Harry Potter: I am the Legend

Hoffa eventually convinced Ryan to follow him underground. Passing through the transparent passage, they descended from the sky and landed atop the spires of Gothic architecture in the subterranean kingdom.

From above, they could see the city shrouded entirely in moonlight, devoid of any other light source. The objects hidden within the castle's shadows were indiscernible, and only the silhouettes of distant buildings, jagged against the moonlight, were visible.

However, relying solely on sound, Hoffa could feel the bustling activity of this underground kingdom. Below, there were excited whispers, restless barking of dogs, and the creaking of carriage wheels rolling over cobblestone streets.

As their eyes adjusted to the darkness, they began to see the crowded streets below, teeming with carriages and throngs of people. It felt as though time had rewound to 19th-century Britain.

Hoffa was taken aback. To be honest, if not for the vampire leading them, he would never have imagined such a scene existing beneath a modern city.

If he were one of these vampires, seeking a hidden place for illicit activities, this location would be ideal. Yet, to expand to this extent, they must have operated here for decades. The realization unsettled him. Could this massive vampire hive, like a giant ant colony, really be dismantled by just two wizards?

"This place is... impressive," Hoffa remarked, stepping on the hard, fragmented tiles of the spire. "If you plan to send word to Hogwarts, you might need to rally more people."

Ryan gazed blankly at their surroundings, silent and expressionless. Gone was the warmth and enthusiasm of their earlier meeting. Hoffa felt a pang of guilt but held no regrets. Admittedly, he had employed certain tactics to locate the underground lair, but he deemed them necessary sacrifices.

Besides, had it been a Slytherin like Tom Riddle instead of a Hufflepuff, such considerations might not have even crossed his mind, let alone caused him concern.

As they descended toward the ground, the barking of dogs and the hissing of vampires grew louder. Holding their breaths, they paused about thirty meters above the ground. Hoffa pushed open a flower-patterned window on the spire and slipped inside, intending to enter the street through the interior.

The inside was far from the opulence Hoffa had imagined. Rather than an interior, it resembled a tomb.

The thick walls muffled the external cacophony, leaving only faint coughing and labored breathing. Through cobwebs, Hoffa glimpsed figures huddled in dusty corners.

These were men who had been drained excessively by the vampires. Their faces were wrinkled, their eyes dull, and their deformed bodies curled up in corners, trembling faintly.

Deeper within lay skeletal remains marked by moldy spots. Some were still loosely held together by blackened tendons, blending into the grim castle's structure, becoming stepping stones for its towering spires.

"See? If you'd come here with your lover, you'd probably be lying here by the time Hogwarts found you," Hoffa teased Ryan, nudging his shoulder lightly.

Ryan stepped aside, refusing to respond.

"Passion is the least reliable thing," Hoffa muttered as he looked at the bones, his tone uncertain whether he was speaking to himself or Ryan.

"Are you still searching?"

Perhaps stung by Hoffa's words, or simply unwilling to see more, Ryan abruptly walked off alone, his steps hurried.

"Quite the temper," Hoffa mumbled, following behind.

Leaving the interior, they stepped into the underground kingdom's streets. It seemed the vampires had gathered outside, leaving the indoors eerily desolate.

Carriages rolled forward one after another. Their passengers peeked out, bantering and exchanging lewd jokes, seemingly familiar with one another.

Hoffa and Ryan disguised themselves and followed the procession, trailing behind the carriages as they moved toward a common destination: the central area of the castle complex. Passing through a series of Gothic arch bridges, they arrived at an enormous open-air plaza. For some reason, the sight reminded Hoffa of the Roman Colosseum.

In the plaza, elegantly dressed women and men in tailcoats alighted from the carriages. Each wore a golden mask—some partially covering their faces, others completely obscuring their features. It was almost impossible for Hoffa to identify anyone, let alone locate the nun among them.

The long banquet tables were laden with lavish food and vibrant fruits, some so exotic that their names were unfamiliar.

More strikingly, scattered among the tables were graceful women, either reclining or sitting. They were adorned in sheer, gauzy attire and draped with gold ornaments. Like everyone else, they wore golden masks.

Amid the boundless opulence flowed a sense of an arcane religious ritual. It reminded Hoffa of Ankel's crazed actions in the nightmare realm—like a sacrificial ceremony.

"These people…" Hoffa was astounded by the bizarre spectacle. In his two lifetimes, he had never witnessed such extravagance. Compared to this, his memories of the East seemed restrained and austere.

Every detail here seemed designed to awaken the most primal desires. Upon reflection, only the term "feast of excess" seemed fitting.

And yet, even "feast" didn't fully capture it.

In the center of the plaza, within a ring of towering stone columns inscribed with countless runes, lay a deep pit. Around the pit, a row of young women poured scarlet liquid from golden vessels into the depths.

The air was thick with the cloying sweetness of blood. Instead of repelling, the scent stirred a deep craving in those who inhaled it.

It was a pool of blood.

Seeing it, Hoffa's heart clenched. This was undoubtedly the collected blood. Could the nun have already been drained? Where was she?

The two of them hid behind a gargoyle sculpture on a nearby building's rooftop. From there, they could observe the blood pool below without being detected.

"Where is your friend?" Ryan asked hoarsely.

Faced with the unsettling scene, his voice remained devoid of emotion, mechanical and routine. He had yet to recover from the manipulation and threats Hoffa had used against him, resigned like a servant accustomed to enduring indignities.

"I don't know," Hoffa replied uneasily. "Hey, pull yourself together. We can't afford any mistakes right now."

"I am composed," Ryan replied flatly, his tone betraying no conviction.

Just then, a stir arose among the crowd below. Applause and cheers erupted. Hoffa turned to see an elaborately dressed old man in a green robe descending gracefully from the second floor.

With a high collar and a long train trailing behind him, the man stood out as the only one present not wearing a golden mask. His face was sharply angular, with a prominent, hooked nose and deeply arched nostrils. His high forehead, sparse hair, and thick eyebrows nearly met above his nose.

His protruding, sharp white teeth and unnaturally crimson lips hinted at vitality that belied his age. His pale ears, pointed at the top, added to his eerie appearance, while his broad chin and gaunt yet resolute cheeks made him all the more striking.

"Welcome, everyone."

The old man smiled warmly and said, "Please take a seat."

"It's him... Damn it!"

Ryan drew in a sharp breath.

"You know him?" Hoffa asked.

"His name is Rusvan. Rusvan Polidori, born in London in 1837, and he was a Slytherin student."

Ryan, now freed from his earlier stupor, fixed his gaze on the distant figure in green robes.

Hoffa widened his eyes. "A Slytherin."

Ryan continued, "I read about him in Hogwarts' history. He was expelled in his fifth year for conducting forbidden experiments and manipulating female students, robbing them of their judgment. Even after leaving, he... he didn't change."

As he spoke, Ryan seemed to recall something personal. Frustrated, he lowered his head, his fingers digging into his hair and pulling it.

"Why would he turn people into vampires?"

"Look at his left hand," Hoffa instructed.

Hoffa's eyes focused on the old man's arm. Below the wrist, his hand bent at an unnatural angle, resembling a beast's claw.

Ryan explained, "He lost his left hand. When he was expelled from Hogwarts, Headmaster Dippet not only broke his wand but also severed his spell-casting hand. This crippled his magical potential. Who would've thought he'd transform himself into a vampire, abandoning the wizarding path to serve the God of the Night?"

"What are you planning to do?" Hoffa asked.

"Send a letter," Ryan replied after a deep breath. "Now that we've identified him, I must inform Hogwarts immediately. The teachers will handle this."

But Hoffa remained still.

Ryan stood up. "I'll find Molly and write the letter in a quiet spot. Will you come with me?"

Hoffa shook his head. "Go ahead. I need to find my friend."

"Don't act on your own. Let me send the letter first. The school will respond quickly."

"I won't. Don't worry," Hoffa reassured him, his eyes scanning the banquet hall for any sign of the nun, but to no avail.

Ryan hesitated, eyeing Hoffa skeptically.

"Aren't you going to send the letter?"

"You're on our side, right?" Ryan asked uncertainly. "You're not siding with Germany, are you?"

"Are you paranoid?" Hoffa scoffed, amused. "Take care of yourself."

With that, Ryan disappeared.

Not long after he left, the banquet officially began. Men and women wearing golden masks took their seats. The old man in green robes raised his arm and warmly announced, "Now, allow me to introduce, on this night of my rebirth, a distinguished guest from Germany: Athos Kreist, representing the Imperial Wizards' Association!"

As applause erupted, a group of people in red robes entered. Unlike the others, they wore no masks. Leading them was a man whose face showed thinly veiled disdain and impatience. He walked directly to one of the head seats, ignoring everyone else.

Hoffa thought the surname "Kreist" sounded familiar. With a moment's reflection, he remembered encountering a wizard named Anker Kreist in the nightmare world. Aldo had once mentioned that the Kreist family wielded significant power. It seemed he was right.

"And representing the Muggle military, Colonel Muller Mance!"

With another wave of his hand, Rusvan introduced a tall, wiry man in a military uniform. The colonel entered energetically, greeting everyone with enthusiasm, a stark contrast to the aloof red-robed wizard beside him.

Hoffa's heart raced as he saw Mance. Damn it! If he was here, then Chloe must be nearby too.

After everyone was seated, Rusvan, his expression grave, stepped to the center of the banquet hall. Slowly, he removed his green robe, revealing a shriveled, bare torso. Above, an enormous, luminous moon shone in the night sky. The moonlight hit the pool of blood at the hall's center, causing the liquid to bubble. A heavy scent of blood permeated the air.

With each step Rusvan took toward the blood pool, his form grew less human. Sharp fangs protruded from his mouth, his fingers curled into claws, and his hunched back sprouted thin, membranous wings, making him resemble a giant bat.

Under the moonlight, crimson hues spread across the sky like flowing blood, staining the entire moon red.

At the blood pool's edge, Rusvan dipped a withered rose into the liquid. When he retrieved it, the brittle fragments had transformed into a vibrant, blooming flower.

"After all these years, I can finally be free."

He tossed the flower aside, sighed deeply, and prepared to leap into the blood pool.

"Wait a moment."

A calm voice called out from the long table just then.

Rusvan turned his head sharply, his expression ferocious and displeased.

At the circular table, Muller Mance, dressed in a Muggle military uniform, stood up. Raising his glass, he spoke with solemn sincerity:

"Although Lord Grindelwald has not yet arrived, this is undoubtedly an epic moment. I propose we celebrate this occasion. To the remarkable Sir Rusvan Polidori, an indomitable wizard and the future Prince of the Vampires!"

A request like that naturally couldn't be refused. Everyone present rose to their feet. Whether clad in black robes, red robes, or golden masks, they all stood, raising their glasses high.

Together, they proclaimed, "To the remarkable Sir Rusvan Polidori, an indomitable wizard and the future Prince of the Vampires!"

"Hahaha!"

Rusvan's displeasure vanished. He looked at Mance with satisfaction. "Well, it's rare to see such thoughtfulness from you."

He stretched out a hand, and a young girl holding a pitcher approached immediately, filling his glass with a rich, blood-red liquid.

"Ever since I was judged by the Wizengamot, I have been lying low for far too long. But from today onward, I will bare my sharp fangs! This country, and indeed this entire continent, will be ours for the taking!" he declared boldly. "Our rise begins today!"

"Today!!"

The vampires wearing golden masks echoed his fervor, draining their glasses in one wild motion.

Meanwhile, the red-robed Kreist watched with an impatient scowl, his eyes filled with disdain. He clearly wanted nothing to do with the cheers and slogans. Yet, out of politeness, he reluctantly raised his glass and took a small sip.

After finishing his drink, Rusvan tossed the glass aside and stared at the blood pool with wild eyes. "God of the Night, witness this moment!"

The blood pool before him glowed with a hazy red light, spreading until it seemed to stain the entire world. The red intensified, filling his vision completely.

Something felt wrong. He reached up to touch his eyes, his hand coming away damp and sticky. The liquid was red.

"What…?"

Rusvan swayed, unsteady on his feet. Just three steps from the blood pool, he collapsed with a heavy thud, his face smashing into the ground. He tried to rise but fell again. This time, the monstrous changes to his body began to fade, leaving him in the form of an ordinary man.

"Father!"

Several men wearing golden masks rushed to help him, but as soon as they stood, they too collapsed with loud thuds. The sound of clattering glasses and dishes filled the air, plunging the scene into utter chaos.

(End of Chapter)

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