Harry Potter: I am the Legend

Inside the glass sphere, the octopus-like creature flickered with strange pulses of light. Its four tentacles moved rhythmically, and a white light, resembling an eye, shimmered within the black chaos of its hollow head.

This little creature had communicated with Hoffa once before—before he had met Ryan. However, it hadn't spoken then; it had only emitted flashing lights.

"Can you hear me?"

It had no mouth, yet its voice resonated clearly in Hoffa's mind. The experience was so peculiar that Hoffa realized he could respond in the same way, almost instinctively. Holding the glass sphere, he examined it closely and asked through his thoughts, "Are you the one speaking to me?"

"Who else could it be?"

The small creature swirled inside the sphere, its chaotic black mist occasionally sparking like an electrical current.

"What are you?"

"I am a child of Leviathan, the God of Nightmares, one of the ancient deities," the tentacled creature replied.

Hoffa paused.

If someone had claimed to be a god before, he would've dismissed it as nonsense. But after all the surreal and bizarre events he had witnessed, he found no reason to doubt this little creature. Especially since he had just seen that massive shadow on the moon—phenomena so incomprehensible that only divine intervention could explain them.

"Was the nightmare at sea your doing?"

"Yes. Anyone who encounters me falls into a nightmare. I take pleasure in it," the creature admitted without the slightest hint of embarrassment. Its voice was flat and emotionless.

"Why did you try to kill me?"

"Let me clarify—I never intended to kill you. Those deaths had nothing to do with me. I simply gave you a dream, and the content of that dream was merely a projection of your own inner fears."

Hoffa pondered for a moment and realized the creature's words were accurate. Still, it was hard for him to accept the sudden presence of a god in his life. It was a direct challenge to his worldview.

"What are gods, exactly?"

Having encountered the power of the God of Death before and now meeting a self-proclaimed child of an ancient deity, Hoffa's curiosity about the world's origins grew stronger.

"If I must explain," the creature began, "gods are like memories, legacies—or, more precisely, collective manifestations of will. When a person is alive, they are remembered. But when they die, and the last person who remembers them forgets, they cease to exist.

"It's the same for gods. When people believe in gods, whether they're evil, good, terrifying, benevolent, mad, or rational, the gods exist.

"But when people no longer believe—when endless routines erode their thoughts, when they stop thinking and no longer need gods—the gods vanish."

The creature floated in another circle. "Look at me now—I'm no bigger than the size of a palm. In ancient times, I existed in everyone's dreams, drifting freely in the cosmos of thoughts. Even God couldn't control me.

"But now, people no longer fear dreams. They no longer revere them. Over time, this trend has only worsened. I suspect that fifty years from now, I might be no bigger than an ant."

The creature's words left Hoffa feeling conflicted.

"So you're saying that gods are man-made?"

"Perhaps," the creature replied ambiguously.

Hoffa glanced at his chest, where the triple-ring scar marked his heart like some kind of symbol. It pulsed faintly, evidence of the incredible power that had healed what should've been a fatal wound.

Curious, he asked, "Why didn't you speak earlier?"

"I did. I even warned you to stay away from that follower of the God of Death. You just couldn't hear or understand me then."

The creature explained, "I'm not human and cannot communicate through language. But now that your body contains a fragment of an ancient god's power, you're barely like me—a similar being—so you can hear me."

"Wait, ancient god's power? Were you the one who saved me and healed my wound?"

"Not me. It was the power of the God of Night. To be precise, you stole a fragment of that power, allowing your life to continue. See the scar on your chest? That's the totem of the God of Night. Ancient tribes would carve such symbols onto their chests to seek the god's protection during the night."

"I stole a god's power?"

"It tried to turn you into one of its blood kin but failed," the creature replied, rolling inside the glass sphere. "Some witches are particularly stubborn, and you seem to be one of them. That's why gods don't enjoy dealing with witches."

Hoffa thought for a moment, recalling the immense psychic force he had encountered in the blood pool. Compared to that power, his own proud mental strength was like a mouse to an elephant. He was no match for it.

"I don't believe I had the strength to steal its power," he said slowly. "But after I made my choice, the God of Night's power dissipated."

"I'm an ancient god too. You chose me. What could it do—start a godly war? Those days are long gone. This is no longer a world ruled by gods. We're just small, struggling remnants with no energy for such conflicts."

As the conversation unfolded, Hoffa began to understand his predicament. Compared to becoming a vampire, being linked to nightmares seemed tolerable. But what did that make him now? A follower of the God of Nightmares? Merlin's beard—he didn't even know what that was, nor did he understand the creature's intentions.

"You're not my follower," the creature interjected suddenly. "As for my intentions, I want to regain the stature I had in ancient times, like what you saw in your dream. I'm far too feeble now."

"You're reading my mind?"

Hoffa's alarm surged as he pulled the glass sphere away, holding it like a ticking time bomb.

"How else would I communicate with you?"

"Stop it! If you do that again, I'll throw you away," Hoffa snapped, his tone resolute. "No one can read my mind."

"Understood," the creature said, its hollow head bobbing slightly, as if nodding. "After all, you're human. Everyone thinks their thoughts are unique and inviolable. But to me, all minds are the same—seeking survival, craving reproduction, yearning for emotions. I've read billions of minds. To be honest, yours isn't much different."

With a loud whack, Hoffa hurled the glass sphere into the sky. It flew over a thousand meters and disappeared into the horizon.

Hoffa stared at his hand, a wave of inexplicable unease washing over him. That creature's tone, its all-knowing attitude—it was unsettlingly familiar. "Am I that annoying too?" he muttered to himself.

"If you enjoy throwing things, perhaps consider baseball," the voice echoed once more in his mind.

"Damn it!"

Hoffa jumped in shock as a silver flash streaked across the sky. The glass sphere he had just hurled away came hurtling back like a meteor and struck him square on the forehead. It was as if he had thrown a boomerang, not a glass ball.

"Why are you still here?!"

Hoffa clutched his forehead, his voice filled with irritation.

"From the moment you touched me in the dream world, an irresistible force bound our fates together. Perhaps you should call me your companion and treat me better—after all, I just saved you from the hands of the Night God."

"Saved me? More like you have ulterior motives. Maybe you want to take over my body, devour my soul, and turn me into your puppet."

"That's the Night God's approach."

The little creature in the glass sphere remained calm despite Hoffa's harsh accusations. Its tone was devoid of emotion, as if it were a machine. "I've already told you my goal. I want to regain the strength I had in ancient times, and you might be able to help me. That's why I saved you."

"Then why not let me read your thoughts?" Hoffa shot back, his frustration palpable.

"You will—if you ever grow strong enough," the creature replied.

"Not interested. I'm human. I prefer to stay that way."

To emphasize his humanity, Hoffa deliberately spoke this sentence aloud.

"Very well," the creature replied, its tone as neutral as ever. "I only read your thoughts for the sake of efficient communication. But if you feel disrespected, I can stop."

Hoffa picked up the glass sphere again, warily observing the creature inside. His palms felt unusually warm. The creature, too, seemed to be studying him, their gazes locked.

An inexplicable sense of familiarity welled up within him, as if they had known each other for ages. He recalled feeling this way when he first encountered the creature in the dream world's deep sea. But Hoffa shook off the strange feeling and turned his thoughts to more pressing matters.

Mans had taken Chloe, and the nun's life was in peril. Yet Hoffa knew nothing about the man. How could a mortal survive being stabbed through the heart?

"If we're partners, can you answer my questions?" he asked, holding up the glass sphere.

"Of course," the creature replied.

Hoffa hesitated before asking, "I didn't kill him. I stabbed him in the chest, but he's unharmed. How is that possible? Is he a vampire?"

"Only the highest-tier bloodline vampires can survive bodily destruction," the creature explained. "But Muller Mans isn't one of them. His survival is due to his soul not being in his body. No matter how much you damage his physical form, it's meaningless. He's a follower of the Death God, who long ago claimed his soul."

"I don't understand," Hoffa admitted, his face contorted with confusion.

"Unlike weaker deities like myself, some gods remain powerful through the ages—Death being one of them. As the supreme deity of this world, Death holds dominion over life and its cessation.

"When you stabbed his body, his soul wasn't there. Unless the link between his body and soul is severed, you can never truly kill him. His soul operates his body like a puppet from an unknown, safe location."

"That's immortality!" Hoffa exclaimed, stunned.

"Everything is relative," the creature replied. "You could call it immortality—or say that he's already dead. What you fought was just an empty shell."

The word "puppet" sent a chill down Hoffa's spine. He thought back to his encounters with Mans in Paris and their subsequent clashes. The man seemed alive—vibrant and ruthless—not like any puppet Hoffa could imagine.

Then he recalled something Dominic had said before their battle. Dominic had asked if Grindelwald had granted Hoffa the power of immortality.

If Mans had been sent by Grindelwald to capture Chloe, then the one who had claimed Mans' soul must also be Grindelwald—using the power of the Deathly Hallows, specifically the Elder Wand.

So, was the "immortality" Dominic mentioned this very power?

While Hoffa pondered, the creature in the sphere remained silent, observing him without interruption. It no longer seemed to be reading his thoughts.

"Tell me how to defeat him," Hoffa finally asked. "You must know the answer."

"You already know the answer. You don't need to ask me."

The creature curled up in the sphere, its tentacles folding gracefully like a shy plant. "And as your companion, Hoffa Bach, I'd advise you to put on some clothes. Someone's coming."

"I already know? Then why would I ask you?" Hoffa shook the glass sphere, trying to prompt more conversation. But the creature's glow faded, and it turned into a small black seed, ignoring him entirely.

At that moment, hurried footsteps approached from behind.

Hoffa turned to see several teenagers in black-and-green suits leaping down from higher ground. The boy in the lead landed and exclaimed, "Holy shit!"

(Chapter End)

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