cared much for compliments, but he did appreciate wit. So, in return, he offered discounts—selectively—to those with high EQ.
Yes, it was what you might call a "selective reward for loyal customers," but oddly, those selected always happened to be emotionally intelligent.
So people with high EQ were just... lucky. (laughs)
After finishing up the day's food sales, Allen removed the apron he was wearing, grabbed the coat from the hanger beside the counter, and prepared to return to his room for a well-earned rest.
Today, the main item sold was blood sausage, but not the usual semi-finished kind. This time, Allen did a secondary processing himself. These were smoked blood sausages—smoked with applewood and seasoned with a touch of apple cider vinegar.
The feedback was excellent.
Even though the wizards had already marveled at the magical effects and taste of Allen's semi-finished products, they found that Allen's fully prepared versions were somehow even more delicious.
Once again, Master Ai turned down invitations from wealthy wizarding agents and headed back to his room after a long and productive day.
Bran, his pet crow who was bored inside its cage, squawked in greeting the moment Allen entered. It flapped its wings energetically and flew toward him.
At this point, Bran had officially leveled up—evolving from the pitiful "Five Scumbags" grade to Level 15. Its feathers now carried a bluish hue, and the oil coating its surface had become even more lustrous. Standing under sunlight, Bran sparkled like a polished gem.
This evolution brought significant improvement to Bran's appearance—successful, by pet standards. It no longer looked remotely edible.
Allen looked up just in time to see the now-slightly-larger Bran attempt to perch on his shoulder. Without hesitation, Allen reached out and pinched the base of its wings, holding it mid-air like a chicken.
"Grah? Graaah?" Bran tilted its head up and let out a pitiful, questioning cry.
"These clothes are brand-new," Allen said flatly. "They are not for you to use as a stepping mat. You've been hopping on my shoulders for a whole month."
Even though the suit had various protective enchantments—including anti-staining—it was still new. Allen always made sure to wear an apron when cooking to preserve its condition.
"Grah!!" Bran nodded furiously and motioned to be let go, its eyes full of panic. Allen's grip and expression gave the distinct impression that it was seconds away from being sacrificed like poultry.
Allen didn't release him immediately. Instead, he stared with his usual analytical gaze.
[Crow: Bran]
Hunting Level: 15
Special Abilities: Hatred A+, Solidification Curse B
Traits: …
[Hatred A+] – This ability allows the user to lock onto any person or animal that has interacted with either the user or any creature related to the user. It provides real-time tracking and cannot be blocked by anti-human-trace spells.
Bran's abilities had clearly upgraded. While Allen wasn't fully sure of the changes in effect, tracking-type spells typically improved in range and sensitivity.
This made Bran the ultimate punishment bird for anyone who dared to talk nonsense behind Allen's back. If someone dared to write something offensive in a letter, Allen could show up the very next day, stand before them, and say, "Repeat that to my face."
He tossed Bran back into the cage, hung his windbreaker on the coat rack, and sat down at his desk to jot down some thoughts about a new recipe involving dragon blood. After making some notes, he stretched and prepared for bed.
The life of a wizard was surprisingly dull—like Muggles from the last century. After dark, their options were limited: sleep, engage in certain... human activities, or just drink and boast at the bar.
Muggles, buried in their glowing screens and constant information flow, seemed to live in a different century altogether. Wizards, despite all their powers, lived lives eerily similar to the Middle Ages.
Allen often relied on small Muggle technologies to improve his quality of life.
He lay in bed. On his left, he could still see the soft glow of the Muggle world through a gap in the curtains. On his right was Diagon Alley—dim, quiet, and outdated, despite the occasional flickering lights. There was no comparison.
Allen turned toward Diagon Alley and sighed. If the lights were just a little dimmer, he could fall asleep more peacefully.
He told himself that once he graduated from Hogwarts, he would definitely choose to live in the Muggle world. But of course, he'd still return to the wizarding world from time to time—it was, after all, much easier to make money here.
Just as he was starting to drift off while imagining his future, a loud bang echoed from downstairs.
Allen and Tom had already complained multiple times about the noise levels. But after living here for over half a month, Allen had become numb to it—as long as they didn't start smashing walls.
This time, however, the noise abruptly stopped. The silence was oddly relieving, and Allen's brows relaxed.
But then, just as suddenly, an ear-piercing, almost celebratory cheer erupted from below.
The calm vanished. Allen kicked off his blanket in irritation and got out of bed, grabbing his windbreaker again.
Were these drunkards downstairs insane?
If they kept this up, tomorrow's dishes might just send them all straight to the anorectal ward.
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