Harry Potter: I am the Legend

The sky was pitch-black, resembling a theater's drawn curtain, and fine rain fell incessantly. The Scharnhorst battleship swayed ceaselessly amidst the turbulent waves.

Above the thick clouds, a colossal eye, as large as the ship itself, loomed ominously.

"Cruciatus!"

A flash of crimson light briefly illuminated the glass bottle, bathing the sky within it in a bloody hue.

Mance lifted his gaze from the wizard's glass bottle to see a man in a crimson robe waving his wand. A deadly red curse coiled tightly around a black-robed figure kneeling on the ground, eliciting anguished screams.

The scene unfolded in a vast, arched hall where several attendants in floor-length, tasseled robes stood by, their postures poised and faces adorned with an old-world elegance. Some held their breaths, while others turned their heads away.

To remain concealed, Kleist, a red-robed wizard from the Wizarding Association's headquarters, had used a spell to store the Scharnhorst battleship inside a glass bottle and carried it with him. He had also transported Mance and his crew to a hidden castle along the English coastline, where they searched tirelessly for Anker's whereabouts.

Half a month had passed, and still, there was no trace of Anker. Kleist's patience was wearing thin. Every day, he would sit in the castle's grand hall, unleashing his fury. Any black-robed subordinate who returned without results became the target of his Cruciatus Curse.

"An entire month, and you useless fools still haven't found him!" Kleist spat venomously as he brandished his wand at a writhing subordinate on the floor.

Unlike the agonized man, Mance remained composed. Years of classified missions and Germany's widespread search for wizarding enclaves had made him familiar with wizards and the horrors of the Cruciatus Curse.

Three years ago, during his first encounter with the curse, it had been far more terrifying than Kleist's current outburst. Back then, in Berlin, Gellert Grindelwald had subjected Mance and his colleagues to the curse as a test of their resilience before assigning them a top-secret mission.

Bang!

The hall's doors burst open.

"We found Anker!"

A black-robed man stormed in, his voice urgent.

Everyone in the hall rose to their feet. Kleist withdrew his wand and stepped over the trembling wizard at his feet. "Where is he?"

The black-robed man hesitated, glancing at his incapacitated colleague on the floor.

"Did you not hear me?" Kleist demanded, his voice sharp with frustration.

"You... you'd better see for yourself," the man stammered.

The group exited the hall in a flurry.

In the corridor, several black-robed men approached, dragging a fishing net. The air was thick with the sharp, salty stench of the sea, prompting the attending maids to cover their noses.

Lying in the net was a man, soaking wet, as though freshly pulled from the ocean. His skin was pale and bluish, bloated as if overfilled, and sprouted bizarre red hairs in odd places. Most unnerving was his face: his eyes were open, pupils darting erratically, and his lips were frozen in an eerie, ecstatic smile.

Mance stepped closer, scrutinizing the figure in the net. Despite the grotesque transformation, he recognized the man—Anker, his former subordinate.

"This morning, my kin found him in the shallows," said an elderly man clad in an ornate green robe, stepping forward. His pointed ears, withered skin, and oddly bent left hand gave him an otherworldly appearance. "He's still breathing, so he must be alive."

Kleist knelt beside his son immediately, placing a hand on his neck and prodding his head with his wand. No matter what he tried, Anker remained unresponsive.

Anker's vacant face maintained its unsettling grin, and his lips repeated a single word: "More... more… more."

"What is this? An Inferius?" Mance asked quietly.

"No," a subordinate replied, shaking his head. "Inferi are controlled and retain a humanoid form. Anker... he's something else entirely. Who knows what he's endured?"

"Is he salvageable?" Mance inquired, his tone laced with concern.

"Salvageable?!"

Before anyone could respond, Kleist grabbed Mance by the throat and slammed him against the wall. His fury radiated in tremors through his body.

"Does this look salvageable to you? This disaster is your doing, you pathetic Muggle! What should have been a simple capture mission has cost valuable wizarding lives!"

The tip of Kleist's wand pressed against Mance's forehead, its latent magic tingling his skin.

Before Mance could utter a word, the air grew still. His subordinates, like the silent maids, retreated into their shells, their presence shrinking in the oppressive atmosphere. Mance knew that even if Kleist killed him, there would be no repercussions.

Just as Mance teetered on the brink of death, the elderly man in the green robe stepped forward. Using his withered hand, he gently grasped Kleist's arm.

"Ah, Kleist, still as hot-tempered as ever. Calm down. Surely there's a solution," the old man said with a placating smile.

"A solution? He's as good as dead!" Kleist bellowed.

"Dead men don't smile or speak. If he can do both, doesn't that mean he's alive?" the old man reasoned, his eyes signaling something to Mance.

In the intricate politics of the wizarding world, rife with endless conflicts and espionage, this elderly wizard outwardly served Britain but had secretly pledged allegiance to Germany as an agent of the Wizarding Association.

"He's still breathing!" Mance croaked, struggling against Kleist's iron grip.

"But he has no soul!" Kleist thundered. "A soulless wizard is no better than a beast—a mindless aberration!"

"I... I can retrieve his soul," Mance rasped.

"What? You, a Muggle with no magic, dare make such a claim?"

"Can... can you at least release me first?"

Kleist hurled Mance to the ground like a discarded rag.

As he coughed and gasped for air, the elderly wizard signaled the maids to help Mance to his feet. Pushing them aside, Mance stood on his own, his face pale as he declared, "I can't, but Grindelwald can. I know him. His power is unparalleled."

The room fell silent. The green-robed elder's expression darkened, and he clapped Mance on the shoulder, as though signaling caution.

"Ridiculous!" Kleist snarled. "Do you take me for a fool? Grindelwald has been sequestered in his tower for an entire year. No one has seen him since."

"The task was given to me by Grindelwald himself. I know him well," Mans said as he flexed his neck. "If you want to save your son, you have no choice but to trust me. Unless, of course, you have another way to save him."

A heavy silence fell over the room, and all eyes turned toward the red-robed wizard.

Kreist's face was a storm of conflicting emotions. Finally, he looked at Anker, still lying on the ground with that eerie, enigmatic smile and muttering softly, "More... more..."

At last, Kreist relented. Gritting his teeth, he said, "Fine. I'll give you three days. Within those three days, you'd better bring me to Grindelwald. If you fail, I'll make sure you accompany my son to the grave!"

Elsewhere, on the edge of an unknown cliff.

Hoffa slowly awoke from his dream, finding himself back on the lifeboat's deck in the exact position he had been before falling asleep, his head pressed against the planks.

The castle, the dark grasslands, and the forbidden forest were gone. Clarity broke through the haze, like awakening from a deep slumber. The refreshing ocean breeze, tinged with the bitter saltiness of the sea, hit his face. Hoffa had never felt the real world to be so wonderful—the precise laws of physics evident in the rolling waves felt almost poetic.

Rising to his feet, he noticed the nun lying beside him. The wind played with her hair as she stirred, wrinkled her nose, and slowly opened her eyes, on the verge of waking.

Plop.

A soft sound came from behind.

Hoffa whipped his head around.

Just twenty centimeters away from them, a small black, unidentified creature was scuttling quickly toward the edge of the boat, heading for the sea.

Seeing it about to slip into the water, Hoffa reacted instinctively, lunging forward with lightning speed. His hand plunged into the water just in time to grab the creature moments before it escaped. With a powerful yank, he dragged it out of the ocean, even as its slimy body twisted and writhed.

The creature thrashed wildly in his grip, its tentacles flailing, attempting to wrap around Hoffa's face.

Channeling his magic, Hoffa transformed the surrounding water into a transparent glass sphere, trapping the strange creature within.

It thrashed against the glass, its tentacles slapping furiously, but to no avail. The magical glass was far tougher than ordinary glass, resisting all its efforts.

Hoffa held the sphere up, examining the bizarre creature inside.

From the front, it lacked a face. Instead, its head contained a swirling mass of black smoke. Beneath its head were numerous writhing tentacles. The sight reminded him of the primal terror he had felt in his dream—the writhing appendages and sharp, razor-like mouths of the monstrous creature in the depths.

Could this tiny thing really be responsible for the nightmarish experience they had endured?

Compared to the colossal, hundred-meter behemoth he had seen in the dream's ocean depths, this creature seemed almost comically small.

"What is that?"

Chloe had woken up as well, her voice tinged with apprehension.

"I don't know," Hoffa replied, holding the glass sphere closer. "But it's clearly some kind of magical creature."

"How could it end up here?" Chloe asked uneasily.

"Exactly my question," Hoffa said, puzzled. "Magical creatures don't just show up randomly. Their presence is usually tied to wizards or hidden magical realms. If we were near some undiscovered underwater ruin or a remote wizarding island in the Pacific, it might make sense.

"But this? The English Channel—a heavily trafficked and thoroughly explored stretch of water dominated by numerous powers—why would something so rare and strange appear here? I can't make sense of it."

"Hmm," Chloe pondered for a moment. "Could someone have deliberately left it here to frame us?"

"Possibly. Have you offended anyone?" Hoffa asked.

"I've lived in the convent my whole life and rarely stepped out. You're the one who travels often—have you made any enemies?"

Hoffa thought for a moment. There were probably too many to count. Still, if someone truly wanted to harm him, it wouldn't make sense to go to such great lengths. This creature didn't seem like something an ordinary person could possess.

After a moment of fruitless contemplation, he shook his head.

"Forget it. I'll keep this thing. Maybe I can study it later." As he spoke, a hook grew from the glass sphere, allowing him to hang it from his waist. He thought to himself that it was at least an interesting find.

"Be careful with that," Chloe warned uneasily, eyeing the glass sphere warily as Hoffa tucked it at his waist. She kept her distance, as though afraid the creature might break free and drag her into another terrifying nightmare.

Hoffa nodded and added an extra layer of steel around the glass sphere. This time, even its faint vibrations ceased.

In the distance, the British coastline began to emerge faintly. The real English Channel was much narrower than the boundless, endless sea of their dream.

"What's the date today?" Chloe asked.

Hoffa wasn't sure. He couldn't determine the time or their precise location. All he could see were birds flying overhead and silver flying fish skimming the surface of the water.

Noticing the gathering of birds and fish in the distance, Hoffa felt a sense of foreboding. A faint, foul stench hung in the air. He started the lifeboat and paddled toward the flock of birds.

As they approached, the birds flapped their wings furiously, some even dropping excrement mid-air as if to drive off intruders.

"Damn it," Hoffa muttered, raising a shield. Then he saw something worse—the birds were pecking at a pale, bloated corpse. The body was grotesquely swollen and rotting, draped unmistakably in a black German cloak.

Hoffa flipped the corpse over and sighed quietly. Though its face and chest had been ravaged by fish and birds, it was still recognizable—it was Aldo.

He had been right. In the real world, Aldo was already dead.

Recalling their harrowing adventure in the nightmare, Hoffa silently placed his hand over Aldo's face. "Rest in peace," he murmured.

With that, his magic surged, and streams of water encased Aldo's body, forming a frozen casket. The icy surface morphed into solid steel, which sank with Aldo's body into the depths of the sea.

Beside him, the nun crossed herself, her expression filled with sorrow. In the nightmare, that man had once helped them.

After finishing, Hoffa turned to the nun and said, "If Aldo and Anker found us, it means Mueller Mans has been tracking us all along. He must have located the crew from that cargo ship. We need to find them; otherwise, they'll be sent to concentration camps and won't survive."

Chloe, who had been gazing somberly at the sea, was startled by Hoffa's words and looked at him in surprise.

"Don't look at me like that," Hoffa said, waving his hand. "They weren't planning to come to Britain in the first place. I forced them to. I need to take responsibility for their safety."

Chloe's eyes sparkled with delight, and she broke into a smile. "Alright then, are we going back?" she asked, gesturing toward the sea behind them.

"No," Hoffa said, gesturing toward the distant coastline.

"Their massive warship can't linger at sea for too long, or the British navy will spot it. If I'm not mistaken, they must be waiting for us on land, lying in wait."

"Then aren't we walking right into their trap?" Chloe asked worriedly.

"It doesn't matter," Hoffa replied, pulling on a pair of black metal gloves.

"I'll find them, and then I'll take all of you to London."

(End of Chapter)

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