Dumbledore decided it was time to find Blake.
Blake had been back for a while, and Dean Bohan still wanted to speak with him. However, Dumbledore had noticed that Blake had been busy working on the life-extending potion lately and assumed he hadn't yet studied the Longbottoms' treatment options. So, Dumbledore had postponed the conversation—until now.
Now that things had settled, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to let Blake meet with Dean Bohan. Given Blake's talent, speaking with an experienced healer like Bohan might provide insights into possible treatments.
"Sylvanus, wait a moment. I'll find Blake now," Dumbledore said. "Then we can visit Dean Bohan together. He should take a look at your hands and feet."
Professor Kettleburn chuckled. "If you want to impress old Bohan, go ahead—but you may have trouble finding Blake."
Dumbledore's smile faltered. "Did he leave again?"
Kettleburn nodded. "Yes. I came to tell you after he left."
Dumbledore sighed. "Do you know where he went?"
Kettleburn shook his head. "No idea. You know how his teleportation magic works." Then, his curiosity got the better of him. "By the way, did you teach him that?"
Dumbledore sighed again. "I wish I could take credit for it."
"Could it be… he invented it himself?" Kettleburn's eyes widened. At this point, he was numb to the shock Blake constantly delivered. How could someone be this exceptional? Compared to Blake, he felt like he had wasted his years.
"It's not entirely his own magic, but, like Blake himself, it is a miracle," Dumbledore admitted.
Meanwhile, at the mountain base, Blake had arrived.
The housing construction at the summit was almost complete. Skilled wizards had worked on it, ensuring each person had a private residence. At the center stood a larger building—Blake's personal quarters and their primary gathering place.
Inside, everyone was already waiting. Old Lepp was busy bottling a potion, but Blake noticed something odd—his hands were trembling slightly, and his spellcasting seemed less precise than before. Before Blake could ask, he spotted Agatha with half her head wrapped in a bandage.
"So… who won?" Blake asked, intrigued, as he stepped inside.
Agatha hesitated, covering her face.
"I lost," Old Lepp admitted cheerfully.
Agatha scoffed. "How is the winner injured while the loser is unharmed?"
Blake pulled out his wand. "Can I see your injury?"
Healing had always fascinated him. It often rewarded him with treasure chests of valuable magical knowledge.
Old Lepp chuckled apologetically. "Sorry… but you're too strong, and I've been out of practice."
Blake understood. Agatha was powerful, but Lepp had experience and stronger spells. It seemed he had been forced to use his full abilities, which resulted in Agatha being injured.
Agatha waved a hand dismissively. "It's my fault. I kept pestering him for a duel."
Blake examined her injury. "Old Lepp broke the curse for me," Agatha explained. "In a few days, it'll fully heal."
Blake grinned. "Why wait a few days? Don't you trust my healing skills?"
Everyone in the room had, at some point, been treated by Blake. Naturally, they trusted him.
"Of course, but…" Agatha hesitated. "The wound is… unpleasant to look at. I don't want to make you uncomfortable."
Old Lepp puffed on his pipe, looking guilty. He blamed himself for reverting to his old habits—dueling like he was in a life-or-death battle.
Blake waved off their concerns. "It's fine. Let me handle it."
Everyone gathered around to watch as he carefully removed the magic bandage from Agatha's face. The moment her injury was exposed, gasps filled the room. The entire right side of her face was a bloody mess.
Lepp hung his head. "I'm sorry… I really didn't mean to go that far…"
Agatha tried to laugh but winced in pain. "Fighting with you is my only real challenge. Everyone else is too easy."
Blake smirked while inspecting her wounds. "Next time, spar with me instead. Stop bullying the elderly."
She chuckled again but regretted it instantly. "Ow…"
Blake raised his wand, and blue light shimmered over her face.
"Huh?" Agatha touched her cheek. "The pain's gone! Ha! I can't feel it anymore!"
"Not so fast! Stay still," Blake ordered, pushing her back into the chair. He had just tested a new anesthetic spell—one that only blocked pain without affecting the rest of the body.
After memorizing the spell, he began the real healing process.
Another flash of blue light.
Everyone stared. Though her face was still smeared with blood, the open wounds had sealed. New skin had formed.
Blake grabbed a wet handkerchief and wiped her face.
The moment the blood was cleaned off, the room collectively gasped again.
"What? What's wrong?" Agatha demanded, panic creeping into her voice.
She pulled out a mirror—and froze.
"Blake… what did you do?" Her voice trembled with shock.
Her skin was flawless—pale, smooth, and radiant. Years of dullness and exhaustion had vanished in an instant.
Blake cleared his throat. "Just a little experiment. Nothing special."
The reality? He had incorporated a beauty-enhancing charm into the healing spell—purely as a test.
The results were astonishing.
Agnes, another witch in the room, stared in awe. Her own face, marked by years of illness, was in stark contrast to Agatha's newly flawless complexion.
Blake noticed the heated gazes of the other witches—Winsty, Agnes, all of them.
Naturally, he offered to help them too.
One by one, he cast his improved healing spell. By the end, all the previously sickly or scarred witches looked refreshed, healthier, and far more radiant than before.
Each of them, overwhelmed with gratitude, gifted Blake a golden treasure chest.
Blake was beyond pleased. The Wishful Wand was proving incredibly useful.
Agatha, still admiring her reflection, sighed. "I've never looked this good before."
Old Lepp chuckled. "Blake, you might as well open a magical beauty salon."
Allen, who had been silent until now, agreed. "There'd be no ugly witches left."
Blake considered it. "You know… that's not a bad idea."
Lepp shook his head. "We barely have the energy to maintain the potion shop as it is."
Blake reassured him. "Don't worry. Wright has already secured a deal with Mr. Delacour. He's now negotiating with the head of the Wofu family. Before long, we won't need to oversee the potion shop ourselves."
Meanwhile, in France, Mr. Delacour was wide awake, staring at a long parchment filled with detailed potion formulas. The complete life-extending potion recipe was in his hands. Anyone with basic potion knowledge could brew it using these instructions.
He recalled his earlier conversation with Wright, who had casually handed him the parchment.
"This must be incredibly valuable," Delacour had said.
Wright had simply smiled. "To others, maybe. But to Blake? It's nothing. Besides, we're allies now. You should always trust your own people."
Now, staring at the parchment, Delacour realized something.
"My own people?" His eyes widened in horror.
"That bastard is after my daughter!"
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