"Why don't you tell me what your request is first, and then I'll consider whether or not to agree to it," Alan said cautiously.
He had no choice but to be cautious. A request worth more than 10,000 Galleons was enough to buy the life of a Ministry of Magic official. Alan didn't even want to imagine what kind of equivalent favor Ollivander was asking for.
"Haha, don't get me wrong. I'm not asking you to do anything dangerous," Mr. Ollivander said with a smile.
That kind of guarantee was meaningless. Alan didn't respond. He simply looked at Ollivander, the meaning in his eyes clear:
If you keep talking, we can keep talking. But if you continue being vague, then I'm sorry—this conversation ends here.
Though the 12,000 Galleons Ollivander mentioned was an intimidating number, Alan could actually afford it. Hodge's candy had already been stocked on the shelves. That thing was a goose that laid golden eggs. In just one month, it had brought Alan over 4,000 Galleons in profit.
Although the novelty of the candy would eventually fade, and with it, his income, Hodge estimated that once the joy potion candy's sales stabilized, Alan could still earn at least 1,000 Galleons per month.
That meant more than 10,000 Galleons could be collected in less than a year. So if Ollivander's request turned out to be too outrageous, Alan figured it would be better to just pay the debt outright. He didn't want to stir up unnecessary trouble.
"Well, it seems that you won't agree unless I explain the details," Ollivander said, choosing his words carefully before continuing. "I hope you can… compete with Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts."
"Sorry to bother you. Goodbye!" Alan said immediately—three parting words—and stood up to leave.
What kind of joke was this?
12,000 Galleons to risk his life?
It was well known that Minerva McGonagall, the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts, had a hunting level of 89. Then what level would Dumbledore be—Dumbledore, who was regarded as the greatest wizard in history?
If he was rated anything lower than level 90, Alan swore he'd go back home and eat the remaining half-bottle of Pixian red oil bean paste raw, without even washing it down!
Compete with a legendary wizard who had a hunting level above 90? What next? Ask him to arm-wrestle a dragon for entertainment?
Even if Alan somehow became a master wizard overnight—ate dozens of dragons, enhanced every cell in his body, and raised his hunting level to 90 or even 100—even if killing Dumbledore became as easy as plucking a chicken, why on earth would he want to fight him?
What could possibly justify that? For the so-called title of the "greatest wizard"? For the position of Hogwarts Headmaster?
Ridiculous.
And besides, Dumbledore wasn't just any old wizard. He had enormous global prestige. If Alan dared to even think about challenging him, he'd be labeled a lunatic by the entire magical world. It was the kind of bad press no sane person would invite upon themselves.
Alan just wanted to eat delicious food, cook every day, hang out with beautiful women, and enjoy a good life. He had no ambition to rule the wizarding world. At most, he wanted to monopolize a few magical creature breeding industries and maybe practice some questionable but efficient breeding methods.
But fighting Dumbledore?
Zero benefits. Countless risks.
Only a complete idiot would agree to that kind of request.
"Hey, don't be so hasty!" Ollivander quickly stood up to stop him. Alan had been to Thailand so many times that he had no hesitation about turning and walking out. If Ollivander had been even a second slower, Alan would've been out the door.
"Mr. Ollivander, let's end this here. I'll pay you the 12,000 Galleons I owe over the next year. Let's just pretend I never came today. Forget what you said, and consider me heartless if you like. From now on, let's go our separate ways—"
"Stop, stop, stop! What nonsense are you talking about?" Ollivander nearly choked as Alan rambled in Huxia, and he quickly interrupted him. "You misunderstood. I didn't mean what you thought."
"Then let me repeat your exact words: didn't you just say that I should compete with Dumbledore?"
"I did say that, but—"
"Goodbye!"
"Hold on! Listen to me," Ollivander said helplessly. "I'm not asking you to fight Dumbledore. I'm not insane. Why would I have you—a student who hasn't even started school—go fight with Dumbledore?"
"Then what did you mean?" Alan asked suspiciously.
"I want you to compete with Dumbledore in wands," Ollivander finally said in one breath. "That's all. I just wanted to build some suspense. Who knew you'd be so jumpy?"
"How could I not be jumpy? I seriously thought you were going to spend those 12,000 Galleons to buy my life!" Alan rolled his eyes.
"Please. 12,000 Galleons can't buy your life. Your life is worth 50,000 on the black market," Ollivander joked. "Who would've thought that a so-called helpless child could stir up such a storm in such a short time?"
"That's not important." Alan waved his hand. "Now explain. What exactly do you mean by a wand competition?"
"It's very simple," Ollivander said with a deep sigh. "As long as you can find a way to get Dumbledore to agree to a wand comparison—just to compare the strength of your wand with his—that's enough."
He looked down for a moment, then added, "This is… my personal obsession."
Alan blinked. "Your obsession?"
"When I was younger, I devoted a great deal of effort to crafting a certain wand," Ollivander explained. "It's powerful… very powerful. But it's also flawed. Still, it ended up in the hands of a master."
He looked up again, eyes filled with a mixture of pride and regret.
"I've always wanted to know—how it compares to the Elder Wand. Whether it wins or loses… I just want to know."
Alan finally sat back down.
Now things made more sense.
Ollivander didn't want him to defeat Dumbledore. He didn't want bloodshed.
He just wanted validation—a final answer to the lifelong question every true wandmaker would ask themselves:
Is the wand I created better than the greatest wand in history?
Alan understood the weight of that.
"So… you want me to just convince Dumbledore to compare wands?" Alan asked slowly.
"Exactly. Nothing more."
Alan gave a low whistle. "That's still not easy."
"I know," Ollivander said. "But you're the only one I've seen with the potential to pull it off."
Alan narrowed his eyes. "Isn't there anyone else? Couldn't you find a grown-up to do this?"
"Dumbledore wouldn't take them seriously," Ollivander replied. "But you… you're different. There's something in your wand. Something… special. I can feel it. If anyone can make Dumbledore pause and say, 'Let's see what you're holding,' it's you."
Alan fell silent, tapping the table lightly with his finger.
This wasn't about money anymore.
It wasn't even about Dumbledore.
It was about a craftsman's pride—a lifetime's worth of passion, condensed into a single wand—and the desire to pit it against the best.
And Alan was the wildcard. The unknown factor. The one who could bring it all together.
Finally, he spoke.
"I'm not promising anything," he said slowly. "But… I'll think about it."
"That's all I ask," Ollivander replied, exhaling in relief.
"And remember, Alan—this isn't about defeating Dumbledore. It's about standing on the same stage, even if just for a moment."
Alan nodded, still uncertain. But one thing was for sure:
He'd walked into this room thinking he owed a debt.
And now, he might just be carrying a legacy.
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