Harry Potter: I am the Legend

As soon as he landed on the street, the sky erupted in a burst of fireworks. Countless rockets soared upward from an unknown source, exploding in unison.

With the thunderous explosions, balconies suddenly became crowded with spectators, all cheering and shouting in excitement.

At the same moment, a rumbling sound of footsteps echoed behind Hoffa.

One corner.

Two corners.

Three corners.

Suddenly, a massive crowd appeared, surging forward like rabbits being chased by dogs. Among them were a few stragglers, running desperately for their lives.

"Moo!"

With a fierce bellow, a herd of muscular bulls charged out of the narrow alleys, chasing hundreds, if not thousands, of people straight toward Hoffa.

The bulls galloped with all four hooves off the ground, their heads bobbing up and down, disappearing around the corner like speeding locomotives as they thundered into the street.

One man tripped and fell into a ditch, lying motionless. However, the bulls paid him no mind, stampeding past without hesitation.

At this moment, banners were strung up between the wooden stakes, and countless men and women crowded behind the barricades, holding their drinks and shouting wildly.

Hoffa glanced back to see the assassins also forcing their way through the crowd, completely undeterred by the spectators.

They were as unyielding as stone, relentless in their pursuit.

Seeing the three men chasing him, Hoffa gritted his teeth and turned to sprint toward the stampeding crowd, hoping to use the chaos of the bulls and the fleeing people to lose his pursuers.

More and more people poured out of the streets and alleys, pushing and shoving as they raced toward the bullring. The atmosphere grew increasingly frenzied.

In the distance, Hoffa saw an enraged bull catch up to the crowd, toppling seven or eight people in an instant.

Even though Hoffa had mentally prepared himself, he couldn't help but feel a surge of fear at the sheer intensity of the scene.

He had no idea who had invented such a mad event, but now he found himself hurtling toward the stampeding crowd.

The cheers of the Spanish spectators began to change to cries of alarm. In their eyes, as everyone was frantically running away from the bulls, one young man was charging headlong toward the oncoming crowd without any hesitation.

What was he doing?

Was he trying to get himself killed?

Nearby, some men shouted anxiously, while women screamed and covered their eyes in horror.

Hoffa paid no attention. One eye remained on the assassins outside the crowd, while the other focused on the oncoming sea of people and bulls.

Closer.

Even closer!

He could see the terror etched on the faces of the fleeing men and the taut muscles of the African bulls. Time seemed to slow in that instant. He could hear the powerful thumping of his own heartbeat and taste the salty sweat dripping from his forehead onto his lips. Despite the apparent slowness, his speed was astonishing.

Ten meters.

Five meters.

One meter.

Boom!Behind him, the three pursuers smashed through the wooden barricade, raising their pistols without hesitation to take aim at Hoffa.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The gunshots rang out just as Hoffa collided head-on with the torrent of people and bulls, vanishing entirely from the material world.

The three assassins, unable to dodge in time, were swallowed up by the rampaging crowd and stampeding bulls.

All Hoffa could hear was the roar of the wind in his ears and the blur of gray and white figures flashing past his eyes.

When the Phantom Step ended, Hoffa emerged at the rear of the crowd. Ahead of him lay a wide inner city river, with wooden stakes and small boats scattered across its surface.

His stride didn't falter. With swift, precise jumps, he bounded across the stakes in the river, sometimes leaping into a boat, other times gripping a stake for support. Finally, he landed on two moss-covered stones and leaped high, grabbing the edge of the opposite bank with one hand and pulling himself up.

The chaos subsided.

They had reached the other side of the city, entering the old town with its red walls and orange-tiled roofs. Since everyone had gone to watch the bullfight, this part of the city was eerily quiet.

Hoffa's chest heaved as he caught his breath and turned around. The frenzied sounds of the Running of the Bulls were now barely audible, and the three men chasing him had disappeared without a trace.

Standing by the riverbank, the two of them watched the flowing water. Sylby suddenly remarked, "I should pay you more. No doubt about it, I've been underpaying you."

"Cut the crap," Hoffa replied coldly, showing no trace of happiness. The oppressive feeling that loomed over him had not lifted, and his psychic field still couldn't extend far in this city.

Thick smoke rose in the distance, and in the sky, rows of transport planes circled continuously.

"Can we not go to the station?" Hoffa asked after a moment of thought. "I can get you out from somewhere else—by boat or plane, whatever works."

Sylby nodded, then shook his head. "Let's take a look first. Let's see what's going on before deciding. After all, this isn't just about me."

Half an hour later, Hoffa, moving stealthily, led Sylby through the old town, reaching the end of their journey.

Barcelona's Sants Station.

Hoffa slowed his steps.

The scene before him was shocking.

All around were ruins of broken buildings. The ground was littered with shattered glass and debris. Corpses hung inexplicably in high places—some tangled in severed power lines that crackled with sparks, others smashed with great force into walls, their bodies grotesquely twisted.

Dozens of vehicles lay overturned, and countless soldiers' bodies were scattered on the ground. Among them were German troops, Spanish soldiers, and some German wizards and construct sorcerers, their true forms unrecognizable.

Hoffa bent down and picked up a broken stick—a fractured wand.

Its owner now hung lifelessly from the barrel of a tank's cannon.

Chaos.

Utter chaos.

There was no doubt that a brutal battle had just taken place here. Hoffa shook his head, trying to snap out of his shock.

They had to leave.

Stealthily, Hoffa broke into a run, cutting through the dense smoke in an attempt to escape this place of calamity.

But just as he passed through the smoke, the sight that greeted him made his scalp tingle, and his pupils shrank to the size of pinpoints.

Before him stood a hill—a mound built entirely of corpses.

The bodies were all clad in black suits, their exposed joints gleaming with metallic luster.

Ossivia.

There she was, standing alone atop the ten-meter-high mountain of blood and corpses, in a half-human, half-serpent form. Her massive snake tail was covered in wounds and blood, with half of its scales torn away.

On the ground lay the bodies of countless Muggle soldiers, women, and children. Blood was everywhere, forming a gruesome and horrific sight.

Ossivia turned to Hoffa, her usual green eyes now faintly glowing red.

"What… happened here!?"

Hoffa was utterly horrified. Could it be that Ossivia had been slaughtering all these people?

She didn't answer, only clutching her blood-covered arm as she slowly slid down the corpse mound.

Her towering figure, over three meters tall, loomed above Sylby. Her voice, hoarse and chilling, asked, "Where is the key?"

Sylby shook his head, glancing at the bloody carnage surrounding them.

"Among these people, one of them might have been my family's contact, but you've already killed them."

Ossivia bent down, grabbing Sylby from Hoffa's back and lifting him high into the air. "I didn't kill them. Where is the key?"

As she spoke, several transport planes circled in the sky above.

Countless figures leaped from the aircraft,

crashing to the ground with a thunderous roar. They surrounded the station tightly and looked up.

Every single one of them had eyes like blazing torches, burning brightly.

Step by step, they closed in on Hoffa and Ossivia.

Hoffa turned anxiously. "We have to go!"

But Ossivia seemed oblivious. Her voice was as cold as iron. "Hand it over."

Sylby sneered, shaking his head. "Give it up. I will never let anyone into the library."

"Move!" Hoffa shouted as the encroaching figures grew closer. "What are you waiting for?"

Ossivia: "Aren't you afraid I'll kill you?"

"Your father died to keep the secret," Sylby replied calmly. "Do you think I fear death?"

As he finished speaking, the crowd of red-eyed people slowly parted, revealing a man wearing a golden crown who appeared at the train station. He raised a black gun, aiming directly at Sylby in the center of the group.

With his motion, everyone around him simultaneously raised their guns in perfect unison.

Ossivia turned her head sharply, glaring at the crowned man with an almost boundless hatred blazing in her eyes.

Smack!!!

Her head jerked to the side, a bright red handprint appearing on her face. Hoffa had leapt high and delivered a fierce slap to his senior's face. "Are you out of your mind?!"

He grabbed Ossivia's collar roughly. "Or do you just not understand human speech? Can't you settle this somewhere else?!"

Ossivia held her face, staring at Hoffa in disbelief. But the redness in her eyes gradually receded, returning to clarity.

At that instant, the surrounding guns all fired simultaneously.

She grabbed Hoffa by the shoulders. In a violent surge of magical energy, Hoffa felt his entire body being squeezed into something like a rubber tube, a suffocating pressure engulfing him. Fragments whizzed past his ears with sharp hissing sounds.

The next second, the crushing sensation vanished.

A rush of salty air flooded Hoffa's nose.

When he opened his eyes again, Ossivia had taken him to a beach in Barcelona, far from the city.

Here, the sea breeze blew gently, white sails dotted the ocean, seagulls called in the sky, and the azure water lapped against the pristine sandy shore.

The serene and peaceful atmosphere stood in stark contrast to the chaos and madness they had just escaped.

Hoffa exhaled deeply, panting as his heart pounded wildly. He reached up to touch his forehead.

It was drenched in cold sweat.

In the distance, the thick smoke rising from Barcelona could still be seen. Who would have imagined what kind of insanity the city was enduring at that very moment?

Ossivia, this woman, was truly insane.

He turned to look at her. The witch was staring at him blankly. Hoffa had never seen that expression on her face before—a mixture of despair, helplessness, and complete bewilderment.

"Forget it, it's all over now," Hoffa sighed. "Let's head back to London and figure things out there."

He reached out to grasp Sylby's arm on his shoulder, intending to set him down.

However, at that moment, he felt a warmth seeping through his shoulder, soaking into his clothes.

Something felt off.

Hoffa turned his head. Sylby, still on his back, was smiling at him, blood gushing from his mouth in thick streams.

An ominous feeling surged over Hoffa like a tidal wave.

He jolted, quickly setting Sylby down on the sand. As he bent down to check, his breath caught in his throat.

Sylby's back was riddled with bullet holes.

The wounds were dense, turning his body into a sieve.

Hoffa abruptly stood up, almost losing his breath. His hands trembled as bright, vivid blood stained his palms. He took two steps back, his mind reeling.

When did this happen?

Was it during the apparition?

A realization struck him, and he quickly crouched down again, grabbing Sylby.

"Hey!"

"Hey!"

Sylby's head lolled to the side, his eyes locking onto Hoffa. "Thank you," he whispered.

Then, his body slipped from Hoffa's grasp, collapsing onto the sand with a thud, his eyes wide open.

Blood pooled beneath him, spreading and mingling with the tides, swirling into the seawater.

For a long time, Hoffa forgot how to speak.

(End of Chapter)

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