Harry Potter: I am the Legend

After achieving his goal through subtle hints, Hoffa returned to Chloe. However, he didn't tell the nun that he had deceived the widow; he only mentioned that he had secured a boat.

Chloe showed no particular reaction to the news.

However, just as Hoffa finished packing their luggage, Chloe disappeared without a trace, leaving him alarmed.

He immediately abandoned the luggage to search for her, but after a long and fruitless search, he returned to the cargo ship, frustrated and irritated. To his surprise, Chloe came strolling back with a large group of people in tow—men, women, children, young and old, all refugees.

Hoffa was stunned. Handing his suitcase to a sailor, he quickly walked over to Chloe. "What are you trying to pull this time?"

Chloe said matter-of-factly, "I'm taking them with us."

"No. Absolutely not." Hoffa rejected her outright.

"Why not? If they stay here, they're as good as dead."

"Listen, this ship is only about thirty meters long. It's a small cargo vessel, capable of holding at most twenty or thirty people. There are over a hundred refugees here—it's simply impossible."

"Don't you have a solution? Maybe some sort of space-enhancing spell?"

"Magic can't change the nature of things. Even if I could cram them all into the hold, there wouldn't be enough food. Their situation would be even worse than it is now."

Chloe looked at Hoffa with suspicion. "I don't believe you."

"Fine," Hoffa said, hands on his hips, pointing to a group of overseers in the distance. "You don't have to believe me. But this ship isn't mine. Go ask those guys over there."

"Fine, I will."

Chloe turned to the refugees and said, "Wait here for me."

Hoffa watched, half amused, as Chloe approached the overseers.

Nearby, Matthew was busy directing sailors to load supplies.

Noticing Chloe's approach, he turned around and shouted, "Hey! What's this all about?"

Chloe didn't flinch. "I want to take them with us."

"Take all these people? What about supplies? Do they not eat or drink? You think you've got Jesus's miracle of five loaves and two fish up your sleeve? Go perform it on your own time—don't drag us into it!"

The sailors and armed guards burst into laughter, the air filled with their mocking mirth.

"Can't you have a little sympathy for your fellow humans?" Chloe demanded.

"Sorry, sweetheart," Matthew said dismissively. "The only humans I care about are the ones who'll blow this place to bits. Save your sermon for the Führer."

"You—"

"Me what? Look, I'm not your dad, and I don't have to listen to you." Matthew waved her off impatiently. "Get lost."

Chloe's face turned pale with anger. Hoffa, watching from a distance, couldn't take it anymore.

He sighed, walked over, and pulled her aside.

"I understand your compassion," he said, "but you also need to respect reality. Taking this many people is impossible. This ship is only so big."

An elderly female refugee stepped forward, standing between Hoffa and Chloe. In a low, pleading voice, she said, "It's all right. Don't force it. If possible, please just take the children."

Hoffa hesitated.

This request wasn't unreasonable—there were only about ten children among the refugees. But their destination wasn't the safety of Switzerland; it was the perilous, dark wizard-infested Britain. Bringing along these children would significantly slow them down.

Chloe, however, agreed immediately. "All right. I promise you."

She looked at the refugees with determination. "Stay strong here. I'll come back for you."

"Hey, you two, are you coming aboard or not?"

An overseer called down from the deck.

"We're only bringing a few children," Chloe said.

"No can do. It's all or nothing," Matthew retorted from above. "Either you two get on board, or nobody does."

His men began pulling up the rope ladder, blocking them from boarding.

As the standoff continued, Widow Mary appeared at the ship's edge.

"Let them aboard," she said. "It's just a few children. They won't take up much space or food."

Chloe looked at Mary in surprise, as did Matthew.

"These people have nothing to do with us," Matthew protested.

"They do," Mary replied softly. "I'm asking you, please."

Faced with the widow's gentle plea, Matthew relented, though not without glaring at Hoffa and Chloe. "Fine. Lucky you!"

His men lowered the rope ladder, and Chloe escorted the children aboard. As they passed Mary, Chloe sincerely clasped her hand. "Thank you. That was a noble thing you did."

Mary blushed, lowering her head. "It was the right thing to do."

The scent of land faded as the cargo ship sailed into the crisp morning sea air. In one particular stretch of ocean, the phosphorescence of sargassum gleamed, and the currents created vortices as they struck the deep-sea cliffs below.

On deck, the children gathered around Chloe, playing and laughing. Their innocence allowed them to quickly forget the war and worries of the adult world.

Mary occasionally brought them food and even engaged in casual conversations with Chloe. After Mary's decision to let the refugee children aboard, Chloe's attitude toward her softened significantly.

Chloe began initiating conversations with Mary and even helped her with small chores. By twilight, Hoffa spotted the two sitting together on the deck, with Chloe reciting poems in French.

As Chloe recited, Mary rested her chin in her hands, gazing at her with shining eyes.

Their friendship seemed to blossom faster than Hoffa had anticipated.

At dusk, while Hoffa kept watch near Chloe on the second deck, the ship's captain approached him with a few sailors in tow.

"Hey there."

Hoffa didn't recognize them; judging by their attire, they weren't part of Matthew's armed group.

One sailor offered him a bottle of beer, smiling amiably.

Hoffa declined politely and nodded in acknowledgment. "Hello."

"You're Frank's friend?" the captain asked.

"Yes."

"Are you one of those people too?"

The captain's expression was as if he was sneaking around.

"Which kind of people?"

Hoffa was puzzled.

"Uh... the kind like Frank," the captain mumbled while sizing Hoffa up. "The ones who can use those magical black sticks."

Hoffa understood what he meant.

The world war had disrupted societal order to such an extent that it was no longer surprising for Muggles to know about wizards.

"I don't have a wand, but I am a wizard," Hoffa replied.

"No wand, but still...?"

The captain seemed skeptical.

"That's right." Hoffa neither confirmed nor denied further.

The sailors drinking beer folded their arms, their faces alight with curiosity.

The captain pressed on, "Then, could you show us something? Just a little demonstration."

Hoffa chuckled, "I'm not a street magician."

"Come on, just a little," the captain said, his face expectant.

The sailors chimed in eagerly, "Yeah, show us something!"

"It wouldn't hurt to see a trick or two."

Hoffa simply leaned against the railing, gazing at the sunset over the distant sea, remaining unmoved.

After their fruitless cajoling, the sailors began to suspect he was bluffing. Their expressions grew dismissive, and they walked away, unwilling to waste more effort.

But they had barely gone a few steps when a shout came from behind.

"Hey!"

One of the sailors, holding a beer bottle, found that no liquid would pour out.

Puzzled, he held the bottle up against the sunset's light. The mouth of his glass bottle had inexplicably twisted shut like a knotted rope, sealing the contents inside.

It wasn't just him. Every sailor with a bottle discovered the same bizarre issue. They exclaimed loudly in astonishment.

Still leaning against the railing, Hoffa lazily raised an arm.

"It's best not to drink while sailing. Understood?"

The sailors stared at his back, panicked and fumbling as they discarded their twisted bottles. They nudged each other as they retreated hastily.

Finally, the sun sank below the horizon, and night descended.

The children on the deck, exhausted from their games, were called by Chloe to rest in the lower cabins.

Hoffa's assigned room, courtesy of Mary, was reasonably comfortable. The heavy brass flowerpot held lush green plants, and the tiled floor resembled an aged marble chessboard. The rolling shutter door resembled a gilded iron cage, while the mahogany paneling exuded the scent of lemon oil and fine cigars.

He settled into an armchair, the soft cushioning contrasting with the plush Belgian carpet underfoot.

But he didn't let the warmth cloud his thoughts. This ship wasn't heading to Britain, and he had to find a way to alter its course.

As he pondered, a knock came at the door. Opening it, he found Chloe standing there.

Her face was radiant with excitement and joy. Upon entering, she twirled happily. "I have a great idea, Hoffa."

"What is it?"

"Once we return to Britain, I want to build a monastery where those children can live," she said enthusiastically.

"Hmm."

"I think Mary is actually pretty decent," Chloe continued. "Much better than I expected. She even helped me distribute food to the children today."

"Uh-huh."

"When my monastery is built, I think I'll make Mary my deputy," Chloe added.

"Is that so?" Hoffa smiled faintly.

He didn't tell her that Mary's goal was far from Britain, nor did he mention that this ship wasn't heading there at all.

"And you?" Chloe asked.

"Me?"

"What will you do after we get to Britain?"

After a long pause, Hoffa muttered, "We'll see."

Chloe's excitement didn't wane. "Once my monastery is established, why don't you join too? I could create a men's wing, bring in some priests, and you could learn Christianity firsthand..."

Before she could finish, Hoffa chuckled softly.

"What's so funny?" Chloe asked curiously.

"Are you trying to convert me?"

"Why not?" she replied playfully.

"Did I ever tell you my father was an Oriental?" Hoffa asked.

"So?"

"In the East, there's a saying: Heaven and earth are indifferent; they regard all things as straw dogs. I don't believe in gods, nor do I think gods care about humanity. No matter what you say, I won't be convinced."

Hoffa's straightforward refusal extinguished Chloe's enthusiasm.

Her bright expression dimmed, replaced by disappointment. The boy before her, like a firefighter standing atop an iceberg, doused her fiery spirit with a cold splash of reality, leaving her clear-headed but deflated.

She stood up. "I'm heading back. It's late; you should rest."

"Mm."

Chloe closed the door, her mood sullen.

Aside from the hum of the engine, the room was silent.

Hoffa sat upright in the chair.

To this moment, Chloe still didn't know the ship wasn't heading toward their intended destination. She thought Hoffa had simply borrowed the vessel.

But altering the ship's course to Britain was his pressing problem, and he had to find a way—no matter the cost.

His gaze settled on a nautical chart hanging on the wall.

They were currently in the English Channel, a narrow stretch of water just 560 kilometers long. The Dover Strait, its narrowest point, was a mere 34 kilometers wide.

If he could find a relatively suitable position to discreetly change the ship's direction, it might take just two days—perhaps even one. By the time the crew realized what was happening, the ship would already be approaching the British coast.

At that moment, he could transform into a Thunderbird, take Chloe to the British Isles, deliver her to London, and hand her over to Fattier. Perhaps…

Excited by the thought, he bit his lower lip, his body trembling slightly. He clenched a fist and struck his other palm.

With his decision made, he opened the door without hesitation and snuck toward the captain's cabin under the cover of night.

The passage to the captain's room was guarded by two armed thugs. For someone as adept at stealth as Hoffa, they posed no challenge. He bypassed the guards, climbed atop the cabin like a chameleon, and crept toward the captain's cabin, planning to quietly adjust the course toward the British direction.

However, as he pressed himself against the wall near the captain's cabin, he overheard voices chatting inside.

"Has Mary gone to rest?"

"Yes, she has."

"Where is she sleeping?"

"In cabin three below deck, but..."

"But what?"

"But you can't go there."

"Why not?"

"Because she's staying with that ugly nun."

"Shit, seriously?"

"Yes."

"Damn..."

Hoffa peeked inside and took in the scene.

Matthew, swearing under his breath, had propped his feet on the instrument panel while holding a bottle of liquor and a cigarette, puffing away. Beside him sat the captain Hoffa had seen during the day.

Matthew said, "Ugly as that nun is, she's got a decent figure. Cover her face, and she'd do. Are you interested?"

"Don't do anything stupid, Matthew. That kid with her is a wizard."

"Hah," Matthew paused mid-sip of his drink. "What did you say?"

"I'm telling you, don't try anything funny. That gray-haired kid is a wizard!" the captain warned in a low voice.

Matthew immediately pulled his legs off the panel.

"Another wizard?!"

"Yes, I tested him earlier. He can block the neck of a beer bottle without anyone noticing."

"Block a beer bottle? What are you even talking about..."

The captain retrieved a bottle with a tied-up neck from under the cabinet and handed it to Matthew, speaking mysteriously.

Staring wide-eyed at the bottle, Matthew heaved a sigh of relief and tossed it aside. "This? I thought it was something impressive. This is far from real magic." He dismissed it with a wave.

"What do you know about magic?"

"Of course, I've seen real magic. Do you know how Frank died?"

"How did he die?" the captain asked, intrigued.

Matthew's expression turned grim as he recalled the events.

"I still remember, three days ago, Frank led us out to sea to receive a shipment from the Americas. But during the exchange, the entire sea surface froze inexplicably.

"Then, a man with a massive cross-shaped sword walked across the frozen sea like a god. He was towering, unstoppable.

"With just one strike, he cut Frank's ship in half. Frank jumped into the sea, trying to escape, but the man grabbed him and sliced him in two.

"That day, all of Frank's smuggling ships were reduced to ash in less than three minutes. If you ask me what magic is, what that man used was magic."

After hearing Matthew's account, the captain glanced at the bottle in his hand, now angry. He threw it aside in frustration. "So, it wasn't real magic. What do we do about that ugly nun and the gray-haired kid?"

"We'll drug them," Matthew replied casually. "Increase the dose and put it in their breakfast tomorrow morning. Once they're out, toss them and those filthy kids into the sea. I'm tired of looking at them."

"But... Madam Deanne?"

"Hmm?"

Matthew made a nasal grunt of annoyance.

"I mean, what about Miss Mary?"

"Let her be. She's easy to manipulate. Teach her a lesson this time, and she'll know who's in charge here."

"Understood."

Faced with Matthew's brazen confidence, the captain mumbled his agreement.

An hour later.

The full moon hung high over the sea.

The captain's cabin fell silent, save for the rhythmic snores.

Hoffa emerged from the shadows, stepping silently around the empty glass bottles on the floor.

Matthew was slumped in a leather chair, head tilted back, snoring, with drool dripping from the corner of his mouth. The captain lay in a hammock nearby, snoring loudly.

Standing next to the sleeping Matthew, Hoffa raised his right hand. His fingers grew and twisted like vines, weaving into a sharp, spiraling spike.

He lifted the glinting spike high and brought it down forcefully.

But just before blood could be spilled, a small metal bolt flew from afar, striking Hoffa on the head with a "clang."

Startled, he faltered, his aim veering off. The sharp spike grazed Matthew's temple and pierced straight through his ear.

The sleeping man screamed in agony.

"Who—who's there?!"

He shoved Hoffa away, falling to the ground and scrambling to sit up. In the dim light, he caught sight of a pair of piercing golden eyes.

The commotion woke the captain, who immediately grabbed a rifle from beneath the control panel and pointed it shakily at Hoffa.

"Raise your hands!"

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