Harry Potter: I am the Legend

Barcelona.

The final city of the journey.

After days of trekking through the wilderness, Hoffa finally reached the end of his journey. All that remained was to step into the city's station, and this chapter of his life would be concluded.

From here, Hoffa could clearly see the towering Pyrenees in the distance, their peaks capped with patches of white snow.

Outside the city, Hoffa saw expansive fences enclosing herds of cattle and horses. Gypsies had set up camp under the trees, and liquor vendors had erected makeshift stalls with banners displaying indecipherable slogans. Under the blazing sun, cowboys occasionally stopped in the shade of the trees, boisterously drinking together.

"Is there a festival going on here?" Hoffa turned to Sylby and asked.

"Don't worry about it," came the reply, but it wasn't from Sylby—it was Ossivia. "Stay close to me. Once we get what we need, we'll head straight back to London."

Hoffa nodded. At the final stop of the journey, he didn't want any mistakes. The sooner they completed this dangerous task and returned to London, the better. He could then wait for the school term to start in peace.

Like Granada, the city was plastered with propaganda posters, and Axis symbols were ubiquitous.

But there was a difference here: Hoffa saw numerous workers erecting posts at street corners, blocking off streets on both sides.

Groups of men were digging holes in the ground with shovels, and after finishing, they hammered stakes into the earth. They placed one every few meters, each with its own number.

Hoffa couldn't understand what these Spaniards were doing. Their actions resembled preparations for wartime fortifications, yet their cheerful expressions didn't align with the idea of impending battle.

Ossivia walked past them without a glance, only pausing briefly to study street maps.

As the three of them strolled down the street, the sound of clarinets, flutes, and drums drifted closer. The clear flute notes and resounding drumbeats accompanied a procession of adults and children dancing behind the musicians.

Carrying Sylby on his back, Hoffa stepped aside to watch the parade. He was puzzled by the sight of people dressed in traditional clothing, banging drums and clanging cymbals as they moved through the streets.

The dancers and musicians paraded by, their music fading as they moved further away.

"What are they doing?"

Hoffa turned to Ossivia and asked, "Do you know what's going on?"

Ossivia shook her head. "I've never been here before."

"San Fermín," Sylby answered weakly. "They're celebrating a festival."

"Oh."

Hoffa murmured in acknowledgment.

Though he now knew a festival was happening, he couldn't shake the strange feeling he got watching the people with their faces painted red and yellow, dancing past him.

The city seemed to be permeated by an inexplicable frenzy, a fervor that seeped into Hoffa's mental field, making it difficult to concentrate.

He felt like a virus that had intruded into a living organism, surrounded by an omnipresent gaze.

For the first time, Hoffa felt his mental field suppressed.

He looked around but saw no one watching him.

How odd. He glanced up at the sky.

The sun blazed down, white clouds scattered across a flawless blue expanse.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

"Let's head to the station," Hoffa said, snatching the map from Ossivia's hand with a hint of unease. "Can we move faster?"

"Not yet. He needs to send a message to his family to bring the key," Ossivia replied, looking at Sylby with composure.

"Fine. The post office," Sylby said curtly. "I'll make a call."

The three of them arrived at the city's post office. This was an era before modern conveniences like mobile phones, or even push-button telephones. The post office housed only the kind of rotary phones you'd find in a museum today.

The place was crowded with soldiers and elderly men carrying bags, jostling to send letters. During this era, communication for ordinary people still revolved around written correspondence.

Unwilling to enter the crowded post office, Ossivia waited by the door while Hoffa and Sylby went inside.

Fortunately, making phone calls was a VIP service in this era, and though expensive, the phone booth area was relatively pleasant, equipped with two chairs.

Hoffa set Sylby down and followed his instructions to dial a few numbers before holding the receiver to Sylby's ear.

Once connected, Sylby began speaking in French over the phone, his tone punctuated with "mm" and "ah." On the other end, a voice responded respectfully.

Hoffa couldn't understand a single word of the instructions Sylby was giving.

He held the receiver, glancing at Ossivia waiting outside the post office. Ossivia stood in place, keeping her eyes on him.

Through the glass, Hoffa could see the jubilant crowd behind Ossivia.

Children held balloons, men pounded rhythmic beats on drums, and women twirled with their long skirts in hand. Clowns with faces painted in bold colors exaggerated their movements, bending their knees and dancing with a peculiar flair.

The cacophony buzzed in Hoffa's ears, leaving him dazed and uncomfortable, as if some unknown radiation were disrupting his senses.

Shaking his head, he forced himself to focus.

At that moment, through the glass, Hoffa noticed a strangely dressed man making his way through the crowd. The man wore a suit and a crown, parting the revelers as he walked.

Hoffa's heart skipped a beat. A crown? A suit?

Wasn't this the same man he'd seen driving through the streets of Morocco that night? Why was he here?

The man moved with deliberate calm, pulling a massive revolver from inside his jacket and aiming it directly at Ossivia's back.

Without warning, he pulled the trigger.

A true assassin.

Hoffa's face paled, and the receiver slipped from his hand.

He roared at the top of his lungs, "Look out!"

Ossivia reacted instantly, twisting her body like lightning and shifting three meters to the side.

With a streak of blood-red light, the bullet missed its mark and shattered the glass window of the post office instead.

For a moment, the crowd inside froze in shock. Then, panic erupted as people screamed and scattered in all directions.

In a flash, Ossivia swung her wand, sending a curved spell hurtling back at the man.

The crowned man was flung backward by the impact, crashing through a wall. Ossivia let out a piercing scream, "You?!"

Boom!

The man in the suit leapt out of the rubble, unfazed. Drawing a second revolver, he aimed without hesitation, this time at Sylby inside the post office.

Bang! Bang!

Both guns fired simultaneously, flames erupting from their barrels.

Hoffa scooped Sylby into his arms and, using his ghost-like agility, dashed out of the post office.

The once-festive street had descended into chaos. Balloons burst underfoot, trumpets and guitars lay shattered on the ground, emitting ear-piercing screeches.

The man in the suit turned and charged after Hoffa, but Ossivia flicked her wand and shouted, "Bone-Crushing Curse!"

A red light flashed, striking the man and sending him flying over 20 meters. He crashed through glass and a wall, leaving a gaping hole in a distant building.

The fleeing crowd jostled Hoffa as he ran, but he pressed on, making his way to the motionless Ossivia. Grabbing her arm, he urged, "Ossivia, we need to go!"

But her green eyes remained locked on the dark hole in the building. Coldly, she said to Hoffa, "Wait for me at the station."

Before Hoffa could respond, the man in the suit emerged from the rubble, completely unscathed. Not even his clothes were ruffled.

Hoffa was stunned. Furious, he demanded, "What are you thinking? We're supposed to complete this mission together!"

Ossivia's expression twisted into something almost feral as she hissed through clenched teeth, "I said, wait for me at the station!!"

What the hell was going on?

The usually composed Slytherin witch had suddenly lost all reason. Hoffa turned, hoisted Sylby onto his back, and ran.

Behind him, Ossivia charged recklessly at the man in the suit, abandoning everything else.

Sylby muttered with a sigh, "Hatred…"

"Stop talking. Give me directions."

"Left."

The surroundings descended into utter chaos. Spanish police officers on horseback arrived from all directions, blowing their whistles sharply and even firing shots into the air.

Amid the turmoil, the roar of transport planes could suddenly be heard overhead, flying low across the sky.

To everyone's shock, three dark figures jumped directly from one of the planes, landing heavily on the ground. The impact caused the earth to quake, splitting with numerous cracks.

Among the panicked crowd, three more men in suits emerged, blocking Hoffa's path.

Their dramatic entrance left Hoffa stunned. He cursed, "Where's Captain America when you need him?!"

There was no reply.

The three assassins regrouped and began sprinting with lightning-fast speed, their eyes locked onto Hoffa like predators.

Hoffa vanished from his spot, quickly turning a corner and changing direction.

What was terrifying, however, was that even after using his Phantom Step, the assassins managed to keep tracking him.

For the first time, Hoffa's Phantom Step had been countered, and he couldn't figure out how it was even possible.

Reluctantly, he abandoned the energy-draining Phantom Step and began channeling his magic into enhancing his physical vitality.

As his muscles swelled, Hoffa's speed increased dramatically.

Yet, it still wasn't enough. The three figures behind him were even faster, their legs moving so quickly they seemed to blur. Hoffa estimated their speed to be around 40 km/h.

Suddenly, a loud explosion rang out.

A plume of gray smoke appeared in the sky above a theater across the plaza, blossoming like an artillery shell.

Soon, another plume rose, dragging a trail of greenish smoke against the bright sunlight. As it detonated, a dazzling flash lit the sky, followed by yet another burst of smoke.

Gazing toward the direction of the fireworks, an escape plan formed in Hoffa's mind. He asked Sylby, "Hey, are there bulls at the Running of the Bulls?"

"Of course there are," Sylby replied.

Without hesitation, Hoffa bolted toward the source of the fireworks, with the three assassins still on his tail.

Gradually, Hoffa began to hear the roar of a crowd. What started as a faint buzzing like flies soon grew into a roaring tide, eventually crashing over him like an avalanche.

Turning a corner at an intersection, he was greeted by the sight of a dense throng of cheering people. They crowded behind wooden barricades along the street, waving flags and shouting, packed shoulder to shoulder in multiple layers.

They were spectators for the Running of the Bulls.

But squeezing through them?

No chance—the crowd was impenetrable.

The assassins were closing in fast.

Hoffa's eyes darted around. Gripping Sylby tightly by the arm, he leaped high into the air and began running across the crowd, using their shoulders as stepping stones.

Some people's tall hats were crushed under his feet, while others had their beer bottles knocked from their hands.

His actions infuriated the festival-goers.

"Hey! What the hell are you doing?!"

"You little punk, show some respect!"

Hoffa couldn't understand their curses, nor did he have time to apologize.

Amid the spectators' angry shouts, he leapt over the barricade and landed in the street where the bulls were running.

(To be continued.)

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