Harry Potter: I am the Legend

Hoffa pointed at the newspaper. "Is this related to that key?"

Neither of them responded.

"Answer me!" Hoffa asked angrily.

Ossivia replied bluntly, "This is none of your business."

Hoffa turned to look at Silby, but Silby sat motionless, expressionless, and utterly silent.

The usually talkative Silby had suddenly turned into a mute.

Gritting his teeth, Hoffa tossed the newspaper aside.

There was definitely something they knew, something they weren't telling him. The thought made him both curious and slightly anxious.

Wizards being gunned down one after another—what on earth was going on?

However, this wasn't the time to dwell on it.

After boarding the train, exhaustion began to overtake him, both physically and mentally.

He started to meditate.

After using Gugal's Transmutation Magic, Hoffa always had to meditate to restore his magical energy. The recovered magic would then transform into vitality to maintain his body's balance.

The train rattled forward at a moderate speed. The three of them swayed gently in their seats.

Ossivia remained engrossed in studying the newspaper, while Hoffa focused on replenishing the magical energy lost in the battles and their escape.

Four hours later, the sky began to turn to dusk.

The train carried them into the vast expanse of the Spanish countryside—the Valencia Plains.

Bordering the Mediterranean Sea, the Valencia Plains were filled with orange groves, stretching endlessly. The vibrant greenery combined with the setting sun created a scene reminiscent of an oil painting.

But no matter how beautiful the scenery was, it couldn't alleviate Hoffa's fatigue. Even after meditating, he still felt utterly drained.

He hadn't slept properly in nearly three days. Driving recklessly and fleeing for his life had left him with a weariness that even meditation couldn't cure.

Finally, as the train passed through the Valencia Plains under the twilight sky, Hoffa leaned back against his seat and drifted into a deep sleep.

It felt like he had only just fallen asleep when he was startled awake by a series of rapid, labored breaths.

Opening his eyes, he found himself in complete darkness.

It was already the middle of the night.

In the quiet, oppressive air, he heard strained, raspy breathing.

Hoffa turned, and what he saw made his heart skip a beat.

Silby's bloodshot eyes were staring intently at him.

In the dimly lit carriage, Silby's face was as pale as a sheet of paper. His nostrils flared with every strained breath, and his lips were tightly bitten as though he was desperately suppressing his breathing.

At first, Hoffa thought Silby was faking illness again. But when he touched his forehead, it felt as cold as ice, devoid of any warmth.

This was unmistakably a symptom of magical exhaustion. Checking Silby's heart, Hoffa found his heartbeat weak and faint, like a candle flickering in the wind.

The breathing grew more labored and painful by the second.

Hoffa immediately sat up. Silby had bitten his lips so hard they were bleeding.

"Hey."

"Hey!"

"What's wrong with you?"

Hoffa had no idea how to handle the situation.

Silby didn't answer. He just stared at Hoffa with wide, unblinking eyes.

Something was definitely wrong. Alarmed, Hoffa moved to wake Ossivia, who was asleep in the single seat to his left.

But Silby looked at him with a pleading, bloodshot gaze.

"Don't."

"Don't... wake... her," Silby whispered through gritted teeth, barely forcing the words out.

Trapped?

Hoffa paused to assess the situation.

Indeed.

The carriage was overcrowded, filled with a thick, suffocating concentration of carbon dioxide.

Without hesitation, Hoffa lifted the trembling Silby into his wheelchair and quickly pushed him out.

Finally, after maneuvering to the front of the train near the first-class carriages, Silby managed to catch a faint breath of fresh air wafting through a ventilation fan above the first-class seating.

Even here, Silby's breathing remained labored, though the severity had slightly lessened.

Seeing his continued struggle, Hoffa decided to go further.

He pulled out his wand and transformed it into a sharp blade.

Without a second thought, he wedged the blade into the slot of the green train's window and forcefully pried it open.

A rush of fresh air, laden with the faint fragrance of oranges, surged into the compartment like a tidal wave.

Silby's pale hair fluttered in the wind, and his entire body, previously rigid and tense like a fish out of water, finally relaxed.

"Ahhh!"

"Ahhh!"

"Ahh."

Closing his eyes, Silby greedily inhaled the fresh air, his breathing gradually stabilizing. He stopped moving, and Hoffa pressed his fingers to Silby's chest, feeling his heart resume its steady rhythm.

After a long while, Silby opened his eyes and murmured weakly, "Thank you, Hoffa."

"Hmm," Hoffa replied, glancing at his watch. It was 5 a.m. He had slept for a full 12 hours, but who knew how long Silby had been struggling for breath.

"Could you move me closer? I'd like to feel more of the wind," Silby said.

Following his request, Hoffa positioned Silby's wheelchair closer to the open window. The night breeze from the moving train tousled Silby's hair, revealing his pale, statue-like profile. For some reason, Hoffa found something strangely familiar about his face.

Inside the train, the dim, old tungsten lights flickered with a faint buzzing. Silby's wheelchair swayed gently with the train's motion.

At that moment, the train was passing through Valencia, a coastal city in Spain. Outside the window, the fleeting nightscape of the Spanish city came into view.

Old streetlamps cast warm glows, a disheveled poet lay by the riverside, a guitarist strummed atop a flowerbed, and couples huddled together for warmth along the riverbank.

Soon, the train left the city behind and returned to the desolate countryside.

Suddenly.

Silby turned to Hoffa and asked, "Can you feel it?"

"Feel what?" Hoffa asked.

"The decay beneath this country's splendor," Silby said.

"I can't feel anything," Hoffa replied flatly.

"They say Spain after midnight is the real Spain. I didn't believe it before, but now it seems true," Silby remarked with a sigh.

Hoffa had no reply. He didn't know much about Europe.

After a while, Hoffa asked, "What happened to you earlier? Was it some kind of illness?"

"Not exactly," Silby said. "Sometimes, I just feel like I'm a zombie, a piece of frozen meat."

The train crossed an old stone bridge, and Silby gazed at the river below, speaking slowly:

"Sometimes, I feel as though I'm slowly rotting in this wheelchair, yet simultaneously growing. This contradictory illusion brings immense pain."

"Even though I have no sense of touch, my brain still perceives pain. It's an abnormal physiological mechanism. Psychologists call it phantom limb, and some say it's just phantom pain. But I know that's not the truth. I'm cursed."

Hoffa didn't know how to respond. Instinctively, he pulled the blanket over Silby a little more snugly.

"Are you pitying me?" Silby suddenly asked.

"Not at all," Hoffa replied softly.

"'The strong don't need pity'—that's my family's motto," Silby said.

"But you need help. That's a fact," Hoffa said plainly.

"If you want to help, there are some cigarettes under my wheelchair. Could you get them for me?"

Hoffa bent down and found a small compartment under the wheelchair. Inside were magazines, candy, some medicine, and even a gun. At the very back, he saw a silver cigarette case.

Opening it, he found rolling papers and tobacco.

He hesitated for a moment but eventually pulled out the rolling paper. "What now?"

"Didn't Hogwarts teach you how to roll cigarettes?" Silby teased.

"Does Beauxbatons offer that course?" Hoffa shot back.

"Fair enough. Just help me roll it," Silby said.

Hoffa fumbled for a long time but couldn't manage to roll the cigarette properly.

"Bring it here," Silby said, sticking out his tongue.

Hoffa placed the rolling paper near his lips.

Silby licked the paper, then gestured for Hoffa to roll it again.

Sure enough, the lick acted like glue, and the rolling paper sealed tightly.

Hoffa struck a match and lit the cigarette for Silby.

In the dark, a faint red glow appeared.

Silby took a deep, satisfied drag and exhaled a cloud of smoke with relish. When Hoffa brought the cigarette back to his lips for another puff, Silby shook his head, signaling he didn't need it anymore.

Hoffa stubbed out the barely-smoked cigarette.

Silby spoke, "I wasn't always like this. At least, 11 years ago, I could still run and jump."

Staring at the river, Silby's tone grew wistful.

"Then what happened?" Hoffa asked.

"My fate is cursed, sealed. My family is cursed too—a curse from the depths of history," Silby said.

"Does it have anything to do with the key Ocipia is looking for?" Hoffa asked.

Silby slowly turned his head and looked at Hoffa with a strange, scrutinizing expression.

Suddenly, he asked, "Would you like to be my secretary?"

"What?"

"When I was in Morocco, I mentioned I could offer you a long-term job. Are you interested?"

Hoffa remembered Silby's earlier suggestion to drop out of school and work for him. He shook his head. "I won't give up on my education."

Silby's already dim eyes grew even duller.

"What a pity. You're the only one I—"

He didn't finish his sentence.

Thud!

The train jolted violently as if it had hit something, then gradually came to a stop.

Hoffa looked out at the empty wilderness. In the distance, under the dark blue night sky, a faint pink hue was emerging—dawn was approaching.

Changing passengers?

But there was no station here.

Growing wary, Hoffa extended his mental field, quickly scanning the train for any sign of other wizards.

Within a fifty-meter radius, Hoffa detected no other wizard's mental field except for Ocipia, who was sleeping fifty meters away.

"What's going on?" Hoffa asked Silby, turning his head. "What's this about?"

Silby shook his head, speaking softly. "I don't know. But I'm paying you. If something happens, can you protect me?"

Hoffa didn't answer. He reactivated his mental field, staying alert.

Just then, the train jolted and resumed its rhythmic clattering on the tracks.

Hoffa opened his eyes, finding nothing unusual, though his brow furrowed.

Had he been imagining things?

Suddenly, the flickering tungsten light in the empty carriage revealed an elderly woman slowly making her way down the aisle, pushing a small cart.

She was incredibly frail, moving with agonizing slowness, and exuded no magical aura.

Not a witch.

Just a Muggle selling breakfast early in the morning.

Still cautious, Hoffa slowly positioned himself in front of Silby.

The old woman's cart squeaked as she passed by.

As she reached the corridor, she noticed Hoffa standing by the window and smiled, revealing a few remaining teeth.

"¿Quieres un poco de comida?" (Want some food?)

Hoffa didn't understand her and waved her away.

"Es muy barato." (It's very cheap.)

"Te va a gustar." (You'll like it.)

She continued speaking while rummaging through her cart, occasionally holding up bread or candy to show him.

Frowning, Hoffa gestured for her to move on.

Seeing his persistent refusal, she muttered something under her breath, withdrew her goods, and pushed her cart through the wooden door leading to the first-class compartment, which was empty.

As she left, Hoffa's tense nerves eased slightly, and he let out a small breath of relief.

But then, a gust of wind blew through the open window in the first-class carriage. The train was traversing a sharp curve.

Hoffa lost his balance momentarily.

The old woman also stumbled.

Her robe fluttered in the wind, and in that fleeting moment, Hoffa caught sight of something unusual—her arm gleamed with a metallic black-purple sheen.

A sense of foreboding struck him instantly.

The old woman, now five meters away, suddenly turned, her body lurching unnaturally. With lightning speed, she drew two massive black pistols from the pile of snacks on her cart and aimed directly at Silby.

Every hair on the back of Hoffa's neck stood on end.

Without thinking, he flicked his wand, transforming it into a large silver shield. Dropping to one knee, he positioned the shield in front of himself.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

The guns roared.

In mere moments, at least five or six bullets slammed into the shield.

The relentless impacts and the deafening noise left Hoffa shaken as he crouched behind the shield, his scalp tingling.

An assassin.

When the gunfire stopped, Hoffa glanced at Silby, who sat pale-faced in his wheelchair, his expression grim.

A whirlwind of thoughts flashed through Hoffa's mind: the assassination of Raymond, the murdered Minister of Magic, and the so-called key.

The attacker was clearly after Silby!

The shield began to narrow, and through its gap, Hoffa peered ahead—but the old woman had vanished.

All that remained was her cart, abandoned on the floor.

Rising cautiously, Hoffa reverted the shield to his wand. He stayed on high alert, his nerves taut.

The wind outside the train whipped through the curtains as Hoffa took a few steps forward, scanning his surroundings.

Tap, tap.

Two faint noises echoed.

Suddenly, soft footsteps sounded from above the carriage.

Hoffa froze, alarmed, raising his arm instinctively.

The vent fan crashed down, followed by a gray figure plunging through the train's ventilation system.

The gray-clad old woman dropped heavily, delivering a powerful punch aimed straight at Hoffa.

Her eyes glowed with an intense, piercing red light.

(End of chapter)

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