Harry Potter: I am the Legend

A minute later, a figure slowly emerged from beneath the ferry's waters. He grabbed onto a lifebuoy, climbed aboard the rocking vessel, and tidied his damp gray hair before leaning against a supply crate to catch his breath.

After a moment, Hoffa turned his head to look into the distance.

His golden eyes glimmered faintly. At the bow, a man named Norber was casually chatting with the lean pilot steering the boat.

Hoffa hadn't expected this—barely a day into his arrival at the North Sea, he had already encountered his target, the fugitive wanted by the Wizengamot.

Initially, he thought he could simply sneak in, use ghost-walking to steal the item, and leave.

But now, the task had grown significantly more challenging. The other party had noticed him. Not only was Norber an adult wizard, but he was also exceptionally vigilant.

Just moments after Hoffa exited ghost-walking, the man sensed something was amiss. Hoffa knew he needed to be more cautious. If Norber used Apparition to escape, there would be no way to pursue him.

Before long, a light mist drifted across the sea as the ferry docked at an island.

Norber leapt off the boat and strode toward the island, while Hoffa, using ghost-walking, followed him silently, careful not to draw attention.

Past the coastal rocks, Hoffa found himself on a mist-shrouded island. A few scattered buildings of varying sizes stood there, their outlines faintly visible under the pale moonlight, lending an air of mystery and quiet.

Hoffa retrieved the wanted poster Yago had given him. Turning it over, he found a simple map drawn on the back. A small blue dot blinked on the map, pointing toward a distant location.

That must be where the missing items from the hospital were hidden, as Yago had mentioned.

Glancing at Norber's fading silhouette in the distance, Hoffa quietly followed.

Norber, with one hand in his pocket gripping an alchemical firearm, kept a wary eye on his surroundings. A cold smile played on his lips as his strides grew longer and faster.

Soon, Norber disappeared from Hoffa's sight.

Hoffa didn't rush to keep pace but followed the blue dot on the map, which led him to a riverbank on the island.

Here, several houses lay scattered haphazardly. Empty and abandoned, the wind whistled through them, sounding like the mournful cries of night owls. Hoffa sensed a strange psychic field permeating the land like an invisible, flowing current, saturating every corner.

The atmosphere was deeply unsettling.

Slowing his steps, Hoffa moved cautiously between the houses.

A foul stench reached him from a distance. Approaching the source, he found a corpse lying on the path.

Upon closer inspection, Hoffa saw that the corpse's head had a massive hole, and it clutched a revolver in one hand—a clear sign of suicide.

Pinching his nose, Hoffa felt an ominous premonition intensify.

What had happened on this island?

As he moved forward, he encountered more bodies—some slumped against walls, others hanging by ropes, and a few with their heads submerged in water.

All had died by suicide.

A gnawing sound came from nearby as a pack of wild dogs, alerted to Hoffa's presence, stopped feasting on the corpses. Their glowing green eyes turned toward him.

As Hoffa's lean figure came into view, the dogs scattered into the underbrush.

Carefully stepping over the bodies without a word, Hoffa followed the blue dot on the map to a lone cottage surrounded by piles of garbage and overgrown weeds. A massive tin chimney rose from the roof.

The house was pitch dark, with no sign of light. Standing amidst a forest of charred trees devoid of leaves, the scorched and lifeless landscape added to its eerie desolation.

This was the location where the stolen item was said to be stored.

Pushing the door open, Hoffa entered a room filled with broken furniture—a pair of tattered sofas with exposed springs, an old armchair, and a wobbly table. Torn parchment was scattered everywhere, while half-melted candles dripped onto the table.

Rainwater dripped from the ceiling, pooling on the floor. The walls were adorned with several eerie crow masks.

Picking up a piece of parchment, Hoffa found its text incomprehensible—possibly German.

Setting the parchment aside, his gaze was drawn to a wooden box near the fireplace.

Inside a shrine on the mantle rested a peculiar egg, as large as an ostrich egg.

Hoffa's first thought was of the Thunderbird egg spat out by Taras two years ago—similar in size but vastly different in appearance.

Unlike the grayish-white eggs of most creatures, this one had no fixed color. Under the faint light, its hues shifted continuously, as if a rainbow flowed across its surface.

Hoffa struggled to understand the meaning of those colors, realizing they defied his knowledge.

What's more, standing near the egg, Hoffa felt an emotion emanating from it—a profound hunger.

What is this thing?

Is this what Yago sent him to retrieve?

Frowning, Hoffa approached the vibrant egg cautiously, bending down for a closer look.

As he leaned in, Hoffa sensed something being drawn from his body toward the egg. Suddenly, the egg's swirling colors condensed, forming pale golden eyes on its surface.

Hoffa stared at it.

It stared back at him.

It was like looking into a mirror.

In the profound silence, something buried deep within Hoffa's heart was unearthed. In that moment, time seemed to stand still.

"Dull."

The egg cracked, and a hand emerged, gripping Hoffa's shoulder.

"Boring."

The hand dragged out a head, its black hair sticky and wet, lips moving faintly.

"Death."

The figure's upper body emerged from the egg. It gazed at Hoffa.

"Rebirth... and life."

With that, the hand on Hoffa's shoulder shoved forcefully.

The impact made Hoffa feel as though he was inflating, his eyes expanding across his face. His body burst like fireworks, scattering colors of white, red, yellow, and blue.

In a daze...

In an instant, his consciousness traversed space, landing on a battlefield from the World War. Hoffa found himself transformed into an ordinary soldier, charging at the frontlines.

He wore a blue-black military uniform, and beside him, a radio operator carried a massive transmitter. The transmitter crackled with electric noise as the operator shouted in German, "Quick, Bach, charge ahead and wipe out those Frenchmen at Dunkirk!"

A jolt ran through Hoffa as the command struck him like music to his ears. Gripping his rifle, he charged forward. Against a sea of enemies, he pushed ahead with all his might.

But as he advanced, he noticed something strange—the enemies rushing toward him all had faces identical to his own.

Looking closer, he realized that every bullet he fired from his rifle turned into miniature versions of himself.

Countless Hoffa Bachs shot out from the barrel like magical sprites, flying around him in loops.

Then, one of the tiny Hoffas struck him in the head. He fell to the ground, dead.

His body exploded into a kaleidoscope of vivid colors. Yellow, blue, red, and other hues swirled and reformed. Yellow became sand, blue transformed into the sky, and red turned into a galloping horse.

Suddenly, the scene shifted again. Hoffa realized he had become a Sphinx—a massive stone statue sitting in the middle of a desert.

Yes, he was now a Sphinx, its stoic presence etched into the sands.

In the distance, another version of himself rode on horseback. This version was short, wielding a sword, and gazed intently at the Sphinx. With a wave of his arm, artillery fire rained down, shattering the Sphinx into fragments.

As the debris and smoke cleared, Hoffa discovered he had turned into a golden stalk of wheat, standing tall in a vast field.

The golden waves of wheat rolled like a shimmering sea, and every stalk bore a face identical to his own.

Before him, another version of himself appeared—a farmer wielding a sickle. With a smile, this farmer began to harvest the wheat.

The blend of golden prosperity and the wheat's anguished cries created a symphony of beauty and despair, as if composing a poetic masterpiece.

The farmer then morphed into a grim reaper, holding a sickle in a distorted spacetime. Another version of Hoffa, now an angel with a triangular iron shard, silently watched him.

The angel had his face.

Hoffa reached out to touch the angel, like a child reaching for its mother, but the angel turned away coldly.

"You are unworthy of my company—a filthy, aimless creature," the angel said.

The angel's words pierced Hoffa deeply, inflicting a pain that made all worldly suffering seem trivial.

He clawed out his own heart, beginning to construct a prison around its shattered remains.

Layer after layer, he built.

Layer after layer, he sealed.

Finally, his heart transformed under his craftsmanship into a towering, bald figure.

This figure stood tall, one hand pointing to the heavens and the other to the earth, with seven chakra symbols of different colors on its chest.

The moment the figure was born, the surroundings shifted once more. Hoffa found himself seated in an endless temple, devoid of anything except countless golden eyes.

Each golden eye had a clock as its pupil, ticking counterclockwise, turning back time.

Amid the chaos of reversed time, he seemed to live through millennia, witnessing oceans dry up, mountains crumble, civilizations rise and fall, and humanity regress into apes.

Overwhelmed by primal hunger, he climbed trees to eat leaves. As he chewed, a leopard pounced from the jungle, sinking its teeth into his throat.

Caught off guard, Hoffa was bitten through the neck. The two creatures rolled together, entwined in a battle that seemed both a fight and an embrace—a colorful yin-yang swirling in the void.

Eventually, the leopard killed him, and he decomposed into earth, flowed into rivers, evaporated into clouds, and cycled endlessly through nature.

At last, he returned to the origin of all things.

Here, Hoffa found himself standing on a pale, barren land, utterly alone. The sky shimmered with iridescent colors, and the world held only him, immersed in supreme solitude and unity with the universe.

Hoffa murmured to the void, "Who am I?"

"Where am I?"

"Am I still alive...?"

For what seemed like eternity or perhaps a fleeting moment, Hoffa awakened from the surreal dreamscape.

He was back in the dilapidated house, facing the gray stone fireplace, the shrine, and the rainbow-colored egg.

Nothing had changed.

Yet, in that instant, Hoffa felt something shift within himself.

A certain quality in him seemed to surface. He felt as though he understood himself better, but before he could fully grasp this newfound understanding, a blade silently slashed toward his head in the darkness.

The tangible shadow of death sent shivers down Hoffa's spine. He quickly sprang backward, bumping into a cabinet.

Crack! 

The mantelpiece before him split cleanly in two from the blade.

A heavy firearm was now pressed against his temple.

From the shadows emerged Norber, wielding a knife in one hand and a massive handgun in the other, pointing it coldly at Hoffa's head.

"Who sent you?" Norber demanded.

(End of Chapter)

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