Harry Potter: I am the Legend

On the streets of Bournemouth, Mance, dressed in a gray robe and wearing a hat, walked briskly. After the vampires were completely eradicated, Bournemouth had returned to order. Groups of officers in black uniforms patrolled the streets at regular intervals, knocking on doors and scribbling notes with pens.

It appeared they were conducting a thorough search for remnants of the vampire incident.

Dark clouds swirled in the sky, scattering bits of paper debris through the air. The oppressive atmosphere hinted at an impending storm. Pedestrians and officers alike noticed the unusual weather. Shouting amongst themselves, they hurried back to their homes or vehicles.

A shadow flitted above Mance's head. He glanced up, catching a glimpse of a vague figure rolling within the clouds. His head twitched, each spasm bringing a torrent of information into his mind.

Lowering his gaze, he narrowed his eyes and continued walking.

The future unfolded before him with unsettling clarity. He knew Hoffa Bach would inevitably come for him. He knew the young wizard had obtained the key to his defeat and that he would break that key. He also knew that defeating Hoffa Bach would ensure Sister Chloe became his to control.

If he could manipulate the nun and regularly extract her blood, deciphering the future would be a trivial matter.

Yet the clearer the visions became, the heavier his anxiety grew. The shadow of death loomed like the sword of Damocles, hanging precariously overhead.

If anyone could kill him without warning, it would undoubtedly be Grindelwald. But Mance would never allow such an outcome.

At the mouth of an alley about three hundred meters from the port, the air pressure dropped further. Thunder rumbled within the dense clouds, and a strong wind sent a banana peel flying out of a nearby trash can, smacking onto Mance's forehead.

He stopped.

Boom!

A lightning bolt illuminated the alley.

A figure appeared on the other end of the alley. Amid the monochromatic scene created by the impending storm, everything—trees, buildings—seemed gray. The only color was the golden glint in the boy's eyes.

"Where are you headed?" asked the gray-haired, golden-eyed boy.

"To find Grindelwald and kill him," Mance replied, peeling the banana skin off his forehead. He seemed entirely unsurprised by the boy's arrival. Hoffa Bach's appearance was something he had anticipated to the point of indifference.

"That's your goal too, so I suggest you step aside."

"I won't," Hoffa said, shaking his head. "If killing one Dark Lord means creating another, I'd rather maintain the status quo. No offense, but in some ways, you're more terrifying than Grindelwald."

"You meddle too much." Mance shrugged off his hood and cracked his neck. "Fine. That's just who you are. I won't bother convincing you. If you want to fight, then let's fight."

"Alone? Where are your clones?" Hoffa asked, unmoving at the other end of the alley.

Mance snorted impatiently. "Do you really think you're worth me fighting with all of them? No, I'm alone this time. Saves you the excuse of saying I cheated. Let's go."

The boy didn't move, nor did he strike. After a moment of silence, he said, "I don't want to kill you. I just want to take Chloe and leave."

"Spoken like you really could kill me," Mance mocked, pointing toward a building in the distance. "Isn't she waiting for you on that rooftop three hundred meters away? Go ahead, take her."

"Would you truly let me? Would you never seek her out again?"

Mance smirked and shook his head. "Of course not."

"I don't want to kill you," the boy repeated. "Honestly, the killing along the way has filled me with disgust. If I could, I'd never see another death—not even yours."

The disdain faded from Mance's face. For the first time, he saw sincerity in the boy's expression—an earnestness he had never encountered before.

"Then tell me," Mance asked slowly, "what should I do? In the eyes of the wizard Bach, how should I behave to be deemed a decent man?"

"That's your choice, not mine. There are billions of souls in this world, each unique. The Earth doesn't reject murderers or scoundrels. If you seek power, chase it. If you want to stand at the top of the pyramid, go for it. But Mance, Chloe means a lot to me. I can't let you have her."

Hoffa took a step forward and extended his hand. "This has gone far enough, Mance. Even a rabbit, when cornered, will bite."

Mance stepped back, staring at the boy's outstretched hand. Grindelwald's image flashed in his mind.

"Such strange logic. I must admit, I like you more than that nun."

Pulling back his cloak, Mance revealed a crisp military uniform beneath and silver eyes glinting beneath his hat. "But I'm the type who can't stand losing control of anything. I'll make sure everything submits to me."

There was nothing left to say. The air pressure reached its breaking point, and a single raindrop fell, as if signaling the battle's start.

In an instant, a downpour enveloped the alley.

The boy vanished.

Mance clenched his fist, slowing time to a crawl. Countless outcomes streamed through his mind. He saw the boy now less than half a meter away, body tilted back, one hand clenched into a fist, the other outstretched like a frozen Greek sculpture.

Shaking his head, Mance retrieved a Mauser pistol from his pocket and approached the boy. Pressing the muzzle against his forehead, he pulled the trigger.

Bang!

A gunshot thundered through the storm as lightning split the sky.

Hoffa flew backward, landing in the puddles, motionless.

Mance lowered the pistol. "Get up. Don't bother playing dead. It won't work."

Slowly, the boy stirred. A bluish metallic sheen glinted on his dented forehead.

"You can match my speed?" he asked.

"It's just slowed time," Mance replied coolly. "A hundredfold stasis."

With that, time slowed again.

But this time, the storm itself seemed to retaliate. Lightning lashed out in hundreds of strikes, targeting Mance. The battle had truly begun.

Detecting the looming danger and the unyielding determination in that gaze, he grinned. "Ten-Thousandfold Stasis!"

Time slowed to an almost complete standstill.

All sound vanished simultaneously. Under this sluggish flow of time, even the thunderbolts descending from the sky ceased their rumbling. They appeared to spiral downward inch by inch, like countless silver branches with sharp, jagged forks, hanging from the heavens, twisting and growing slowly.

This breathtaking and brilliant display painted an astonishingly bright white glow upon the waterlogged ground.

That night, countless residents of Bournemouth lay sleepless under the thunder's roar. Leaning against their windows, they witnessed the most magnificent scene at the tail end of summer. For the Muggles who knew nothing of magic, this fleeting moment of descending lightning was enough to etch itself into their memories for a lifetime.

But for Mance, he could savor the scene to the point of boredom. Leisurely, he strolled to the motionless lightning-calling youth and plucked the tender branch from his hand.

Snap!

A clean break.

The frail mistletoe twig was snapped in two.

Then, with a casual toss, he flung it into the descending lightning. The intense heat instantly reduced the branch to ashes, leaving no trace behind.

Tick.

Time resumed its normal flow.

Hoffa, still in a lunging stance, charged straight into the thunderstorm. He struck no one, instead taking a blow from the very lightning he had summoned. His flesh tore open as he tumbled to the ground, struggling to his feet before stumbling back several steps.

The dense lightning bolts struck the open ground around Mance, sending silver currents exploding outward, separating water droplets in the air and leaving him covered in wounds. Yet he sneered coldly, undeterred. "Black mistletoe—impressive that you managed to find such a thing. Who told you this secret?"

He tilted his head, pondering for a moment. "Ah, of course—it must have been Aldo, right? Among all my backstabbing subordinates, Aldo was the most shameless."

"He's a hundred times better than you," Hoffa retorted, his body riddled with lightning-inflicted wounds but his expression unwavering.

"Dead men are better than the living? Haven't heard that one."

Mance strode forward, using no powers, merely walking up to Hoffa and towering over him, locking eyes. "The mistletoe is gone. Everything is within my grasp. Every move you make is under my watch. Tell me, how do you plan to defeat an omniscient enemy?"

"If you want to defeat me, turn the time to daylight," Hoffa said. "Otherwise, under this night sky, even if you can't kill me, I won't let you kill me either."

With just one sentence, the veins on Mance's forehead bulged. Clenching his fists, his breathing quickened. Hoffa's remark struck like a hammer, forcing him to confront the shadow of death looming over him.

"Why not change it? Could it be... you can't see daylight anymore?"

"Enough nonsense!"

Furious, Mance slowed time and slapped Hoffa across the face with a backhand, roaring, "Your failure is inevitable! I've already seen your future—forgotten, unnoticed, unappreciated, unloved!"

"That has nothing to do with you."

Tick. Time froze.

Mance drove a punch into the gray-haired youth's face.

Tick. Time flowed.

Hoffa staggered back, crashing into a wall, raising his arm in defense.

Tick. Time froze again.

Another punch struck his face.

"Pathetic heroism is long obsolete. People nowadays will only become more like me!!"

Boom! Another punch landed.

Blood trickled down from Hoffa's split lips.

Boom! Another punch.

Boom! And another.

Mance, tireless, alternated between stopping and resuming time, throwing punch after punch. His fists, now battered and bloody, struck relentlessly. He neither noticed nor cared, refusing to stop. On this stormy, thunderous night, everything unfolded like a scripted play.

Yet, the more he pummeled this opponent, the more agitated he felt.

The harder Hoffa Bach was beaten, the murkier Mance's own fate became. When Grindelwald would come to kill him remained a complete mystery. Uncertainty and anxiety grew, gnawing at him.

And that anxiety found release only through violence.

So the punches continued, one after another. To ordinary onlookers, only minutes had passed. But to Mance, he had been relentlessly beating the youth before him for days. Until he reduced Hoffa's face—once handsome—to an unrecognizable mess, until his own fists cracked with fractured bones.

Finally, the rain began to subside, and the thunder in the sky faded. The turbulent magic calmed.

Mance delivered one last knee strike to the boy's abdomen. Hoffa, having endured nearly a hundred hours of slow-motion beatings, collapsed motionless into the water, his chest barely rising and falling.

With a hand now reduced to bone, Mance tore off his tattered coat, adjusted his tie, and, fatigued yet ruthless, declared, "You lost."

(End of Chapter)

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