Harry Potter: I am the Legend

In Helheim, Little Barty gazed at the bustling circular structure in the distance.

"What is that place?"

"The Arena," Hoffa answered instinctively. "The Eternal Arena, a stage prepared by the God of Death for the undead."

"How do you know that?" Little Barty looked at Hoffa curiously.

Hoffa was taken aback, then puzzled as well. Right—how did he know? The knowledge had simply appeared in his mind as if it had been waiting for someone to ask.

Countless ghostly figures flowed past them like a river, heading toward the circular arena. As they drifted, whispers filled the air:

"Who will Death choose for the show this time?"

"Not sure, but I heard it's some remarkable Englishman who has been in the underworld for a long time."

"A long time? How long?"

"At least two hundred years."

"It's surprising Death even remembers him."

"Who knows? But it's bound to be a good show."

As the spirits floated past, Little Barty grew excited and turned to Hoffa. "Let's go check it out, Mr. Bach!"

Hoffa nodded, and they followed the spirits into the massive circular arena. It resembled an ancient Roman Colosseum, fully intact, with tiered stone seating stacked high, and unknown banners fluttering at the top.

The only difference was that the sand in the arena's center was crimson—soaked in countless layers of blood. Even without a sense of smell, one could almost taste the lingering scent of slaughter in the air.

Hoffa shivered as he stared at the bloodstained sand, feeling an overwhelming sense of brutality, as if facing the harsh reality of existence itself.

For a moment, his thoughts drifted to ancient times, to primitive humans who sacrificed children and virgins to their gods on blood-soaked altars beneath raised blades. Perhaps the era had changed, but humanity's role in the world remained the same—mere performers on a stage, desperately striving to entertain their audience. This land of the dead was the stage of the God of Death. And perhaps the real world was merely the stage of God.

Above the arena, countless floating spirits shouted in unison, their fervor far greater than the hollow melancholy they exuded underground.

Hoffa moved through the crowd of spirits, astonished. The scene rivaled the Quidditch World Cup—if one replaced the living spectators with ghosts, the spectacle would be nearly identical. But what were so many spirits gathered here to witness?

BOOM!

As if answering his question, an explosion rang out, followed by a downpour of colorful streamers from the sky.

A massive clown balloon suddenly burst forth from the spectator stands. Seated atop its head was a towering black man, nearly four meters tall, adorned in gold and silver. He held a microphone, his excitement visible even from afar, his brilliant white teeth gleaming.

Hoffa recognized him instantly—it was Avada, Death's servant.

"Welcome, everyone, once again to the Eternal Arena, where mortals and gods clash in the ultimate game!" Avada's voice boomed through the arena. "Everyone who enters this arena will face three opponents. Defeat all three, and you may leave this world—or even have one wish granted by Death!"

The spirits erupted in frenzied cheers, their excitement akin to consuming liquid fire. Little Barty, swept up in the enthusiasm, clung to the railing, shouting wildly.

Hoffa remained calm. So these spirits were merely spectators of Death's game. But was he the only participant, or had Death invited others as well?

Standing atop the balloon, Avada spread his arms wide. "Now, let's welcome our first contestant—from the year 1864, Davis Sawyer!"

Clang! Clang!

The sound of clashing armor echoed. From the edge of the crimson sand, a towering knight in full armor emerged, walking with steady, imposing strides.

Hoffa recognized the armor immediately. Wasn't this the knight who had once served beside Aglaia? Why was he participating in Death's game?

Avada pointed excitedly at the knight. "Davis Sawyer was born into a bankrupt British family. His father was murdered by enemies, and to survive, he hunted lions alone in Africa and engaged in the slave trade. After amassing wealth, he returned to Britain to avenge his father—only to be exiled to the American colonies for assaulting a judge's daughter. There, he slaughtered thousands of Native Americans and became a renowned plantation owner."

"Boo!"

The spirits jeered in unison, their ridicule unclear to Hoffa.

Avada, undeterred, grinned as he continued. "And now, in this test of the soul, can this man overcome his past adversaries and fulfill his deepest wish? Let's find out! Now—let us welcome Davis Sawyer's first opponent: from the wild world of magic, one of the deadliest magical creatures—the griffin!"

ROAR!

At his words, a massive iron cage on the far side of the arena shattered. A colossal beast, eight meters long with the body of a lion, the head and wings of an eagle, and razor-sharp talons, burst forth. With a deafening screech, it charged toward the armored knight.

The knight immediately engaged the griffin in combat. In mere moments, blood and flesh flew in all directions, the battlefield drenched in carnage. The spirits in the stands erupted into a bloodthirsty frenzy.

Hoffa, watching the battle, turned to a nearby middle-aged ghost and asked, "Where did that man get his body?"

The ghost, eyes fixed on the duel, responded loudly, "If you want a body, go to the underground lair and find the Witch. She accepts all requests."

"So he got his body from her?"

"Of course."

"But won't the body decay quickly?"

"Ordinary ones, yes. But if the Witch wills it, she can give you an iron body too. Of course, the price isn't cheap—you'd have to work for her for at least fifty years."

"Why does she keep creating bodies?" Hoffa asked, still puzzled. Aglaia had never given him an answer.

The ghost merely shook his head. "No one knows what the Witch is thinking."

Before Hoffa could ask more, the crowd roared again—the knight had slain the griffin, its entrails spilling across the crimson sand.

Hoffa, however, felt uneasy. Something about this wasn't right. Fifty years of labor for a body? That meant Davis Sawyer had served Aglaia for half a century.

And if Aglaia had treated him coldly, could it be that... he had been replaced?

Avada's voice boomed from above. "Behold! The bravest warrior of the 19th century, Davis Sawyer, has conquered the ferocious griffin, just as he overcame countless monsters in his lifetime. But despite his victories, he remained addicted to carnal pleasures."

Laughter erupted from the stands, but Hoffa clenched his fists. A man like that, staying close to Aglaia—what was his true intention?

As the griffin's corpse dissipated into red mist, it coalesced into a shimmering Western-style dance hall. Several beautiful women sauntered toward the knight, holding bottles of liquor, their movements enticing.

The spirits cheered again, eagerly awaiting what was to come.

But Davis Sawyer did not look pleased. Instead, he cautiously retreated, as if facing a pack of ravenous beasts.

As he stumbled, a steel pole wrapped in a pair of long, seductive legs appeared behind him. He collided with it and fell awkwardly to the ground.

A woman slid down the pole like a serpent, draping herself over him. Davis froze as she pried off his armor, her unnaturally long tongue slipping into his mouth.

The spirits leaned forward in excitement.

But then, with a sudden burst of movement, Davis ripped the woman away—her tongue stretching half a meter as it was yanked from his throat...

"It doesn't matter. There are no extra rules here, nor is there any so-called fairness. Death never cares about the process, only the result. Victory or defeat, that's all that matters."

The middle-aged ghost beside him spoke excitedly, "You can find any teammates, any help, as long as you can. Even if you use the entire world as your shield, Death wouldn't mind."

"Has anyone ever won?"

"No idea."

The middle-aged man shrugged indifferently. "At least, I don't know. But it looks like Davis Sawyer is about to lose this game."

In just a few short seconds of conversation, half of Davis's flesh had already been devoured.

Hoffa looked at the center of the arena. For some reason, two conflicting voices rose in his heart. One, a faint whisper of sympathy; the other, a louder, triumphant cheer.

This man had been by Aglaea's side for fifty years. Dying like this was too easy for him. The real fear was that in the world of the dead, death might not even exist.

As these thoughts flashed through his mind, the man who had collapsed on the sand suddenly struggled to his feet. An unknown flame ignited over his entire body. The fire was a pale blue, shielding him, and the woman clinging to him was instantly reduced to ashes the moment she touched the flames, vanishing with a scream.

"He won! He has defeated his second opponent!"

Avada shouted fanatically, "Look! That man has conquered carnal desire! But what helped him overcome it!? What is he thinking!?"

Avada stood up from the balloon, raising his voice. "Let's take a look inside the mind of Sir Davis Sawyer."

As he spoke, several bubbles appeared on the forehead of the battered man standing in the sand. The bubbles grew larger and larger.

Finally, within the largest bubble, an image formed: Davis, reborn from a massive cauldron, while a silver-haired, expressionless girl, translucent in form, controlled a stone golem, pressing pieces of glowing-hot armor onto his body.

"It's love. Oh, damn it, it's love! In Helheim!"

Avada cried out theatrically, "Two hundred years of companionship made him fall in love with the one he served—the cold witch, the creator of flesh in the dark depths!"

A chorus of sharp, jeering whistles erupted from the ghosts, an eerie expression of curiosity. Hoffa's face darkened, his expression stormy. The sound magnified in his mind, unbearably piercing.

"Hahahahaha! So, before the final battle, I want to ask you, Davis Sawyer—what is your wish?"

"I want to free her from the endless cycle of reincarnation!"

The blood-drenched man roared with all his might. He looked up at Avada, who sat upon the balloon. "Let her go, you demons!!"

"You love her! Tell me, isn't that right!?"

"I love her! No one loves her more than I do!"

Davis bellowed, his face twisted in agony.

Boom!!

Hoffa felt as if something had ignited inside his mind. A surge of fury, fueled by a deep sense of indignation, exploded within him. He abruptly stood up from the stands, his voice like thunder: "You dare!?"

"Hahahahahaha!"

Avada burst into laughter. "Yes, that's it! That's exactly it!"

Holding a microphone, he pointed wildly toward the stands. Instantly, countless spotlights converged on Hoffa, illuminating him in front of the entire arena.

"Now, let's welcome—straight from the magical world—the youngest legendary wizard! The man who crossed from the realm of the living to the land of the dead in pursuit of love—the wandering mage, Hoffa Bach!"

Avada announced, "Let's witness this duel of love against love!"

Driven by his emotions, Hoffa stepped away from the stands. Barty hurriedly tried to stop him, his voice unusually calm. "Mr. Bach, our priority should be finding a way out of here!"

But Hoffa no longer heard him. All he wanted was to tear his so-called "rival" to shreds.

The middle-aged ghost beside Barty chuckled, "What are you thinking? Let him go! If he wins Death's game, leaving here will be the easiest thing in the world."

Other ghosts chimed in agreement, "He's facing the final opponent—giving up now would be a waste!"

Barty's eyes widened. "If he wins, we can leave?"

"Of course! Avada is Death's emissary. He never lies."

At those words, Barty immediately stepped aside, even cheering after Hoffa, "Mr. Bach, go for it! I'll support you!"

But just like Barty's attempt to stop him, Hoffa did not hear his encouragement either. He walked straight to the center of the battlefield. The sand crunched beneath his feet, the cheering ghosts fell into silence, and all he could see was Davis Sawyer's battered flesh and shattered armor.

The two men faced each other for only a few seconds before Davis moved first, charging without hesitation. Hoffa instantly unleashed his full psychic power. The sand beneath his feet surged like a river, swallowing Davis whole in the blink of an eye.

The abrasive grains tore at Davis's flesh as he struggled to break free. He clawed his way out, his face barely recognizable, charging at Hoffa once more. Sand spikes erupted before him, forming walls that closed in from both sides.

This time, Hoffa's face was ice-cold. He showed no mercy.

Each impact of the massive sand spikes shattered more of Davis's armor and flesh, yet nothing could stop him. He fought desperately toward Hoffa's position.

Hoffa kept retreating, trying to maintain his distance. He knew that in the land of the dead, true death did not exist—his only hope was to completely destroy Davis's body.

Yet the man was incredibly resilient. No matter how Hoffa reshaped the sand into lethal weapons, Davis would always rise again, relentlessly closing the gap.

Eventually, Hoffa found himself cornered, pressed against the arena's stone stands.

Stripped of nearly all flesh, reduced to a mere skeleton, Davis broke through the final obstacle and lunged at Hoffa, wrapping his arms around him. With great difficulty, he rasped into Hoffa's ear, "It's not what you think. To me, she is like a mother."

"Mother, my ass!" Hoffa snapped, enraged. "She's not even half your age!"

With that, he shaped the sand into a massive fist and punched Davis away.

The ghosts erupted into ecstatic cheers.

As they roared, Hoffa manipulated the sand to pin Davis against a Roman column, yelling, "Tell me—why is she so cold to me? Does it have anything to do with you!?"

"Surrender," Davis said sadly, his mutilated face barely recognizable. "Just surrender, let me finish Death's game, and I'll tell you everything."

Hoffa sneered, "Funny how you didn't say that when you threw me out last time."

"I remembered after I tossed you, but it was too late. Hurry, surrender! It's our only chance. Otherwise, neither of us will win."

Hoffa hesitated. He gazed at the bloodied man before him. Davis's eyes were urgent, desperate, as if he truly had a secret he couldn't share.

Hoffa wasn't a fool. His emotions had driven everything so far. Aglaea's indifference had only deepened his anxiety. But when he thought carefully, an invisible force seemed to be pushing him forward, toward an unseen destination.

"Not what I thought?"

"No." Davis's eyes pleaded. "Hurry, surrender. This is our only chance."

Hoffa hesitated, then slowly began undoing his transfiguration.

But—

Bang!!

A rock suddenly smashed into Davis's head, splitting it open.

Barty, grinning triumphantly, shouted, "Mr. Bach! I did it! Did we win Death's game!?"

Hoffa stared at Davis's lifeless body, unable to speak.

(End of Chapter)

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