Harry Potter: I am the Legend

Under the enormous blood-red moon, within a gathering place resembling an ancient coliseum, people fell one after another, like collapsing dominoes.

Red-robed Kreist's expression shifted repeatedly as a deep sense of foreboding gripped him. Staring at the crimson wine in his cup, he felt an overwhelming dread. Without hesitation, he drew his wand and pointed it directly at Muller Mance, who sat across from him.

"You!!"

Mance looked at him calmly, a slow and deliberate smile forming on his lips. "Quick reflexes, I'll give you that."

"You… you…"

Waves of dizziness crashed over Kreist like a relentless tsunami, eroding his clarity. He wanted to curse the man with the infuriating smile, but no words came forth. Blood began to stream from his eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. Fixing his gaze on Mance, he rasped hoarsely, "What… what have you done?"

"Hmph."

Mance sneered, tossing aside his glass. "I've always been curious—does acquiring magical power elevate wizards beyond the frailty of flesh? But now I see, despite your strength, you're still bound by the limitations of mere mortals."

As he spoke, no one in the room could remain standing. One by one, they collapsed, some writhing, others vomiting, many trembling uncontrollably. Their skin turned a bizarre shade of bright red, and the room echoed with agonized screams.

Hoffa, watching from a distance, was utterly stunned by the sudden chaos. Moments ago, these people had been confidently celebrating, yet now they were rolling on the ground. What was this? Some kind of twisted sacrificial ritual?

Kreist swept the table clean with one arm, staggered forward with his wand in hand, and confronted Mance.

"Avada… Avada…"

He roared with all his might, but Mance picked up a bottle and smashed it over his head. The curse was silenced before it could leave Kreist's lips, and he crumpled to the ground.

"The Killing Curse? Such a hassle."

Mance discarded the broken bottle and gazed down at Kreist, whose face was pale and twitching, his eyes rolling back as the poison spread. "Too slow. Back at the camps, I killed in batches. A mere hundred grams of potassium chloride—effective, efficient, and safe."

Kreist struggled to rise, his face contorted in fury. "How dare you… you… aren't you afraid of death?"

"Afraid? That's precisely why I must ensure you die instead," Mance replied coldly. "Oh, and by the way, I never intended to save your idiotic son. And I certainly wouldn't bother involving someone like Grindelwald over such trivial matters."

"You… cough… you're finished… you're finished!" Kreist rasped, blood pouring from his mouth. "You think… you can escape after this? The Association… they'll hunt you to the ends of the earth!"

"The Wizarding Association?"

Mance laughed uproariously, as if he'd just heard the world's greatest joke. "You lot are nothing more than a pathetic farce. Opposing the entire world from your little corner? The only thing awaiting you is collapse. And yet, you crown yourselves kings, blind to your own doom."

Kreist could no longer respond. The poison coursing through his veins consumed him entirely. Only by leaning against the table could he keep from collapsing.

Mance continued, "Once you're all dead, I'll take your corpses—along with dear Miss Lemay—and head to Britain. I imagine the Ministry of Magic and the Wizengamot would be delighted by my efforts in crippling the Wizarding Association. They might even award me a Merlin Medal, maybe even a seaside mansion, or perhaps a position in the Ministry. Imagine that! A Muggle becoming a department head—what a first that would be!"

Though barely able to speak, Kreist was incensed by Mance's audacious remarks. With a final surge of energy, he spat blood and shrieked, "You vile traitor! Do you think… those inferior races can win? What you've done… you… you'll be driven to your doom by wizards!"

His curses devolved into incoherent screams as his body convulsed violently. Under the effects of the poison, his body ruptured, every pore oozing blood tinged with blue.

Mance stepped back, watching the grotesque scene with faint regret. "Not my problem," he muttered.

Without hesitation, he stomped down hard on Kreist's face, snapping his neck. Blood pooled across the floor.

His greatest obstacle eliminated, Mance moved on.

Those who had once looked down on him now lay writhing in terror, clinging to his legs, begging for mercy. But he remained unmoved. If anyone clung too tightly, he simply kicked them away, leaving them to their fate.

At last, he reached the edge of the blood pool.

There, Rusvan still clung to life—barely. Perhaps due to his unique constitution, he leaned against a pillar, gasping like a broken bellows. "Don't kill me… please… don't kill me, Mance. You know… I never meant to harm you. We could… we could be friends." Crawling to Mance's feet, he gripped his pants, groveling pitifully. "I'm still useful… very useful."

Mance shook his head. "No."

"Then… then… what do you want?" Rusvan stammered, swallowing blood as his fingers scratched desperate lines into the floor.

"How about you call me 'Daddy'? I wouldn't want to bear the burden of patricide," Mance said with a grin.

The room fell silent, the air turning deathly still.

"Ha!"

Rusvan glanced skyward, his expression hardening. With a burst of strength, he propelled himself off the ground, jaws wide open, lunging for Mance's throat.

"Die, you filthy Muggle!"

Crunch. His teeth sank into cold metal.

Mance had raised a detonator, blocking Rusvan's attack. With a swift motion, he drove the device deep into Rusvan's throat, pulled the pin, and delivered a powerful kick to his chest, sending him crashing into a Roman column by the blood pool.

Convulsing violently, Rusvan glared at Mance with unbridled hatred. Every cell in his body was saturated with poison—the same compound used in concentration camps to exterminate thousands with a mere fingernail-sized dose.

"Goodbye."

Mance discarded the ring pull in his hand.

Boom!!

With a deafening explosion, the upper body of the vampire wizard was reduced to dust. Thick, viscous blood rained down like droplets, and the Roman pillar behind him fractured into several pieces, crashing down with a thunderous roar and crushing the remaining half of the body beneath its weight.

The blood in the blood pool continued to boil. Pale moonlight seeped through the cracks in the walls. The luxurious tapestries and oil paintings adorning the hall remained unscathed, hanging intact. Even the intricately crafted utensils, adorned with ivory and gold, were mostly undisturbed, apart from some minor tilting.

Amidst the swirling dust, the scene was one of utter carnage. The floor was littered with bodies—men, women, wizards, and vampires alike.

The walls and floors bore deep claw marks, and the corpses were corroded by some unknown poison, their once-handsome faces blistered and discolored. Once-beautiful features were now marred by large black patches, resembling decayed, rusted metal ravaged by time. The agony they endured before their deaths was evident.

High above on the walls, Hoffa was utterly stupefied.

He couldn't comprehend how things had escalated to this extent. His mind struggled to process it all. He hadn't even lifted a finger, and yet, every potential enemy had already fallen.

There was no dramatic battle, no grand clash of forces. Just one inconspicuous Muggle officer who had poisoned every living being at the banquet, sparing no one—not even his own subordinates.

To kill so many... Was his courage forged from iron? Did he even have a plan to deal with the aftermath of this carnage?

Müller Mance strolled through the hall, weaving skillfully through the carnage. His gray cloak trailed through the blood as he stepped over a vampire's lifeless body.

Eventually, he stopped before the banquet table, where a woman wearing a golden mask sat surrounded by an array of vibrant fruits. Smiling faintly, Mance reached out and removed her mask.

Hoffa leaped to his feet. It was Chloe! He hadn't recognized her in the elaborate attire she wore instead of her usual black clerical robe.

Mance casually grabbed an apple, biting into it as he smiled appraisingly. "I must admit, Miss Leme, this outfit suits you quite well."

Chloe, staring wide-eyed at the surrounding carnage, looked as if she could swallow an egg. Her disbelief was written across her face.

Mance swept the fruit off the table, revealing the chains binding her limbs to it. He produced a key, unlocking the restraints on her legs before gently lifting her down and placing her in a chair. His expression was one of reverence as he looked at her.

"These foolish nocturnal creatures dared to covet your body, O Lord of Time. This time, I've saved your earthly vessel. Will you now grant me my humble wish?"

Chloe's face was ashen as she surveyed the hall filled with corpses. Turning her head, she asked, "What do you want?"

"I think you already know, don't you? After all, nothing escapes time's grasp." Stroking Chloe's hair, he whispered fervently, "Tell me everything that will happen in the next fifty years—who will win the war, who the next Dark Lord will be, the true imperial power. And, if possible, grant me a fragment of your miraculous power. Would you?"

"I can't. I can't even see my own destiny," she replied.

"That's because you haven't pushed yourself to your limits. You don't even know what you're capable of," Mance said passionately, his gaze upon her as if she were a priceless treasure. "What power could be greater than time itself? None. All magic, all blood, will turn to dust under its passage."

Chloe remained silent.

"Not willing, are you?" Mance's smile shifted from fervent to cold—the same chilling smile he had worn when poisoning Rufusvan and the others.

"I know what you care about most, Miss Leme. You wish for a better world, don't you? Believe it or not, so do I. Look at this war-torn world, these monsters who revel in devouring others, these abhorrent wizards. Someone must put an end to it all. And I'm certain that someone is me. I'll do whatever it takes to achieve this goal."

He moved to another corner of the hall, yanking open a hidden door behind a wine cabinet. Inside were dozens of children, their mouths sealed with tape, tied to pillars.

"These children, they're the ones you brought from France. I rescued them from the sea and kept them safe from the vampires. Leme, if you help me, I will fulfill your every desire. Trust me."

"How could I possibly trust you?" Chloe rasped mockingly. "You killed everyone in my abbey, and now you've killed everyone here. You have no boundaries left."

"All mortals die," Mance said with a shrug, as if indifferent. "Sooner or later, it's all the same. So why not contribute something meaningful in the meantime?"

Stepping closer, he removed his coat and draped it over her shoulders like a gentleman. Bending down, he whispered darkly into her ear, "You'd better tell me you can, or I'll have the German soldiers stationed in France take turns with you—like a train—while you watch me flay and dismember these little brats one by one."

(End of Chapter)

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