Harry Potter: I am the Legend

A week later, accompanied by the billowing rise of coal gas, a massive ocean liner slowly sailed across the Pacific.

In the lower deck of the ship, Hoffa, dressed in black hunting attire, awoke amidst the cargo. The moment he regained consciousness, he was met with the incessant grumbling of his left hand.

"You're absolute garbage!"

His left hand chattered endlessly, "A whole week in the lower deck, eating nothing but black bread. Are you even human!? Are you!?"

"How does that make me not human?"

Stretching lazily, Hoffa rubbed his eyes and stood up.

The lower deck was filled with workers like him—immigrants from various European backgrounds heading to North America for work. Among them were people of British, Italian, and Spanish descent. Most were dressed in tattered clothing, but their faces bore an expression of hope and excitement. They conversed in different languages, filling the cabin with a lively atmosphere.

"Are they not human?" Hoffa asked.

"Can people even be compared like that? Are you the same as them? Even if you're broke, couldn't you have used magic to get yourself a first-class cabin? And even if you're a magic-inept fool, you could've at least asked me for help! I had to endure a whole week of sweat and smoke stench trailing behind you—I'm honestly speechless!"

"You don't even have a nose."

Hoffa stuffed a wool brush into his mouth and began brushing his teeth with a loud scrubbing sound.

This wasn't the first day Miller had complained. In fact, he had been whining the entire journey, ever since Hoffa refused his request to move to the upper deck on the very first day.

His left hand suddenly snatched the toothbrush and aggressively jabbed it into his mouth, as if trying to stab him with it.

After brushing his teeth and finishing breakfast, Hoffa picked up a long leather suitcase and stepped onto the ship's deck. A week ago, he and Miller had departed from the Port of London, traveling by sea toward North America.

Now, after a week of sailing, the Statue of Liberty, with her raised arm, finally came into view. Hoffa barely had a moment to take in the sight before he felt his left hand yanking him forcefully. A powerful suction pulled at him from the void, twisting his body as if he were being sucked through a rubber tube.

When the spinning stopped, he found himself no longer on the deck but standing atop the Statue of Liberty's towering head. The sea breeze whipped at his clothes.

Before him lay Manhattan, a forest of towering skyscrapers. Compared to London, the modernity of this place was overwhelming. At just a glance, Hoffa almost forgot what year it was. If not for the old-fashioned smokestacks on the ocean liners below, he might have believed he had arrived fifty years into the future.

New York—the greatest city of the twentieth century.

Hoffa lifted his hand and looked at his palm. "Don't teleport me without my permission."

"Ha! So now you're the boss? Everything has to be your way?" Miller scoffed defiantly.

"If you're so powerful, why don't you teleport me straight from Britain? Maybe then, I'd actually listen to you." Hoffa said coolly.

"Hah! Apparating across the entire Pacific? You must be joking. Not even a half-blood king could lift that kind of curse." Miller grumbled.

"Oh? Is that so?"

"Who knows! Either way, I can't do it. I can't, okay!?" Miller pouted. "Forget it. I just wanted to experience standing on the Statue of Liberty's head. But honestly, it's nothing special."

Hoffa glanced down. "Had enough?"

With another snap of his fingers, Miller teleported them both from the statue's head to the interior of New York Harbor.

The moment they landed, Miller suddenly made a confused noise. "Huh?"

"What is it?" Hoffa asked.

"Magic in Europe has already declined significantly, but here… there's still a strong magical presence. Damn, how are they maintaining it?"

Hoffa rubbed his chin. It was indeed unexpected to find traces of magic lingering in New York Harbor. Could it be that the wizards here weren't affected by the magical decline? Or perhaps he could find allies among North American wizards?

"No… Something's off."

"What now?"

"There's another strange presence here." Miller said gravely.

"A strange presence? What kind?"

"Ugh… it just makes me uncomfortable. I can't quite tell what it is."

Hoffa thought Miller's explanation was about as useful as saying nothing at all. Still, he took it as a warning. This place was unfamiliar, and the situation was complicated. It was best to stay alert.

Mid-20th-century New York Harbor was teeming with people—workers arriving in search of a livelihood and merchants conducting business. Dockworkers carried luggage back and forth, businessmen smoked cigars while negotiating deals, and cars of various brands honked incessantly as they passed.

Standing amid such a massive crowd, Hoffa felt utterly directionless.

"I need to find an organ trade. Miller, do you have a way to get me some leads?" Hoffa asked, looking at the vast sea of people.

Miller snapped his fingers and muttered a spell. "Ghost Hound."

A few glimmering specks of light scattered onto the ground, and from the void emerged a translucent little dog. It had a long nose, short legs, and floppy ears. Wobbling its way through the crowd, the dog sniffed at Hoffa's feet and knees before obediently sitting by his side, wagging its tail.

People walked past without even noticing the ghostly hound, passing right through its intangible form.

"Tell it what you're looking for."

Miller smirked. "Ghost Hounds are obsessed with anything that smells of blood."

Hoffa crouched down and whispered into the hound's ear. "I'm looking for organs—fresh human organs. Lots of them."

The Ghost Hound's eyes lit up with excitement. It twitched its nose and began sniffing furiously. After a moment, it started wandering aimlessly—sometimes darting left, sometimes right, and occasionally leaping onto massive cargo crates to take a few more whiffs.

Carrying his suitcase, Hoffa weaved through the crowd, following the hound's erratic movements.

He had to admit, in a chaotic environment like this, magic was far more useful than transformation. This was precisely why he had sought Miller's help—if he had relied solely on himself, he would have been utterly lost in the vastness of New York Harbor.

After running around for a long time, practically covering the entire New York Harbor, the Phantom Hound suddenly caught a scent. With a powerful leap, it jumped into the sea and began running across the water. Hoffa couldn't follow it into the water and could only watch from the shore.

The Phantom Hound dashed across the water and reached a small motorboat, circling it while barking loudly. Miller snapped his fingers, and the barking hound immediately fell silent, leaping back to their side.

"My God, there really are human organs here."

Miller exclaimed in surprise, "I thought you'd come back empty-handed, Hoffa."

Hoffa gazed grimly at the motorboat. He and Miranda had previously dismantled a human organ trafficking operation in London, but it was clear that such operations weren't isolated. The trade was still ongoing.

It wasn't long before an old fishing boat, painted with images of salmon and shrimp, slowly approached from the sea. The boat came to a stop near the motorboat, and several men dressed as sailors jumped down from its deck. They carried metal boxes, frost-covered and pale from the cold, and steadily transferred them onto the motorboat. These boxes, too, were marked with images of salmon and shrimp.

After moving around a dozen boxes, the ropes from the fishing boat were reeled back. The sailors on both vessels exchanged a few words in an unfamiliar language before the motorboat's engine roared to life, steering it towards the rear of New York Harbor.

"Invisibility Charm," Hoffa ordered.

"Haven't I taught you this already?"

Miller grumbled, "Always reluctant to use your own magic."

Despite his complaints, he still snapped his fingers, and Hoffa gradually faded from sight on the dock.

The motorboat made a turn around the harbor and arrived at a secluded underpass beneath a bridge, part of New York Harbor's lower level. Several uniformed police officers had set up a checkpoint there—officers that Hoffa had also seen at customs outside.

One of the sailors on the motorboat presented some documents to the guards while another discreetly handed over several rolls of cash. The guards gave a perfunctory inspection of the motorboat, then, grinning, waved them through.

Once past the checkpoint, the motorboat immediately accelerated, speeding along the Hudson River towards the city.

Hoffa sprang into action, sprinting at full speed while carrying his case. By now, some of his magical energy had returned, and the reawakening of the Thunderbird had greatly enhanced his stamina. With just a light push, he soared over the checkpoint officers' heads, his case brushing past them.

The officers, still counting their bribe money, had no idea how their hats suddenly flew off and tumbled into the sea. Panicking, they quickly pocketed the cash and scrambled to retrieve their hats from the water.

As the motorboat raced through Manhattan's waterways, Hoffa followed closely behind with his Phantom Hound, running and leaping at nearly 50 kilometers per hour. He bounded over a bridge pier, dashed across car rooftops, and entered the river embankment and park.

His speed was so intense that pedestrians often felt a sudden gust of wind as he passed. Women in short skirts, on dates by the riverbank with their boyfriends, shrieked as the wind sent their skirts flying before it vanished just as suddenly.

After nearly an hour of relentless pursuit, the motorboat weaved through the waterways and entered a district illuminated by red neon lights. Hoffa looked up at the glowing signs and furrowed his brows—it was Chinatown.

He hesitated for a few seconds before following the streets inward. Though it was called Chinatown, the area was a chaotic blend of various cultural elements. The street signs included Thai and Malay scripts, alongside plenty of Chinese characters. Some shops bore names like "De Hua Hall," "Fu Xiu Hall," and "Qian Wo Hall." The windows of traditional medicine stores displayed dried seahorses, snakeskin, bones, and various fungi. Street vendors, mostly selling food, filled the air with the strong aroma of spices.

"I want to eat," Miller groaned.

Hoffa ignored him. After entering this complex area, the motorboat had completely vanished. Even the Phantom Hound was overwhelmed by the medley of scents, wandering around sniffing in confusion.

Hoffa followed the river's edge, carefully observing the direction of the water's ripples.

"Brother-in-law, I want to eat," Miller pleaded.

"This food isn't authentic," Hoffa dismissed him absentmindedly. "Finish the mission first, then I'll take you to get the real thing."

"I don't care if it's authentic, I just want to eat!"

Miller complained, his left hand twitching involuntarily.

Hoffa shook his left hand vigorously, signaling Miller to behave.

Following the river, they arrived at a seafood market thick with the stench of fish. Near the seafood stalls, several men in suits were casually eating sashimi. The sight of the wriggling octopus made Miller drool, and he groaned in longing. However, Hoffa remained indifferent to his cravings and continued tracking the Phantom Hound.

Directly across from the seafood market was a blatant red-light district, complete with spinning light poles and women slouched on chairs, smoking in exhaustion. Drunken white men staggered out, their arms wrapped around heavily made-up women, boasting loudly as they passed Hoffa.

Suddenly, Hoffa noticed something. He walked toward one of the smoking women in the red-light district.

"What are you doing?"

Miller was alarmed. "If I'm not eating, you're not allowed to eat either!"

Hoffa stopped beside the smoking woman. Because he was under an Invisibility Charm, she couldn't see him. However, Hoffa could clearly see the interior of the establishment—where an altar displayed a deity statue.

At first glance, it seemed to be a statue of the God of Wealth. But upon closer inspection, Hoffa realized the face belonged to Sylby. In the statue, Sylby held a coin in one hand and a gun in the other, wearing a smile. Thick incense smoke curled around him.

At that moment, Hoffa's suspicions were completely confirmed.

As expected, in this wealthiest district, the half-human king's influence extended its tentacles deep, continuously channeling profits into his grasp.

(End of Chapter)

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