Harry Potter: I am the Legend

Seeing Fatir suddenly erupt into a frenzied state, Hoffa instinctively stepped back. Going back fifty years to kill a young Grindelwald—what an insane plan.

"If he's killed, not only will Aglaya survive, but even this wizarding war may never happen."

Fatir grew more agitated as he paced back and forth in the room. "Those mediocre fools say I've accomplished nothing, but how could they understand my real thoughts? They cower before him, banding together for warmth, yet not one dares to act."

"What... what about her?" Hoffa stammered.

"Who?"

Fatir, in the throes of fanaticism, turned to frown at him.

"Ch-Chloe," Hoffa stuttered, "Chloe. What will happen to her? At most, she can only take someone back three days."

The Minister of Magic's office fell into a heavy silence. After a long pause, Fatir slowly sat back down, twirling a quill between his fingers.

"Her? What about her?" He mulled over Hoffa's words and retorted, "Why do you care?"

"Her blood," Hoffa said. "Her blood is the root of magical overload. If you're going back fifty years, how much blood will you need?"

Fatir, momentarily sobered from his fervor, sat at his desk and stared at Hoffa with displeasure. "What do you mean?"

"Going back fifty years would require so much blood—likely more than a hundred of her," Hoffa replied.

"Oh, you're worried about that," Fatir exhaled and smiled. "You don't need to worry. I haven't been idle this past year. I've created a machine that amplifies her power. I'm confident that by draining her completely, it'll be enough to rewind fifty years.

Initially, I thought I'd handle this personally, but since you're here, I'm even considering asking you to do it. After all, Grindelwald at your age might not stand a chance against you."

"And what about her? Will she die?"

BANG!

Fatir suddenly grabbed an ink bottle from the desk and hurled it at Hoffa, shattering it against his face. Glass shards dug into his skin, and dark ink mixed with blood trickled down Hoffa's stunned expression.

Fatir's previously tempered expression collapsed entirely. His blue eyes, identical to Aglaya's, narrowed as he glared at Hoffa, his teeth clenched. "You're worried she'll die?"

Hoffa didn't answer, letting the ink and blood streak down his body.

After smashing the ink bottle, Fatir leaned back in his chair, letting out a cold laugh. "You want to know? Fine, I'll tell you. Yes, she will die. Without a doubt. Under such intense temporal strain, her body and soul will be consumed entirely by my time machine.

But sacrificing one person to win the war and end all this evil—anyone would agree it's a worthwhile deal."

Listening to Fatir, Hoffa was at a loss for words. At that moment, he seemed to see another Grindelwald.

He saw Dumbledore being forced by Grindelwald to sacrifice himself for the greater good.

He saw Grindelwald, during his third year, standing in darkness and saying to Dumbledore, "If ultimate evil can be eradicated, what's the loss of one or two lives?"

"No, Fatir. This won't work."

Shaking himself awake, Hoffa wiped the glass shards from his face and rushed back to the desk, gripping it tightly. "There has to be another way! Believe me, there must be another way!"

"You love her, don't you? You love that nun, don't you?"

Fatir's once desolate blue eyes now gleamed like daggers. "If I had captured some random vagrant instead of her, would you still stand before me?"

Squinting, Fatir stepped onto his desk and slowly approached Hoffa, forcing him to retreat step by step.

"My daughter saved you when you were at your lowest. Is this how you repay her?"

"In just one year, you've found a new flame."

Each word from Fatir struck Hoffa like a hammer, pounding at his heart. "I misjudged you, Bach. You're despicable, shameless, and ungrateful. Can you claim you didn't kill anyone in France? Can you say you didn't take a life while escorting that nun back?"

"That was my mistake!" Hoffa cried in anguish. "I didn't understand! I didn't understand sacrifice and love back then—I was lost under the whims of fate!"

Pale-faced, Hoffa stopped retreating and grabbed Fatir's arm. "But now, I see it clearly. The more I kill, the more I become like Grindelwald. One day, I'll be just like him!"

"So what?" Fatir snarled. "In this cruel world, there's no such thing as right or wrong—only equivalent exchange. To gain something, you must sacrifice something else! Do you understand, Hoffa Bach?"

"I understand. I understand all too well," Hoffa said painfully. "But I also understand that if we do this, nothing will truly change. Everything will remain as it was."

"And you dare tell someone who has lost everything that there's no difference!?"

Fatir roared, slamming Hoffa against the wall. "Family is everything to me. Even if I fall into hell, I'll drag her back. That's the difference!"

As Fatir's hand gripped his throat, Hoffa's eyes reddened. Struggling to breathe, he rasped, "I have no parents. She's the first friend I ever had. You're not the only one who has lost everything."

"Then help me!"

Fatir bellowed, saliva flying as he pinned Hoffa. "Help me! Kill anyone who dares stop me and make my plan succeed!"

Hoffa's lips turned pale as he stared at Fatir's twisted face beneath his silver hair. His heart felt as though it were being torn apart. Shaking his head, he said, "I can't, Fatir." Gripping Fatir's hand, his voice broke with pleading. "There has to be another way. Please, calm down."

"There's no other way, Bach. Nothing but time can change fate. I'll ask you one last time: will you help me?"

Their faces were inches apart, yet an invisible chasm loomed between them—deep as the East African Rift, vast as the Mariana Trench, impossible to bridge.

With Hoffa's silence, Fatier's expression shifted from rage and hope to complete indifference.

He slowly released Hoffa's collar and stepped back two paces. His piercing blue eyes now carried a profound exhaustion and numbness. Though he still appeared youthful, his demeanor was that of an old, weary man.

"In that case, leave."

He spoke softly.

Hoffa stepped forward, but in the next instant—

Boom! Boom!

A tremor shook the room.

Fatier's desk disintegrated into dust, and the countless documents awaiting his review exploded like a grenade had gone off, scattering into a flurry of fragments.

Amid the chaos of flying papers, an invisible beast struck Hoffa square in the chest. The force drove him through the wall, sending him hurtling backward, crashing through four or five more walls before finally coming to a stop.

Countless boulder-sized fragments rained down. The sudden, vicious assault left his bones shattered beyond calculation. He hadn't even had the chance to transform his body into steel before the invisible beast struck again. From within the rubble, the creature clamped its jaws around his thigh and violently flung him upward.

Phantom Stride!

In mid-air, Hoffa entered the Phantom Stride state.

In the shadowy, grayscale world, the dragon-like beast, which had previously fled at the sight of him, now had blood-red eyes. Its body had grown to twice its original size.

The transparent creature gripped his thigh in its jaws, dragging him forward in a frenzy, carving deep furrows into the ground.

Boom!

Another wall crumbled.

It slammed Hoffa through the barrier to the elevator shaft. The beast's dual heads shattered the iron grille of the Ministry of Magic's elevator, emerging mid-air.

Hoffa looked down into the seemingly bottomless elevator shaft, then at his own chest—or rather, where his chest should have been. Half his torso was missing, leaving only his head and part of his chest floating in the void.

"Damn it, Fatier!"

Gritting his teeth, he lifted his head from his precarious position. The tri-ring scar on his chest glowed like a torch. His arm snapped back into place, wounds healing rapidly as he gripped the transparent beast's jaws and reentered the shadowy world.

In the shadow world, the dragon-like beast's long snout bit into his thigh, swallowing his lower body entirely.

Crack!

With immense force, Hoffa pried the dragon's jaws apart. The overwhelming power of transformation allowed him to stand atop the beast's lower jaw, his body bent.

From the dragon's translucent throat, a concentrated energy began to gather, emitting a blinding white light.

Roar!

Invisible flames erupted from the shadow dragon's mouth, engulfing the boy who was bracing against its jaws. The intense heat distorted the air into rippling waves. Hoffa's meticulously tailored Savile Row suit was scorched to tatters in an instant.

He pressed down with his legs.

Thud!

The fire-breathing beast lost its balance and plummeted into the depths of the elevator shaft. Taking advantage of the recoil, Hoffa lunged out of the elevator.

In the wreckage of the elevator shaft, a sign lay on the ground. Hoffa crouched and quickly scanned it with his fingers.

Second Floor: Department of Magical Law Enforcement

Third Floor: Magical Accidents and Catastrophes

Sixth Floor: Department of Magical Transportation

Seventh Floor: Magical Sports and Games

Ninth Floor: Department of Mysteries

"The Department of Mysteries… Nicolas Flamel, at the bottom."

Hoffa quickly identified his destination. Fatier had lost all reason in his madness. He needed to find Chloe first and deal with him later.

Meanwhile, the shattered walls of the Ministry of Magic, struck by the shadow dragon, began to repair themselves. Like flesh healing in reverse, debris floated back into place, restoring the walls to their original state.

"Sssss… Crack! Crack!"

With a cacophony of noise, gargoyles began crawling down from the ceiling. Each was the size of three adult men, their eyes glowing with a terrifying blue light.

Hoffa dared not hesitate. He leapt into the shattered elevator shaft.

The moment he jumped, countless gargoyles thrust their heads through the broken elevator entrance, crowding together in a skin-crawling mass. They raised their marble-carved arms, each brandishing a javelin.

Snap!

Mid-fall, Hoffa turned back and unleashed a Death Finger.

With a deafening explosion, a red beam illuminated the elevator shaft. The spell struck the heads of countless gargoyles, incinerating them to ash in an instant. Ashes drifted downward like snowflakes.

Before Hoffa could catch his breath, his rapid descent came to an abrupt halt.

Dozens of javelins shot out from the walls, impaling him like an ancient tomb's deadly trap. One pierced his eye, while others disemboweled him, spilling his entrails. Blood gushed forth, transforming the elevator shaft into a gruesome scene of carnage.

"Shit!"

He cursed inwardly.

At this moment, he finally realized Fatier truly intended to kill him. Even so, it was hard to believe this was the work of his former mentor and his best friend's father.

The rows of javelins began to morph, sprouting razor-sharp teeth. Hoffa's entire body throbbed with pain, verging on numbness. Even in the dead of night, his healing abilities struggled to keep pace with the destruction.

And it wasn't over. The walls of the elevator shaft began to close in, as if the Ministry of Magic had come alive, transforming into a voracious beast intent on devouring him.

On the verge of being crushed into pulp, Hoffa used his one remaining eye to look upward. Through the layers of the Ministry's defenses and magical barriers, he glimpsed the moon in the sky. Outside the Ministry, the night was at its deepest.

The whisper of the Night God echoed again:

"After the dream, hear your song in the dark. Eight beasts, sink into the River Lethe. Holy nails pierce the sinner's flesh. One prayer grants immortality to the phoenix."

Lowering his gaze, the tri-ring scar expanded to cover his entire upper body. Blood-red, four-winged appendages sprouted from his back. With a mighty flap, red feathers scattered as he tore his body apart.

Grotesque chunks of flesh transformed into a swarm of nightingales, gracefully navigating through the myriad of steel spikes. Their melodious song filled the air as they descended and reassembled into the form of a gray-haired, golden-eyed boy.

Hoffa stared in shock at his unscathed hands, then at the dense spikes above. Overcome with fear, he marveled at the mysterious connection he felt to the divine, reminiscent of a believer praying before death.

But there was no time for contemplation. Chloe's fate weighed heavily on him. Pressing against the wall, he cautiously advanced down the dark corridor.

Before long, he reached a pitch-black, circular chamber.

The Department of Mysteries was at the lowest level of the Ministry of Magic. Fifty years later, this would become the site of Tom Riddle's invasion due to the prophecy orbs stored here, and the place where Sirius Black would meet his end.

Thinking of Sirius's death, an ominous feeling crept over Hoffa.

(To be continued)

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