Chapter 1273: Ian's Defense Shattered (Part 3)

Ian watched the spot where Baboua disappeared, his gaze slightly shifting. “Shadow Stealth? It seems this guy also has quite the skills for survival and concealment.”

He muttered to himself.

This seemingly ordinary information dealer appears to be more interesting than he anticipated.

But right now, the most important thing is to get the Door Key, and then “visit” the African Ministry of Magic to see what kind of trouble Newt Scamander has gotten himself into.

And before that.

Ian still needs to wait a bit.

There are several hours left until the appointed time with Baboua, so Ian decided to first solve the problem of lunch in the Market. Although the “Ugarit” and grilled pancakes provided by the inn tasted nice, the portion size was obviously just an appetizer for a “young wizard” like him who is still growing.

As a wizard who has standards for living quality, and after all, wants to naturally grow tall to become a six-foot-three handsome guy, he certainly wouldn’t let himself suffer when it comes to food.

Just like that.

Ian strolled leisurely through the bustling Market, his gaze sweeping over the stalls selling food and the simple eateries. Most of the vendors’ sanitation conditions were worrisome, with flies buzzing around exposed meats, which made Ian, who was used to the meticulous service of Hogwarts’ house-elves, hesitate.

Finally, in a relatively clean side alley, he found a small shop that looked acceptable. The shop’s entrance had a wooden sign painted with colorful paints depicting a steaming pot and a grinning antelope skull, with a few distorted characters beside it.

Ian guessed it probably meant “Delicious Meat Soup” or something. Inside, there were a few rough wooden tables and benches, simple but at least the floor was compacted dirt.

It looked like it was cleaned regularly, without obvious filth.

In the Magic World’s marketplace.

This was considered a relatively decent dining environment—just look at the Broken Cauldron Bar. Ian walked inside and chose a spot deeper within. A hefty proprietress, wearing a greasy apron, came over and asked him what he wanted to eat in heavily accented English.

There was no menu on the wall, so Ian pointed at the large wooden bowl enjoyed by the patrons at the nearby table, which was steaming with rich aroma and had large chunks of meat bones rolling inside the creamy white broth, indicating he wanted the same. The proprietress nodded, then quickly brought over a wooden bowl larger than Ian’s face.

Inside was steaming hot meat soup, accompanied by a hard, naan-like staple.

“It smells pretty good?”

The meat pieces in the soup were cooked extremely tender, almost to the point of separating bone and flesh, with a rich fragrance carrying a peculiar spice aroma, making one’s mouth water.

“It really does.”

Ian took a sip, his eyes widening immediately. The taste of the meat soup was unexpectedly delicious! The meat, although having a slightly odd fiber texture and being exceptionally tender, melted in the mouth, and the broth was rich and mellow with a uniquely wild flavor, far better than he had anticipated. He picked up the hard main dish and began feasting, dipping it in the soup.

Maybe it was indeed tasty, or perhaps he was truly hungry after a morning walk; Ian was completely engrossed in his meal, finishing the large bowl of meat soup and staple cleanly, and even feeling a bit unsatisfied.

He wiped his mouth with satisfaction, ready to pay and leave.

At that moment, he noticed a young helper in the shop carrying out a seemingly very old, even somewhat rusty, large metal box from the kitchen.

On the side of the box, there were some blurry Cyrillic letters and numbers, as well as a faded emblem that Ian found vaguely familiar—a hammer and sickle?

“Damn! Thirty-year-old Soviet-era meat? Older than me?”