Chapter 1251: Plot Straight Out of a Novel_2

Others might think this is a piece of scrap, but Ian sensed the faint yet extremely stable flame magic power contained within. This is a piece of Sun Iron!

It is likely a meteorite fragment, a top-grade material for making high-end alchemy tools, capable of perfectly conducting and amplifying fire and light attribute magic.

It was mixed in a pile of real scrap metal, lying there for who knew how long.

“This thing looks average in quality. Can you sell it for a bit lower price?” Ian easily acquired this treasure at an extremely low price again.

As he browsed, he purchased several kinds of magic materials, extremely precious in the outside world but underestimated or misrecognized by the stall owners here, at a near-bargain price.

This trip to Africa, just in terms of material gains, was already worth the fare. Morning light pierced through the rainforest mist, spilling onto the muddy ground of the African wizard market.

Ian disguised himself as a fool willing to overpay.

He found another alley and transformed into a little boy.

And felt even more at ease.

He put on a coarse linen robe more suited to the local style, a worn leather bag hanging from his waist, with a nonchalant yet shrewd expression on his face.

“Those magic potions over there look interesting.”

Ian walked to a stall filled with bottles and jars. The stall owner was an old woman with a face full of wrinkles, dressed in extremely expensive silk robes, stirring a pot of green-bubbling liquid with a bone.

“Ancestral potion! Strengthen your body! Exorcise evil and avoid disasters!” She shouted in a hoarse voice.

Ian squatted down, picking up a bottle of dark purple liquid. The label said “Night Shadow Flower Juice,” but it was too dark, with a texture too thick.

“Did you pick this ‘Night Shadow Flower Juice’ yourself?” Ian asked casually.

“Of course! I picked it just last night from the edge of the swamp!” The old woman puffed out her chest.

Ian gently shook the bottle and sniffed it. A pungent rotten smell mixed with a sweet, cloying scent wafted in — it was the characteristic of Rot Heart Mushroom.

“You’re mistaken,” Ian put down the bottle and smiled, “This is the juice of the ‘Rot Heart Mushroom’, which looks similar to the Night Shadow Flower but is highly toxic. A sip can rot your intestines away, and you’d die in three days, hallucinating your loved ones turning into maggots before death.”

The old woman’s face went pale: “No… impossible! I was picking Night Shadow Flowers!”

“The Night Shadow Flowers by the swamp are light purple, with silver-edged petals,” Ian explained patiently, “The kind you picked, with black stems, right? That’s Rot Heart Mushroom, which only glows on a full moon, luring fools to pluck it.”

The old woman was stunned, then hastily tossed the “potion” to the corner of the stall: “That… that bottle is free, take it with you!”

Ian laughed. He knew this “gift” was actually to prevent him from reporting her for selling poison. He picked up the bottle, tossing it into his bag — although Rot Heart Mushroom is toxic, when processed through specific alchemical treatments, it is a key material for making the “Soul Revealer.” Thus, Ian first tasted the delight of deviousness.

Of course.

He also avoided choosing those stalls that appeared to have less privileged conditions.

After all, one still has a bit of conscience.

The preferred choice was the good stuff at those shady merchant stalls. Then, he reached a mineral stall. The stall owner was a brawny wizard wearing a Beast Tooth Necklace around his neck.

“Look! ‘Thunder Stone’, freshly dug from the crater! Contains powerful energy!” He held up a gray-black stone with lightning-like patterns.

Ian picked up the stone, lightly trailing his fingers over the patterns. There was no magic power fluctuation, and the patterns weren’t natural.

“Your ‘Thunder Stone’, is made by burning ordinary volcanic rock with electricity, right?” Ian sneered.

The stall owner’s eyes twinkled: “What… what do you know?”

“A real Thunder Stone is formed by meteorite iron struck by lightning, with metal crystals inside,” Ian flipped the stone, “This piece is full of air bubbles, with iron content below 5%. You might trick laymen, but not me?”

Sweat beaded on the stall owner’s forehead: “So… what do you want?”

“I’ll buy this stone,” Ian pulled out a few copper coins, “But you must throw in that pile of ‘scrap’ as well.”

He pointed to a pile of inconspicuous shards in the corner of the stall, dark red, resembling iron slag.

“Those? They’re worthless!” the stall owner said reluctantly.

“I know,” Ian smiled, “That’s why I want them.”

He knew that pile of “scrap” was actually the residue of cooling earth core lava, rich in rare elements, perfect for repairing the energy core of a time machine. Clearly, the stall owner only recognized flashy stuff like “Thunder Stone” and was oblivious to real treasures. Thus, a scenario that seemed fit for a fantasy novel became Ian’s reality through sheer skill.

The third stop was a stall selling animal organs. The stall owner was displaying a string of dried bat wings with pride.

“Vampire Bat Wings! Used in Flying Potion! Works excellently!”

Ian picked up a piece of wing and gently pinched it — it instantly crumbled into powder.

“These wings are at least ten years old,” Ian shook his head, “Vampire Bat wings must be used within three months after drying; otherwise, all magic power is lost. This bunch is only good for fertilizer.”

The stall owner coughed awkwardly.

But Ian’s eyes focused — under the stall, pressed beneath everything, was a tiny piece of dark green scale, only the size of a fingernail, utterly inconspicuous.

“What about that scale? How much?” he pointed at the scale and asked.

“Oh, that? Nobody wants it, you can have it,” the stall owner was indifferent.

Ian picked up the scale, ecstatic internally — it was a molted scale from an African Dragon hatchling, incredibly rare because adult dragons seldom molt, and hatchlings are extremely hard to approach. This scale contained mighty regenerative magic power, key for repairing damage to the time machine’s casing.

Without showing any emotion, he secured the scale, then casually browsed a few more stalls, using similar methods to “pick up treasures.”

A bottle misidentified as “ordinary snake poison,” but actually Nether River Snake Poison, extracted from a twin-headed snake, capable of dissolving magic barriers; a pack mistakenly thought of as a “decoration” of Star Dust Grass Ash — remnants from an Ancient Wizard ritual, able to enhance prophecy magic; and even an Ancestral Spirit Bone Fragment passed off as an “ordinary rock.”

Carved with long-lost tribal runes.

Ian’s leather bag gradually bulged, filled with underestimated treasures. He sat on a rock at the market’s edge, counting his spoils, satisfied.

These materials, though individually not highly valued, when combined, were enough to support him in conducting multiple alchemy experiments and magic repairs. More importantly, through these transactions, he fully integrated into this environment. The stall owners, seeing him as “someone who knows his stuff,” even proactively invited him to check out “good items,” never regarding him as a suspicious outsider.

Of course.

Finding deals was secondary. As he wandered further in, Ian gradually noticed one issue: as he walked, he saw stalls selling magical artifacts, herbs, magic potions, protective talismans, even second-hand Muggle items, yet not a single dedicated magic wand shop.

He specifically inquired with several stall owners about where to purchase “casting tools,” only to be directed deeper into the market.

Curious, Ian followed the directions to a relatively quiet area of the market. Here, the stalls were neater, and the goods sold were noticeably more exquisite and professional. Then he saw the answer — there were no “magic wand shops” here, but several “Magic Rune Engraving Shops.”

The largest shop had an eye-catching wooden sign at the entrance, engraved with complex patterns and words, displaying the shop’s name and services offered.

The shop walls were adorned with a variety of items: swords of various lengths, metal short rods, daggers made from beast bones, even polished gemstones and beast teeth. But they all shared one thing in common — intricate, refined inscriptions filled with magic power covering their surfaces.

“Welcome.”

The shop owner was an elderly craftsman with sharp eyes and slender fingers, wearing a special magnifying glass, focused intently on using a needle shimmering with light to carve the final stroke on a Black Ebony Short Rod. With the completion of the last rune, the entire rod glowed faintly.

Magic power flowed smoothly through the runes like water.

The core of a European Magic Wand lies in the combination of the wand core and wood, while the external runes are more for decoration or assistance. In Africa, however, this type of “casting tool.”

Here they seemed to place more emphasis on the external inscribed Magic Text System.

Different combinations of magic runes apparently result in various magical effects and tendencies. Some runes focus on fire, some on healing, while others focus on protection or psychic power. Wizards choose “magic rune tools” that suit them or have craftsmen tailor them according to personal needs, to cast enhanced magic by activating and guiding these runes.

“It seems to be just as I thought, the people here prefer using inscription tools with precise magical orientation rather than wands, but if it’s conventional casting, why can they perform it using just their fingers?” With this expectation in mind, Ian decided to have a chat with the shop owner here.