Baboucarr, having parted ways with Harry, was now leaning against the stone wall and his heavy breathing was condensing into white mist in the air.
Thick vine-like tendrils, as wide as a finger, wrapped tightly around his body. The poison from the thorn-vines had paralyzed his muscles, leaving him unable to move.
But Baboucarr's mind remained clear. He blinked, his gaze fixed on Wade Grey, who was busy working in the center of the chamber.
This fourteen-year-old boy had never been taken seriously by most. Everyone thought he had some talent, but surely he wasn't good at fighting—his temperament was too gentle.
After all, a person's energy is limited. If someone had studied alchemy to such a profound degree, how could they possibly have the spare capacity to delve into other fields?
And what kind of people were alchemists usually?
Before meeting Wade Grey, almost every wizard, when thinking of an alchemist, would conjure up a certain image in their mind:
Wearing glasses, shabby and unkempt, muttering all day about obscure knowledge no one else could understand, often acting nervously and erratically.
Physically frail, rarely interacting with the outside world, socially awkward, and seemingly naive. At times extremely stubborn—once they set their mind on something, they would never change it easily.
And greedy… insatiably greedy.
Alchemy was an expensive pursuit. Nicolas Flamel could transmute gold, and Terrence Murray was skilled in business, holding shares in many companies. But aside from those exceptions, most alchemists were perpetually short of money, always scheming to earn more.
So, if other wizards wanted them to repair something—say, a Foe-Glass or an Invisibility Cloak—they had to be prepared to pay an outrageous price.
Alchemists were typically bookworms, scholars, inventors. Those with more modest skills were at best, craftsmen—the workhorses of Aslan's magical workshops. But never, ever warriors.
Yet it was only when Baboucarr found himself utterly trapped by Wade that he realized—mastery of alchemy alone was enough to render others completely helpless.
He fought against the drowsiness brought on by the paralyzing poison, forcing his eyes wide open to watch Wade.
The black-haired boy sat on the steps, murmuring incantations too faint for anyone to catch with his wand tracing patterns through the air.
The plants in the chamber, once still, now moved to the rhythm of his wand. Vines peeled away from the walls, moss curled upward like a rolling carpet, pebbles shifted across the floor, and a clump of nameless weeds bent low, pulling its roots out of the soil.
Tiny insects, no larger than fingernails, tumbled out, scattering in panic across the ground.
In the dim light, more and more magic dolls began to take shape. Wade didn't bother to refine their appearance; every new creation was made in the form of a scorpion. The moment they hit the ground, they scuttled with sharp clicks toward the walls, ceiling, and entrance of the chamber.
Suddenly, Baboucarr felt a chilling touch at his temple.
With effort, he rolled his eyes and saw a scorpion doll the size of a palm crouched beside his ear. Its tail-stinger swayed dangerously close to his neck. Though the dolls had no "eyes," Baboucarr still felt the unnerving sensation of being watched.
"Wade… you… why…" Baboucarr croaked hoarsely. "You… already… have… the golden egg…"
The final doll landed on the ground. Wade put away his wand and let out a sigh.
"Why do you all like to ask this kind of question? There can only be one champion. Sooner or later, I'll have to eliminate the others anyway. Since that's the case, what's so hard to understand about me trying to reduce future obstacles in advance?"
Of course, there was no need to tell him that part of Wade's purpose was also to display his strength, to prove the value of an alchemist, and even to demonstrate the simple method of creating magic dolls.
Being seen as a harmless lamb had its advantages—it let one overturn the table when the opponent least expected it. But it also meant enduring the contempt and misunderstanding of others.
Those emotions were like tiny thorns piercing at one's pride—not truly painful, yet leaving a constant, subtle discomfort.
But Wade was not someone who could only rely on "pretending to be weak" in order to defeat his enemies.
Being underestimated had its benefits; but showing power, inspiring awe—was that really nothing but a drawback?
Reputation itself is like a spell: it could directly be transformed into strength, wealth, and influence. It was an invaluable intangible asset, worth more than gold.
As Wade spoke, a group of scorpion dolls crawled onto the stone dais, stuffed the golden egg inside their now-hollow bodies, and then scurried away at great speed.
The ceiling of the chamber loomed like a pitch-black dome, swallowing all light. The stone walls were rough and full of cracks, where the scorpion dolls hid themselves, nearly impossible to detect.
The rustling noises came and went, like dried leaves blown across a meadow. Cold sweat drenched Baboucarr's forehead.
All around him… above his head… how many of these dolls were there? Dozens? Or hundreds?
Though crudely made, easy to destroy with a single Fire-Making Charm, how many warriors could withstand an ambush from such an inescapable web of hidden troops?
An alchemist… an alchemist like Wade Grey… with just one person, he could turn himself into an entire army in the blink of an eye…
Baboucarr strained his eyes and stared into the dark and empty corners of the chamber, listening to the faint sound of wind drifting through the passage. A thought crept into his mind: Why has no one stopped this? Haven't the judges seen what's happening here?
Confusion deepened in Baboucarr's eyes.
Hoarsely, he whispered: "But… the rules…"
"Yes, the rules of the tournament."
Wade couldn't help but smile. He looked at Baboucarr as though gazing at a silly child.
"When the match begins, you're only allowed to bring your own wand. Each competitor may carry no more than one golden egg, and must return with it. Tell me—which of these have I broken?"
Baboucarr: "…"
His mouth opened and closed, but his paralyzed brain was too muddled to form words.
"The rules don't forbid a champion from creating magical constructs in the arena, just as they don't forbid us from summoning other forms of aid—like broomsticks—or transforming into animals."
"Spells, potions, transfiguration, defensive magic, even dark magic—none of these were explicitly banned. So why, of all things, should alchemy alone be forbidden?"
Wade spoke unhurriedly: "The rules also don't forbid champions from attacking one another, setting obstacles for their opponents, or even forming alliances. Thirty-three competitors, only sixteen slots—that's clearly meant to encourage competition and combat, isn't it?"
Baboucarr stared at him, feeling as though he was slowly being convinced.
Even though he was still hanging helplessly on the wall.
What he didn't know was that the very same question he had raised was also the subject of heated debate among the judges watching the match.
Some demanded that the Aurors from the Ministry of Magic stop Wade Grey immediately, even declaring that his actions violated the rules and should disqualify him. But others insisted his conduct did not break any rules at all.
By the time Wade finished speaking, the headmasters who had been pounding on the judges' table in fury had all fallen silent. Their faces looked ugly, but none pressed the argument further.
If only the staff of the schools and the Ministry had been present, they might still have twisted the rules to benefit their own students.
But with the entire wizarding world watching this competition, the headmasters had their pride to consider.
Still, as they looked at the swarms of scorpion dolls on the screen, despair showed in the eyes of many.
Meanwhile, Abby and the others remained completely unaware—discussing tactics in hushed voices as they approached the chamber Wade had prepared.
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