A long history can be terrifying—because you never know what kind of things someone might pull out from some forgotten corner.
For Muggles, it could be a precious chamber pot passed down through generations, or perhaps the personal toilet paper of some important figure. Selling such things could make a tidy profit. After learning a bit of cunning, one might mix in some tems that actually came from last week, fooling half-knowledgeable collectors, and suddenly you're rich.
For wizards, it's even scarier—having a seemingly worthless object in a wizarding family is hardly unusual. Even Voldemort's maternal grandfather—or great-grandfather, depending on how you count—despite living in poverty, still possessed the Resurrection Stone, one of the three Deathly Hallows, and Slytherin's locket.
The Weasley family, though normally strapped for cash, easily borrowed a crown made by goblins when Fleur married in. Goblin-made items were always top quality—no exaggeration. Even the mighty Gryffindors used goblin-forged daggers.
And this club? Despite giving Allen the impression that they were unreliable for various reasons, the items they displayed were genuine magical artifacts—not modern mass-produced tools or decorative trinkets, but real inherited magical objects. They may have looked like cheap junk from the outside, but their magical essence was intact.
Magical artifacts often defy appearances—those that look grandiose usually aren't. This isn't a joke.
How much stored magic could a flashy item really have? Look at the Elder Wand, the Invisibility Cloak, the Resurrection Stone—the most powerful sets often look plain. Even the Invisibility Cloak seems a bit sci-fi, but Harry's first impression was that it was old yet well-preserved, meaning its appearance was nothing special.
"Allen-san, these are our club's testing artifacts—though they are only simple magical items, they hold great significance for the club. Almost every member is selected based on their performance with these items. Your task is to retrieve the emblem inside before evening without breaking the outer protective magic. This is far shorter than the usual full-day allowance for normal members, but it is a rule we've inherited, and I trust you understand—"
The professor introducing the items suddenly froze, eyes wide, as if struck by a sudden shock. The others were equally stunned.
The reason was simple: the moment the professor said these were "testing artifacts," Allen's hand couldn't help itself. He grabbed one, and to prevent any strange curses, he added a thin protective shield from Morgana.
Then, the emblem fell out. The professor hadn't even finished explaining yet.
Allen had been treating this shield as an upgraded version of a Shield Charm—after all, it's a professional magical shield that nullifies any magic until broken. Even the Killing Curse, before breaking the shield, would only inflict magical damage, not instant death.
The artifact's protection was clever but non-lethal—it was meant for testing, not killing. Someone solving it meant admission to the club. So it was just a simple protective barrier.
Unfortunately, even the creators hadn't imagined this: one day, the item would encounter a rogue wizard immune to all magic—even protective spells.
If it were a shield with minor counterattacks, fine. But a non-offensive magical artifact? Allen's shield bypassed it completely, and the well-preserved emblem dropped out effortlessly.
Yes—it was that simple, that unreasonable—and it left the flustered professor and surrounding members dumbfounded.
Without this incident, the professor would have continued explaining average times to solve the artifact (eight hours) and the fastest record (one hour), boasting slightly about completing it in one hour and three minutes—almost tying the previous record.
But now? Forget it.
Thankfully, Allen didn't mention it—otherwise, the professor's face would have swollen with embarrassment.
Something meant to take hours had been solved with a mere touch.
Wait—Allen suddenly remembered something. In the club's history, one artifact had failed during a previous exam because the protective shield hadn't fully reset, allowing several extra people to pass. Could this be similar?
It was hard to say. If Allen took half an hour, they'd just call him a supergenius. But under a minute? That was excessive.
Clearly, the members thought the same. Allen's rapid success completely undermined their proud testing system—it looked like a joke in front of him.
Sadly, Allen, after a brief thought, simply proved them right.
He lightly tapped each remaining artifact in succession. To the astonished onlookers, the emblems fell one by one,
CLATTER CLATTER CLATTER, like hailstones.
If it had been an accident before, no one could explain it away this time. One accident, two coincidences, a whole pile? Too implausible.
Why did this happen?
Simple—Allen realized that if his shield could bypass all magic, maybe the anti-magic effect from Soraka would have a similar trick.
What if the effect suppressed the protective spells inside the artifacts?
If the core enchantments couldn't function under anti-magic, then even the strongest magical artifacts were rendered useless.
And so he tested it. The results were obvious—it couldn't have gone any better.