Harry Potter: I am the Legend

Hogwarts was alive with the revelry of a grand ball.

Wizard musicians played fervently on stage, performing Dmitri Shostakovich's "Second Waltz."

With the graceful waltz as their backdrop, Hogwarts champions and their partners danced elegantly, while other students eagerly filled the dance floor, showcasing their charms to the enchanting melody.

At the edge of the dance floor, Miller, disguised as Moody, laughed exaggeratedly, hobbling on his wooden leg and weaving through the crowd with a beautiful Beauxbatons girl in his arms.

Everyone who saw him cast kind and understanding glances. "Great moves, Professor Moody."

"Ron, you suck-up! If your dad knew how much you could butter people up, he'd be grinning in his sleep."

"Lovely suit, Professor Moody."

"Professor Moody, tonight is truly wonderful."

"Yes, except you're all puppets, you fools!"

Whenever someone spoke to him, Miller laughed heartily, hurling the vilest insults at each person—yet they heard nothing, only dancing more fervently and responding with even greater enthusiasm.

"Miller... Miller, can you hear me...?"

A faint whisper echoed in Miller's ears, so soft he ignored it. Instead, he focused entirely on frantically dancing with the beautiful Beauxbatons student, their tango steps taking them from one side of the hall to the other. As he spun and dipped her, he whispered, "Do you believe if I blew up this entire hall right now, no one would stop me?"

"Oh, you're so funny," the girl gazed at him dreamily, as if looking at a lover.

"Funny? Do you want to hear a joke?"

Miller stepped in rhythm, spinning the girl around twice before pulling her back into his arms.

"Of course, please go ahead."

"I remember the last French girl I met—she was a Muggle taxi driver. You know what a Muggle car is?"

"Yes," the girl eagerly replied, "My grandfather was a Muggle."

"Ha, that's interesting. She came to visit me in London. Her English wasn't great, and while driving on Regent Street, the sign said to turn left. Unsure, she asked me, 'Turn left?' I said, 'Right,' and she drove straight into a fire hydrant! Hahaha!"

"You're such a joker! Even French people don't speak English that badly," the blonde girl panted, sweat beading on her forehead from Miller's vigorous movements.

Miller led the girl to the bar.

"Two brandies," he ordered without hesitation. Two glasses of strong liquor garnished with olives appeared before him.

"I don't drink," the Beauxbatons girl said in a delicate voice.

"I didn't ask your opinion, you French wench."

Miller downed one glass of brandy, then the other, his hand trembling on the bar.

"Do other French girls really come to visit you?"

"Don't look at me like that... hic... I was quite handsome when I was young. I even had a sister—famous beauty. My sister's best friend was French."

Miller's gaze was fixed forward, searching for Dumbledore, but the old wizard was nowhere to be seen.

"Really?"

The French student looked skeptical, "You don't seem like someone with a sister."

"Hahaha, guess."

Miller ordered another drink and downed it. "I once had schizophrenia, but we're cured now."

"Haha, you're hilarious."

"Damn it, I wasn't joking."

"Then your doctor must be excellent."

Miller's expression froze, and Hoffa's dying body flashed before his eyes. He suddenly crushed the glass and dragged the girl back onto the dance floor.

Boom!!

A Roman column in the Eternal Arena shattered under the fist of a silver-haired, golden-eyed boy, sending a wounded man scrambling to escape.

Barely making it a few steps, a blood-red figure burst from the dust. Sprinting forward, wings sprouted from his back, and his lips tore to his ears, revealing rows of sharp teeth.

"Blood!"

Boom!!

Another earth-shattering blow.

A massive chunk was blasted out of the dueling arena, sending countless specter fragments flying. Instead of stopping this destruction, Avada gleefully danced atop a balloon.

"So, who is the real Hoffa Bach—the one running?"

"NO!!"

The ghosts in the stands shouted in denial.

"The one chasing?"

"YES!!"

Tens of thousands of ghosts confirmed.

"Hahahahaha—you're all confusing me! I don't know, I'm so confused, I'm so confused!" Avada shook his head wildly, blurring into illusions. "But surely the real one will beat the imposter, right? Right!? Fine, fine, let's just decide it this way—whoever wins is real, hahahaha!!"

Avada's hysterical laughter and the ghosts' shouts unsettled Hoffa, while the relentless pursuit by the one in his own body left him in a desperate flight.

He clutched his ear, fleeing through the swirling dust. Before entering the Underworld, Miller had left a drop of blood on his head, promising a brief connection for about an hour if he needed a spell. Yet now, when he needed magic most, there was only silence.

"Miller! Miller, can you hear me!?"

He kept calling out persistently. Suddenly, a mysterious mental link pierced through space and touched his forehead. His body moved on its own, beyond his control.

Hoffa was overjoyed. He thought Miller had finally heard his call, so he stopped in his tracks immediately.

The moment he halted, the Night God's offspring, who had been relentlessly destroying everything in pursuit, also came to a stop. It stood a hundred meters away, watching him warily.

"You've developed your own consciousness."

Hoffa gritted his teeth and said, "Blood."

That body crouched like a beast, its feet slowly shifting on the sandy ground.

"He's not running anymore! That man—he's stopped running!"

Avada knelt on a floating balloon, his long neck stretching out from its edge. His voice trembled as he spoke: "Hoffa Bach is facing his own body? That body blessed by the deep night, cursed by the daylight?"

Tens of thousands of ghostly spectators in the stands stretched their heads forward, an unusual hush falling over them. Some even stuffed their hands into their mouths in anticipation, eager to witness either Hoffa's miraculous counterattack or his gruesome fate—torn apart by the beast.

Hoffa slowly raised his arm, pointing forward. His feet came together, and he lifted his right foot, its tip touching the back of his left heel. Balancing on the tip of his right toe, he began to rise gradually.

A collective gasp swept through the ghostly crowd.

"It's happening…?"

"It's happening!?"

Avada's eyes widened in manic delight. His microphone suddenly transformed into an absurdly long telescope, stretching dozens of meters. Holding it up to his eye, he looked on, comically exaggerated.

"What is he doing? How does he plan to defeat his own body?"

Hoffa spun around once, pointing to the stands before reaching down to his groin. He crossed his legs and twisted across the sand—seemingly advancing but actually retreating.

Avada, still clutching his giant telescope, shouted in shock, "Look at that! What is that bizarre spellcasting move!?"

On the sandy ground, Hoffa executed a dazzling spin, his hands sweeping through the air as if shattering something unseen. The entire Eternal Arena echoed with the sound of glass breaking. His movements were as fluid as a dragon emerging from the sea—brimming with a raw, powerful beauty. At the same time, they were as light as a swallow darting through a forest, every motion exuding an effortless grace.

"He's dancing!!"

"He's actually dancing!!"

Avada finally realized what was happening and roared, "He started doing the moonwalk in the middle of the Eternal Arena!? That man—has he lost his mind!?"

Then, as if overwhelmed, Avada burst into tears. "Living long enough truly lets you see everything! My thinking has been far too rigid… far too rigid!"

Standing up on his clown balloon, he spread his arms wide as if embracing the world.

"Come on!"

Around the Eternal Arena, countless banners unfurled. A massive LED screen appeared, with dozens of colorful laser lights flashing atop it.

"If he's this enthusiastic, how could I, as the host, fall behind? Come, my darling—I haven't used you in ages!"

With that, Avada split into five versions of himself, each holding a different instrument—a microphone, a guitar, a drum set, a keyboard, and a flute.

"Ladies and gentlemen! I present to you—Billie Jean by the modern legend, Michael Jackson! Performed by yours truly, Avada!"

"BOOOO!!!!"

The audience erupted into furious boos at the ridiculous spectacle, utterly at odds with what they had come to see.

"Get off the stage!"

"You lunatics!"

"Kill him already!!"

On the battlefield, Hoffa was on the verge of a breakdown. His terrifying body stared at him with deadly vigilance, yet he was unable to stop himself from gliding across the sand in a flawless moonwalk. Damn it, Miller—what the hell are you doing in the real world!?

The madness in the arena had no effect on the Night God's offspring. In the distance, the golden-eyed, gray-haired youth lowered his guard. He plunged his hand into his own chest, then pulled it out—bringing forth a fountain of blood. As the crimson liquid dripped down his beastly, feral face, an eerie sense of holiness radiated from him.

"Blood."

He bathed in his own blood in ecstasy. His body swelled like an inflating balloon—two meters, three meters, four meters, five meters. At the same time, enormous blood-red wings tore from his back. In the blink of an eye, he transformed into a monstrous being towering over ten meters, his entire body covered in jagged bone spikes.

RIP!!

His chest split open into a gaping maw, within which galaxies and stars shimmered.

The ghostly spectators howled in frenzy. Their bloodthirsty emotions surged through the Eternal Arena, swelling with the Night God's offspring's expanding form. With Avada's electrifying live performance amplifying the atmosphere, the energy of life and death exploded into the arena.

"Blood!!"

The colossal monster charged toward Hoffa, all limbs engaged.

"AAAAAH!!!"

"Kill him!!"

"I CAN'T TAKE THIS ANYMORE!!"

The spectators were so enraged that they seemed ready to die again. From nowhere, they conjured rotten eggs, stinky mandarin fish, and wilted vegetable leaves, hurling them like a torrential downpour toward the arena's center.

Amidst the chaos, Hoffa locked eyes with his monstrous other self, his voice hoarse as he screamed—

"Miller, you bastard! What the hell are you doing!?"

(End of Chapter)

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