The sudden, critical blow of emotional overload hit Allen out of nowhere, leaving him drowning in a massive wave of "couple fluff."
Wounded by this real damage, Allen staggered back to his own tent, clutching his heart.
Meanwhile, Shane and the others were still playing cards and chatting. Seeing Allen return, they waved him over and glanced curiously behind him—By Allen's usual competence, Marshall should've come back too, right?
Yet when they looked, there was no one trailing behind Allen.
Strange. Shouldn't he be here? Did Allen leave that poor bastard behind?
"Allen—where's Marshall? You didn't leave him there, did you?"
Allen responded with a sharp roll of his eyes. Of course I didn't leave him there. Who do you think I am—a lantern post?
And the lantern post wasn't just a lantern—it came with occasional deliveries of sufficiently heavy dog food. Who wants to stare at whom? Allen has no intention of enduring that.
He smirked. "Do you really need me to say? If you're curious, just go over there and watch—you'll see everything." He gestured toward the previous direction. Why would I hog this dog food alone? Of course, it's a shared experience.
Given the way the two were clinging to each other, it was only a matter of days before they'd be showing their affection in public. Watching now wasn't too extreme.
Is this really happening?
The remaining students were stunned. One by one, they abandoned Allen and rushed to watch the scene unfold—earning an eye-roll farewell from him.
About half an hour later, Allen, after washing up and flipping through a book, saw the "single dogs" returning, each battered by over a thousand points of real damage. Their late-night snacks were clearly unnecessary—they were already stuffed with dog food.
Much later, Marshall returned to his tent. The poor kid was still tipsy, yet a blissful smile lit his face—extremely irritating to the onlookers. Unfortunately, before they could interrogate him, he collapsed on the carpet and let out a loud sigh, leaving no opening for questioning.
"Hey! Marshall—wake up!"
Not a flicker of movement. Even after a few nudges, he remained unresponsive, continuing to emit long, contented sighs.
The group of singletons exchanged glances and abandoned the interrogation plan. We'll corner him tomorrow instead.
After a long day of chaos, they were exhausted. After exchanging goodnights, everyone returned to their respective modified tents (yes, Allen and friends had an extra tent—a heartwarming story). As for Marshall on the floor—well, the carpet was soft enough. Who cared?
======
The next day it dawned clear and bright.
Though the students bragged about how their headmistress once magically dispersed a storm, many hoped to witness a typhoon firsthand, curious about her mysterious power. Yet clearly, she wasn't some circus performer. Besides, even if a typhoon appeared, it wouldn't pierce the dense protective spells around the school—there was no need for the headmistress to intervene.
Allen believed this. During America's magical crisis, wasn't a magically conjured rainstorm the key to salvation? Sure, it was thanks to magical creatures, but someone had to engineer that spell.
Yes—engineer that kind of magic just for fun. This isn't easy.
The range alone would demand an insane amount of magic, not to mention research into gestures, incantations, and spell components. Preparing materials alone could be a nightmare—think of Voldemort's resurrection ritual. Enough said. Wait—Allen remembered a visit to Wakanda, where large-scale weather-altering magic existed. Wizards really know how to play. He muttered quietly, resuming his research while the tent modifications continued.
Before long, others woke up, greeting Allen while heading toward the largest modified tent, which now had a washing area for their use.
The noise finally woke Marshall, who had slept on the floor all night. Stretching his sore muscles, his face was eerily calm.
"Marshall—you're awake!"
Everyone expected him to react excitedly after washing, ready to tease him. Yet his face showed no joy, no embarrassment—only tranquility.
This unsettled the group. What? Didn't he succeed yesterday? Why does he look so grim?
Facing his curious tentmates, Marshall sighed:
"Enough—don't comfort me. I can handle what happened yesterday. I just need some peace to accept it."
He sighed lightly and began packing up, leaving a mess of awkward roommates behind.
"What's going on? Last night he was fine!" Allen broke the silence. "Did anything change while you were gone? Why is he like this?"
"No—nothing changed when we left!" others responded, baffled.
"Did you annoy the girls? Did they get mad?"
"Don't be ridiculous—they might have hit us at most. They wouldn't really be angry."
"Maybe Marshall said something he shouldn't have. His IQ has been dropping rapidly lately…"
"Possibly—let's just watch and see. We can't help much anyway. Let's pack up and head to class."
In reality, Marshall's emotions were stable. He even complained about being left on the carpet, sore all over. But seeing his forced smile, Allen decided not to tease further—he's not in the right state.
However, when they reached the classroom, everyone, including Allen, was stunned—
It was a fourth-year class, yet someone unfamiliar was present.
They all knew her: Alisa, a fifth-year Hufflepuff prefect. She scAnnied the curious gazes around her, flustered at first, then steely, letting her eyes sweep the room. Under her gaze, the fourth-years trembled. The authority of a prefect, combined with years as the Hufflepuff girls' leader, was overwhelming.
Allen and the others were left dumbfounded—what kind of operation is this?