Harry Potter: I am the Legend

Under the massive full moon, on the sandy terrain of the underground city, another gray-haired boy lay sideways on the ground, unable to speak. From a distance, he could hear someone screaming in a piercing, high-pitched voice.

"Hoffa!!"

It was the despairing voice of the nun.

He strained to lift his head, gazing at the blade that pierced through his chest, and then at the gaping wound on Mance's chest, which continued to bleed profusely. Mance stood as if nothing had happened, while Hoffa could feel life slipping away from him at an alarming rate.

Hoffa was dazed. He could never have imagined that a Muggle with a shattered chest could still stand there and stab him. How was this possible? Not even vampires had such tenacious vitality.

"How…?" Hoffa struggled to breathe.

"You want to know?"

Mance pointed at his own chest and smirked. "I'm not telling you."

He pulled out the blade and casually tossed it aside with a metallic clatter. The bloodied weapon rolled far across the sand. Then, without hesitation, he grabbed the sobbing Chloe, twisted her neck, and forced her to look at Hoffa.

"Look at him. Take a good, hard look at the state of your friend as he dies. If you want to save those children, you'd better meet my expectations soon."

Hoffa wanted to say something. He wasn't sure what—perhaps to curse Mance, or maybe to offer some final words of comfort to the nun. But he found himself utterly powerless.

"Let me go! Let me go!"

Chloe's cries echoed as Mance dragged her away like a rag doll.

Life was draining from him. He no longer had the strength to do anything. Clutching his chest, he slid down against the wall and onto the ground. Darkness gradually consumed his vision.

The last thing he saw was Mance pulling the nun away with the group of children, their figures growing smaller and smaller until they vanished from view.

Am I going to die?

He saw no hope. This was the worst injury he had ever sustained—the closest he had ever come to death. He was already halfway through death's door. In the hazy depths of his mind, he even thought he saw Death smiling at him.

At that moment, an overwhelming sense of helplessness flooded his heart.

So close—just a little more, and he could have sent the nun to London. Perhaps Fatiel could have used her abilities to change history. Maybe, just maybe, he could have lived to see Aglaia again.

Aglaia…

The thought of her ignited a searing pain within Hoffa, causing him to groan. It was an uncontrollable, primal desire to survive, rising from the deepest corners of his being.

Die? No, he could not die.

His life carried her hopes. No matter what, he could not die.

But his heart was pierced. Even in his activated state, such a fatal wound could not be healed. He kept converting magic into life energy, yet it poured out of him uncontrollably through the wound.

Crawling across the ground, he desperately searched his mind for a way to survive. Yet every idea seemed utterly unrealistic—there wasn't a single living soul around him.

Immense unease drowned him like an ocean. His soul felt like a flickering candle in the wind, his vision reduced to pitch-black. Only the numb sensation of blood dripping from his lips reminded him he was still alive.

Was there any chance left?

He felt the warmth on his lips.

It was the warmth of blood.

The taste triggered a bold and reckless idea. A last-ditch gamble.

Summoning every ounce of strength, Hoffa converted all his magic into life energy, forcing his eyes open. Gasping for breath, he dragged himself inch by inch toward the distant blood pool.

Finally, he collapsed against the marble edge of the pool. By this point, he could no longer breathe, teetering on the edge of death.

Blood dripped from his mouth into the pool below. His consciousness faded, leaving him unable to do anything.

Moonlight broke through the clouds again, shining down from the dome. The once-boiling blood pool had stilled, but upon tasting Hoffa's blood, it began to churn once more, as though it were an excited, living organism.

Countless blood-formed hands emerged from the pool, grabbing Hoffa's body and pulling him into its depths.

With a soft splash, the pool returned to stillness, leaving no ripples behind.

The intense pain vanished, and his desperate gamble paid off. A mysterious power enveloped him, bringing an unparalleled warmth. It was a feeling he had never experienced before, as though he had returned to the womb.

Under this power, his shattered heart began to mend piece by piece, becoming whole again—a new and unknown entity.

In that moment, he found he could breathe within the blood. Through its crimson depths, he saw the outside world—the bright moon and the shadows dancing in its light.

Fragments of visions and whispers surrounded him. He heard voices murmuring by his ears:

"Awaken the slumbering Blood Queen after the dream. Eight beasts, born of eight restless nights. The holy nail pierces the sinner's flesh, and a prayer is offered to the summoned hero…"

The whispers echoed as Hoffa lifted his head from the blood sea. Countless blood hands cradled him, raising him higher and closer to the moon. He could see its surface, riddled with craters, and a veiled woman with no features. She was shrouded in an ethereal glow, her ten fingers dancing like silk within the moon.

"Light is born from darkness, but it betrays and curses the dark. Freed from endless night, it slumbers in fleeting daylight…"

The whispers continued, a cacophony of countless voices. The silken fingers wrapped around Hoffa, binding him tightly. The towering figure lifted him higher, closer to the woman's faceless head.

Closer and closer.

Then, he saw a thin slit open on the woman's faceless head, like a zipper. Beyond the slit lay a dazzling galaxy, mesmerizing in its beauty.

He marveled at the sight, entranced by the warmth enveloping him. For a moment, he surrendered to it, allowing the silken fingers to carry him into the gaping void.

"If I were you, I wouldn't give in so easily. That's just pathetic."

Suddenly, another voice broke through. It was clear, steady, and devoid of emotion, distinct from the murmurs.

The voice snapped Hoffa back to his senses.

The veiled woman on the moon disappeared. The radiant stars vanished.

In their place, he saw his own body in the blood pool. His muscles swelled grotesquely, countless fleshy spines growing from every corner. Each spine bore faces—grotesque, tormented faces, wailing in agony.

"Damn it!"

He was fully awake now. The foreign blood surged back into his body through his wound, setting his marrow ablaze and burning his veins with acidic pain. Worse still, a colossal, incomprehensible psychic force lurked within the blood pool. Its overwhelming presence threatened to consume him entirely.

He threw his head back, hitting the marble floor, trying to shake off the whispers echoing in his ears. It was futile. His sense of self was rapidly disintegrating, on the verge of transforming into something else entirely.

Desperately, he clung to the stone wall, attempting to crawl out. The once-calm surface of the blood pool rippled as Hoffa extended his hand. But within a second, an overwhelming force yanked him back into the pool, returning its surface to stillness.

This tranquility, however, lasted less than ten breaths.

Suddenly, the pool of blood boiled like molten lava.

A massive, four-winged bird screeched and burst forth from the pool, its body dripping with tar-like blood. It barely ascended ten meters before the same immense force pulled it back, slamming it heavily into the pool and splashing blood everywhere.

"In this world, life and death are unpredictable. Even the mightiest wings cannot break free," countless voices echoed chaotically in his ears, driving him to frustration.

The thunderbird roared, clawing its way out of the blood pool once more. Its razor-sharp talons clung tenaciously to the pool's edge as countless tendrils of blood writhed behind it, attempting to drag it back into the crimson depths.

In the moonlit stillness of the ancient castle, an eerie sight unfolded. Blood from the pool coalesced into a massive arm that seized the thunderbird like a helpless chick, slamming it mercilessly in an attempt to subdue it.

"Stagger behind me, and I shall claim your desires!"

The voices grew louder, devouring Hoffa's body and mind. The more he struggled, the stronger the supernatural force became. The hall suffered increasing destruction—exquisite ceilings crumbled into rubble, crashing down with deafening roars, and lavish banquet tables collapsed into messy piles of debris.

His heartbeat thundered in his chest, pounding so violently it seemed ready to burst. Each pulse felt like an inferno coursing through his veins, consuming him entirely. He convulsed helplessly, his head feeling like an overfilled balloon on the brink of rupture, echoing with agonizing pain. Hoarse cries reverberated through the ruined castle.

Two forces clashed in a deadlock. Hoffa knew his endurance wouldn't last much longer. Once his strength was depleted, he would inevitably become one of those endless whispering voices. Outside the pool, his body faced death, while within, his soul risked annihilation.

Damn this world. Is there anyone who can save me?

Desperation consumed him.

As if in response to his plea, another voice resonated in his ears:

"If nightmares could keep you alive, would you still dive into the blood pool?"

The unknown voice asked again, "If your only choices were to endure nightmares every night or drink blood, which would you choose?"

"I choose neither," he murmured.

"You're about to die." The voice remained calm. "Hoffa, no one can save you. You only have two options: drink others' blood every night or suffer through endless nightmares."

"If I must choose, I'd rather endure nightmares," Hoffa replied firmly.

The blood hand froze. After a brief moment of silence, it shattered abruptly. The entangling blood receded from his body, disappearing into the pool as countless crimson motes evaporated into the air.

The thunderbird collapsed into the now-dried blood pool with a dull thud. Slowly, it began to shrink, transforming into a gray-haired boy, utterly bare.

Pain ebbed away—so slowly it felt like a millennium had passed. Trembling uncontrollably, Hoffa gasped through his aching throat. Another eternity seemed to pass before he could finally prop himself up. His muscles felt like water, forcing him to crawl on all fours as he staggered unsteadily.

Eventually, he dragged himself out of the blood pool. After only a few steps, he stumbled over a corpse and fell face-first onto the ground. Darkness engulfed his vision. For a long while, he lay there, until the blackness slowly resolved into the pattern of the floorboards beneath him, and his pupils began to focus.

Everything around him became unusually vivid, yet devoid of color. He could see the intricate expression frozen on the corpse's face, each speck of dust floating in the air, and even the fine details on the gargoyle sculptures atop distant Gothic spires.

Night now appeared as clear as day, a sensation entirely unfamiliar, as if his eyes had transformed into infrared night-vision cameras.

"What happened?"

He examined the patterns on his palm, the events from moments ago replaying vividly in his mind—the shadowy figure on the moon, the whispers in the blood sea. It was all unmistakably real, unlike anything he had experienced before.

He looked down at his chest. The fatal wound inflicted by Mans had healed completely, leaving behind a vivid scar. The scar stretched symmetrically across his chest and shoulders, forming three interlocking rings. Within the intersections of the rings were crescent-shaped marks, crude and uneven as though etched by an unskilled hand with a stick.

He recognized this pattern. The female vampire had drawn the same design in blood to unlock the underground city.

What does it mean?

He could feel an ancient and obscure power emanating from the marks, yet he couldn't comprehend it.

When he looked up at the moon again, it appeared as ordinary as ever—no larger, no monsters within—just a plain, round moon hanging in the sky, exactly as it had for thousands of years.

"Are you alright?"

A voice broke his reverie.

It was ethereal, impossible to distinguish as male or female, neutral and calm. It was the same voice that had questioned him in the blood sea.

"Who are you?" Hoffa sat up abruptly, glancing around.

There was no one alive nearby. The banquet hall, destroyed by Mans, lay in eerie desolation. Yet, this voice had undoubtedly spoken to him amidst the blood pool, posing strange questions.

"I'm on your waist," the voice replied.

Startled, Hoffa reached for his waist. His magical gloves and clothing had disintegrated in the blood sea, but one item remained intact: a glass sphere formed through transformation magic.

He picked up the sphere. Inside, a tiny creature with writhing tendrils darted frantically, the same little tentacle monster he had acquired in the English Channel.

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