Harry Potter: I am the Legend

the German State Secret Police—was a force of terror at its peak, infiltrating every German-occupied region, including other Axis nations. This organization was responsible for the murder of over 5.27 million Jews, eradicating nearly half of Europe's Jewish population, making it one of the most infamous killing machines in human history.

Hoffa never imagined that something as simple as having a meal could result in such misfortune—encountering such a terrifying presence.

Watching the three Gestapo officers enter, Hoffa swallowed hard and turned his head mechanically. His eyes met Sylby's, who had his cheeks puffed out with food. A shrimp head slipped from the corner of Sylby's lips as both of them saw the shock reflected in each other's eyes.

The three Gestapo officers immediately noticed the two "colleagues" sitting in the middle of the restaurant.

One of them, wearing gold-rimmed glasses, nodded toward Hoffa's table and raised his arm in salute.

"Heil Hitler!"

In the heat of the moment, Hoffa reflexively stood up and raised his hand.

"Heil Hitler!"

This time, his gesture was spot-on—he used his left hand. However, he kept his head lowered to avoid revealing his youthful face and arousing suspicion.

The Gestapo officer with the glasses studied Hoffa briefly before shifting his gaze to Sylby. Sylby gulped audibly, swallowing the food in his mouth, and sat motionless.

He couldn't raise his hand, nor could he speak any German.

Hoffa held his left hand at a perfect 45-degree angle, maintaining a neutral expression, though the tension in his body was evident. His foot arched against the floor, and his eyes darted around the room, mapping out potential escape routes, ready to bolt at any moment.

Fortunately, the Gestapo officer didn't seem inclined to press Hoffa further. After a moment's pause, his gaze moved to Sylby's wheelchair, lingering on the swastika symbol emblazoned on it for a few seconds.

Then he nodded, lowered his arm, and, with a quick motion, seated himself and his men at a table just two meters away.

As the danger subsided, Hoffa let out a silent sigh of relief and slowly sat back down.

Sylby's lips moved, his wide eyes filled with panic, as he whispered, "What do we do?!"

"Shh! Don't talk," Hoffa mouthed back, glaring at him.

"But—"

"Shh!" Hoffa kicked Sylby under the table, causing his wheelchair to jolt slightly. Sylby shut his mouth.

Straightening his posture, Hoffa began eating again in silence. Yes, eating.

It was the only thing he could do. If he got up and left after encountering the Gestapo, it would immediately raise suspicion.

Though Hoffa was a wizard with powerful spells like Phantom Walk and Grip of Shatter, he wasn't particularly worried about the Gestapo officers themselves.

However, the soldiers in the three jeeps outside were no joke. Even a fully-trained wizard would struggle to ignore the killing power of those war machines.

Fork clinking against his plate, Hoffa mechanically stabbed at his food, shoving it into his mouth. He followed it up by lifting his water glass to drink, though every motion felt robotic.

Meanwhile, the Gestapo officers removed their hats, chatting and laughing as they lit cigarettes. A group of waitstaff swarmed around them, eager to serve.

In such an environment, Hoffa felt like his taste buds had gone completely numb. The exquisite Spanish meal before him now seemed utterly flavorless.

Suddenly, a pristine white cigarette landed on Hoffa's table, rolling a couple of times before coming to a stop.

Hoffa turned his head mechanically to see the Gestapo officer with gold-rimmed glasses leaning lazily against his chair. He held a cigarette in one hand, tapping it on a silver metal case, smiling directly at Hoffa.

Sweat began to bead on Hoffa's palms, but he managed to return a polite smile, nodding slightly in acknowledgment.

The Gestapo officer's smile widened as he asked casually, "Gruppe Drohne?" (Drone Squad?)

Hoffa's foot pressed harder against the floor, and his right hand clenched the edge of the chair. He had no idea what the man was saying—he didn't understand German.

Still, the officer's friendly demeanor left Hoffa with no choice. He nodded silently, reasoning that agreeing to the question was the quickest way to end the conversation.

The officer's smile faded slightly as he followed up, "Was ist los mit euch beiden?" (It's just the two of you?)

His gaze shifted back and forth between Hoffa and Sylby.

Hoffa still didn't understand a word, but he kept smiling and nodding as if to say, Whatever you're saying is absolutely right.

"Kommen und mit mir?" (Want to come join us?) asked the Gestapo officer with the gold-rimmed glasses.

Hoffa smiled and nodded again.

The officer smiled back, seemingly satisfied.

However, Hoffa remained seated, smiling but staying completely still.

The Gestapo officer's expression began to stiffen as he realized something was amiss. He had waited for a while, but Hoffa made no move to join them. His smile gradually faded.

"Was bewegt sich nicht?" (Why aren't you moving?)

Judging from his expression, Hoffa realized he couldn't simply nod his way out of this one. Sweat poured from his palms as he understood that things had taken a serious turn.

It was clear now: the officer was expecting a verbal response.

Say something… I have to say something, Hoffa thought frantically.

But he didn't know German.

What German words do I know? What can I say?

He glanced at the three Gestapo officers, all of whom were now staring at him, their brows furrowing.

Hoffa's back was drenched with sweat. He had to say something.

German… anything in German!

Pushed to the edge, Hoffa raised his hat slightly, coughed softly, and casually said, "I'm here in Heb Province."

The confusion on the officers' faces didn't dissipate, and they exchanged glances, clearly puzzled by his response.

After a brief pause, the officer with the glasses seemed to come to some sort of understanding and nodded knowingly.

"Nur ihr beide?" (Special assignment?)

Hoffa nodded.

The Gestapo officer courteously raised his wine glass.

"Viel Erfolg." (Good luck with your mission.)

Hoffa raised his own glass, smiled, and nodded back.

He took a long sip of water to cover up his growing unease. When he finished, the officers returned to their conversation.

Hoffa carefully set down his glass, trembling slightly, and noticed Sylby staring at him in shock. Sylby mouthed, You speak German?

Before Sylby could finish forming his next word, Hoffa shot him a sharp look and gave him a firm kick under the table, signaling him to avoid any unusual behavior.

The forks continued clinking. The Gestapo officers' table soon filled with food, and they seemed distracted again.

Finally, after two excruciatingly tense minutes, Hoffa stood up, his clothes damp with sweat. He politely nodded to the Gestapo officers and began pushing Sylby's wheelchair toward the exit.

One step.

Two steps.

Three steps.

Four steps.

The door drew closer. Outside, the soldiers lounging near the jeeps were smoking and chatting. When they noticed Hoffa approaching, they straightened up, raised their rifles, and saluted with their left hands.

Hoffa prepared to return the salute and then make his escape from this perilous situation.

But just as he raised his hand, a cold voice called out in German from behind: "Einen Moment." (Wait a moment.)

Hoffa froze and turned slowly. The Gestapo officer with the gold-rimmed glasses was staring at him, his eyes icy. He pointed at Hoffa's hat and asked, "Ihr Hut, was?" (Your hat—what's wrong with it?)

A chill ran down Hoffa's spine, and he didn't reply. His heart plummeted into the depths of despair.

While he didn't understand the exact words, it was obvious the officer was questioning the shape of his hat. Hoffa had deliberately avoided transforming it into the bizarre pointed wizard hats that Lütrelov's troops wore, fearing Muggles would find it suspicious.

Now, that oversight was coming back to haunt him.

When Hoffa didn't respond, all three Gestapo officers stood up, their expressions growing stern. The atmosphere in the restaurant became unbearably tense.

Around them, diners stopped eating and turned to watch, their gazes sharp and cutting like lasers.

Hoffa had exhausted every German phrase he knew. Exposure was inevitable.

He glanced toward the exit. Using an Apparition Charm was risky—there were too many people and too many guns, and a hail of bullets would likely result in serious injuries.

But if he used Phantom Walk, the restaurant's crowded layout posed another problem. Pushing the wheelchair, he'd be lucky to make it far in just ten seconds.

If he used Phantom Walk twice, he could escape a considerable distance.

However, within that second of the interval, he too would likely be shot to pieces by the professional soldiers.

Running out the door wasn't an option; he had to take another direction.

Hoffa turned around expressionlessly.

He stared straight at the three Gestapo officers, who already had their hands in their gun holsters.

Hoffa suddenly froze, his eyes darting towards the second floor of the restaurant.

"Führer!" (Leader!)

As soon as he shouted, all the Gestapo officers looked up.

Boom!

In that split second, Hoffa activated Life Conversion; his arm muscles bulged.

He lifted a table, flipping it towards the three Gestapo officers.

The thick, spicy Spanish oil soup, mixed with hot seafood on an iron plate, slammed onto the face of the officer with the gold-rimmed glasses.

"Ahhhhhh!!"

The crowd screamed, and the soldiers outside, all ready to salute, were momentarily frozen.

The officer who had been hit by the table stumbled backward, crashing to the ground, screaming in pain. His entire body was covered in colorful splashes of soup. He screamed, "Tte ihn!!" (Kill him!)

The other two Gestapo officers, without hesitation, drew their guns and started firing madly into the place where Hoffa had disappeared.

Bam, bam, bam!!!

The gunshots rang out, but before the bullets could be fired, Hoffa grabbed Sylby's wheelchair back with one hand.

Phantom Walk!

The two of them vanished into the material world together.

The restaurant erupted in chaos—flames flickered, bullets whizzed through the air.

People screamed and scrambled for cover.

Soldiers bellowed, scrambling from the jeeps into the restaurant.

The officer who had been burned screamed and rolled on the ground, clutching his eyes. A few soldiers brought water to wash his face, but he pushed them away, screaming through the swelling, "Find him, kill him!!"

Dozens of soldiers lifted their weapons, spraying bullets into the place where Hoffa had disappeared.

In the gray void, Hoffa pushed Sylby, sprinting away.

Behind them, tiles exploded, wood and shattered glass flew everywhere.

The main entrance was tightly blocked by Muggle soldiers, so Hoffa had no choice but to run in the opposite direction.

After ten seconds, Hoffa pushed Sylby's wheelchair at breakneck speed into the back kitchen of the hotel.

The kitchen staff, holding trays, were dashing around. Suddenly, a boy with a wheelchair burst in, screaming as he smashed a chocolate cake into Sylby's face.

Behind him, a chaotic rush of soldiers poured in.

Two soldiers, rushing too fast, got stuck at the door. They raised their guns and fired.

Hoffa shoved a nearby waiter out of the way, pushing him out of the line of fire. Then he crouched, pushing the wheelchair beneath a marble counter.

Flames shot up! Shards of rock and shattered crockery flew through the air.

The gunfire momentarily paused.

With chocolate on his face, Sylby trembled excitedly, his head shaking as if he were reaching the peak of some internal high. "My god! Being with you is just... so, so much fun!"

Hoffa had no time to deal with him, grabbing the chocolate-stained scarf around his chest and stuffing it into Sylby's mouth to muffle his madness.

Boom! Two soldiers caught in the door were kicked aside by a Gestapo officer.

Hoffa wasted no time, grabbing a pile of ceramic plates from a sink, heaved them at the Gestapo officers.

"Trash!"

Then he roughly shoved open the back door to the kitchen, entering a narrow alley filled with garbage.

The Gestapo officers saw a fleeting figure of Hoffa and immediately raised their guns, spraying bullets into the restaurant. They shattered countless dishes, injuring their own soldiers in the process.

But as the smoke cleared, there was no sign of anyone.

The officer who had been burned and blinded by the hot oil was shaking with rage, bellowing, "Search! Find that pretender!"

"Coming tomorrow!"

"Coming tomorrow!"

"Coming tomorrow!"

(End of Chapter)

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