Harry Potter: I am the Legend

As Hoffa rose to his feet—

Finally, the image on the movie theater screen paused.

Then, from the front row of seats, a shadowy figure stood up.

Hoffa asked himself, when had someone even sat there? He had no idea. That person had made no sound throughout the entire screening.

But when the figure turned around, Hoffa instinctively stepped back in shock.

By the glow of the theater screen, he could see the man's features clearly— a balding head, wrinkled skin, golden eyes, a man in his sixties. It was none other than the older Hoffa, the very same man who had once shot himself in the head. Now, he stood calmly before him.

Miller, upon seeing the figure, looked more stunned than when he had watched young Barty kill his father over a dozen times. His leg twitched, knocking over his soda, spilling it all over the floor.

"It's you!" Hoffa gasped. "You didn't die?"

The old man shook his head. "You've got the wrong person."

"But you—" Hoffa pointed at him, utterly bewildered.

"Ah," the old man smiled faintly and shook his head. "Don't misunderstand. This is just a trick of Death, a game it plays with life. I am not the person you think I am. I am merely a replica created by Death, just like the other two before me—imposters, nothing more. You, Hoffa Bach, are the only real one."

Miller, sitting beside Hoffa, let out a breath of relief.

But Hoffa remained tense, his nerves taut as he eyed the old man warily. "You seem much more lucid than the other two."

"Indeed," the old man mused, glancing at his own hand with a hint of admiration. "Even gods sometimes lose control over their creations. Especially when that creation reaches my level."

He clenched his fingers slightly before adding, "Death gave me too much power, granting me a certain degree of free will."

As he spoke, the darkened theater seemed to unfold like a cardboard box, its walls peeling away. Brilliant sunlight poured in from above. The ground beneath them shifted, revealing a lively street. Colorful umbrellas opened, a dazzling beach materialized under Hoffa's feet, and a warm breeze swept past.

Looking down, Hoffa realized he and Miller were now dressed in Hawaiian shirts, standing on a tropical beach lined with coconut trees and bikini-clad women.

At the edge of the shore, the old man handed them each a cup of iced smoothie, complete with a lemon slice and a tiny umbrella.

Hoffa blankly accepted the drink, utterly unsure of what the old man was trying to pull.

Wearing sunglasses, the old man lazily settled near a mobile ice cream stand, gazing at the rolling ocean waves in the distance. Casually, he asked, "You've been watching the movie for quite some time. So, tell me, Hoffa—why is it that young Barty must always kill his father?"

Hoffa didn't understand why the old man was asking this, but after pondering for a long moment, he answered:

"It's complicated. Old Barty seems to be a workaholic, and he looks down on his son. Meanwhile, young Barty, unable to earn his father's recognition through legitimate means, is left with no choice. That's why the tragedy repeats over and over."

"Is it really that simple?"

"Is there another reason?" Hoffa asked, puzzled.

"Fate," Miller interjected.

Hoffa frowned. "What?"

"Children subconsciously mimic the personalities of those closest to them—whether they want to or not," Miller said, taking a bite of his shaved ice. "They're too much alike, father and son, almost identical. The only difference is that young Barty had bad luck—he followed Voldemort. If Voldemort hadn't fallen, Barty would've likely become just like his father."

"That's not right," Hoffa objected. "Barty's hobbies are practically the opposite of his father's."

"I once heard that only a doctor who fully understands the male body can successfully perform gender reassignment surgery," Miller said. "Young Barty must have understood his father to an extreme degree in order to make a choice so completely opposite to him. But what he failed to realize is that extreme opposition is still extremism.

"In the end, their tragic fate was likely sealed by their extreme personalities."

Miller sighed. "Poor guy."

"Is he right?" Hoffa asked the old man, still uncertain.

The old man simply shook his head. "I don't know. I was just curious. What you both said makes sense, but it still feels like something is missing."

Hoffa narrowed his eyes. "Then can I ask you something out of curiosity?"

"Go ahead."

"What kind of game is this? Did you win, or did I?"

Hoffa finally voiced the question that weighed on his mind the most. This was his last opponent. According to Avada, as long as he won, he could take Aglaea and leave Helheim.

But the old man only gave a bitter smile and shook his head.

"If you believe this is a game between you and Death, then you can never win. Just like a gambler can never truly beat the house."

A shiver ran down Hoffa's spine. Cold sweat seeped from his pores.

The old man closed his eyes, took a sip of his juice, and murmured softly, "Can you do me a favor, Hoffa Bach?"

"W-what?"

"Come here," the old man gestured.

Hoffa hesitated.

Leaning in, he heard the old man whisper in his ear:

"I can help you leave Helheim. But under Death's power, I can only buy you three minutes. For those three minutes, every force working against you will be turned into a mere dream. But within those three minutes, you must reach the exit of Helheim's Thorned Path and escape."

Hoffa's heart skipped a beat. He pulled away instinctively.

But the Nightmare God grasped his arm, speaking so quietly it was almost imperceptible:

"Do me a favor. Don't go down the same path as that man."

The moment he finished speaking, the gray-haired, golden-eyed old man shattered into countless shards of glass, taking the tropical beach scene with him.

When Hoffa opened his eyes again, he was back in the depths of Death's realm, standing in Aglaea's underground chamber.

It felt like no time had passed—perhaps a few minutes, maybe only a few seconds.

Aglaea was still rummaging through the stone cabinets, expressionless as ever.

Young Barty groggily sat up beside Hoffa, rubbing his eyes in confusion. "What happened, Bach senior? I... I think I just dozed off."

Three minutes!

Hoffa recalled the old man's words from the dream, his heart pounding violently, adrenaline surging.

He rushed to Aglaea and spoke rapidly, "That flying big-eared rabbit—do you still have it? I need to borrow it. I'm taking you to the Thorned Path!"

His whole body trembled with excitement as he spoke.

But Aglaea just stared at him. For the first time, her usually detached blue eyes held something else—something akin to pity and sorrow, like watching a drenched and helpless cub in the rain.

"Let's go!"

Hoffa reached for her hand—only for it to pass right through her.

"Where do you want to take me?" she asked calmly. "Are you trying to resurrect me again? Don't bother. Without a vessel to contain my soul, I cannot leave the underworld."

"Damn it! Aren't you an expert in crafting bodies?"

Hoffa pointed at the giant cauldron. "You've made bodies for so many others—why not for yourself?"

Seconds ticked away, each one eating into the precious three minutes. But Aglaea remained indifferent.

"The bodies I make only last for a day. After that, they decay. And once time is up, I return here," she said, unhurried. "It's meaningless, Hoffa. Go wherever you want. Don't worry about me. I've been dead for a long time."

"That's not your fate!" Hoffa argued. "This is Grindelwald's conspiracy!"

"But it is also your past," she replied. "Accept it."

Hoffa: "No."

"No?"

A rare trace of agitation crept into Aglaea's voice. "Do you remember Sisyphus, who pushed the boulder uphill? Do you remember Prometheus, whose heart was devoured by an eagle? Do you remember Peverell, who kept leaping endlessly!?

They were all heroic spirits among humans, just like you—defying death itself. Look at their fates. Don't you understand yet?"

Time rushed forward in the midst of their conversation. Hoffa was growing increasingly anxious. At such a critical moment, this girl still refused to leave. He stomped his foot in frustration.

"I'm sorry, but this is the one thing I cannot give up.

They lost the game, but I haven't. None of the three opponents have destroyed me. I will not be hung on the Path of Thorns."

"Haven't lost?"

For the first time, Aglaea's usual cold expression wavered. Without warning, she collapsed onto her knees, her voice trembling with despair. "Every time, you think you haven't lost. But have you ever truly won? Hoffa, don't you see? You are just like them—trapped in an endless cycle of fate!"

"What?" Hoffa's mouth fell open in shock.

"Death has stripped me of the ability to forget. I can never pass through Helheim and enter reincarnation. My sole purpose is to remain here and witness your death, over and over again.

This is my punishment for saving you. This is your punishment for saving Hogwarts. We both did something that was never meant to happen.

Think carefully—haven't you ever had the eerie feeling that all of this has happened before? Haven't you ever felt powerless, as if your life is unfolding according to a prewritten script?"

Hoffa's face grew even paler.

Aglaea closed her eyes in despair, leaning against the wall. "Your cycle is worse than Sisyphus's. Worse than Prometheus's. Worse than Peverell's.

To you, everything feels new, like it's happening for the first time. But to me, you have entered Helheim more than six thousand times.

You have told over five thousand jokes in front of me. You have knelt on one knee more than five hundred times. You have participated in Death's game over six thousand times. You have killed Davis more than four hundred times. You have been 'saved' by your so-called self more than three thousand times. And you have left this place over six thousand times."

Hoffa stood frozen as if struck by lightning. At that moment, the déjà vu that had haunted him for so long surged with overwhelming intensity. Countless fragmented images of Aglaea flashed through his mind, forming a near-tangible illusion.

Some were smiling. Some were crying. Some were hopeful. Some were in despair. Some were indifferent.

Hearing Aglaea's words, Miller, the entity residing in Hoffa's right arm, opened his mouth, his tongue hanging long like a hanged corpse. Meanwhile, little Barty was completely stunned. "Six thousand times... six thousand of what?"

Aglaea looked at Hoffa, trembling with tears. "Do you know how happy I was the first time I met you?

For three hundred thousand years, I have never forgotten that moment. I watched you with hope. I stood by your side as you defeated enemy after enemy. I sent you out of the Underworld with all my expectations. But in the end, all I got in return was another you. And another. And another."

"Again and again, again and again, again and again…

There is no time in the Underworld, so I measured time through bodies. A body takes one day to form and decay. Do you know how many bodies I have created here? Do you?"

Hoffa instinctively stepped back, stumbling onto the ground. At that moment, the endless images of a weeping Aglaea overlapped, tearing through his very soul.

"I'm exhausted. I'm sick of this. I've had enough. No matter how I say it—whether I plead, reason, curse, ignore, argue, or beg—you always end up playing Death's game. You always try to take me away from here.

I understand your kindness, but you can't do it.

Do you really think escaping Helheim means you can escape fate? You can't change anything. You can't resurrect anyone. The 'you' you saw in the arena—that is your future."

Aglaea grew more and more agitated until, finally, she pointed at the sky, her voice trembling with despair. "Death has placed the future right in front of you. And yet, no matter what you do, you cannot change it. That is the most terrifying part, Hoffa.

Behind you is an endless cycle of fate. Something far more horrifying than death itself. A meaningless, unbreakable loop."

The overwhelming déjà vu shattered Hoffa's vision. A suffocating sense of sorrow and emptiness crushed him, forcing him to hunch over. He gripped his palm tightly, unable to speak.

Six thousand times.

Each cycle lasting fifty years.

Even if time flowed faster in the Underworld, how many tens of thousands of years had it been?

If fate was already predetermined, then what was the point of anything he was doing now?

Aglaea slowly floated beside him, her translucent hand gently touching his face. She whispered, "Humans cannot win against gods. Give up, Hoffa.

I beg you.

Don't leave. Stay here with me.

I can't watch this any longer. I can't endure it anymore. It's too painful.

If not for your own sake, then for mine… please, just stay here. Let yourself die."

Seconds stretched into minutes.

Finally, Hoffa's shattered consciousness slowly pieced itself back together. He rasped, "If I stay… what will we do in the Underworld?"

"Nothing," Aglaea murmured, desperate yet gentle. "Once I craft a perfect body, we'll live in Helheim just like we would in the real world—ordinary, peaceful. Isn't that enough?"

Hoffa stared at her, on the verge of breaking down. He used every ounce of strength to steady himself.

"Before… in those six thousand times… how many times did you tell me this?"

Aglaea covered her face in despair. "This exact conversation? Over five hundred times. And never once… have you listened to me. Not once…"

Little Barty was completely dumbfounded. Just listening to Aglaea's words was enough to shake his very soul. Even Miller stopped struggling, staring blankly at Hoffa, waiting for his decision.

"No. I will not stay here."

Hoffa clutched his chest. "There is no air here. No sunlight. No hope. Nothing but emptiness.

I will save you from this place. No matter what, I will."

"You've said that thousands of times, Hoffa! And you never remember! You don't even know!

You can't save me. You can't save anyone. You can't even save yourself!"

Aglaea clutched her hair and staggered backward in despair. "I can't watch you die anymore, but I can't abandon you either. Nothing I say matters. Nothing I do matters.

Coincidence after coincidence… yet the result is always the same.

I'm so tired. I'm so, so tired."

"Calm down!" Hoffa hurriedly reached for her, but his hands passed right through her once more.

"Just go," Aglaea muttered, turning away in utter despair. "I know you. You will never bow to anything."

She clapped her hands. A towering stone golem stepped forward, opening a box and releasing a long-eared, flying rabbit before Hoffa.

"Go. Hahaha, just go. It's not like it won't happen again. Another time. And another…"

She let out a weak, trembling laugh and disappeared behind the countless cabinets in the room.

"Aglaea!"

Hoffa watched her lonely figure fade, his mind filled with a thousand urges to chase after her. But with only three minutes remaining, he forcibly stopped himself.

A fierce desire erupted within him—his vow to Fatir, his determination to revive her, and the sheer inertia of six thousand cycles.

He took a deep breath and suppressed the crushing despair.

"Wait for me."

He turned away and strode toward Barty.

Without another word, he grabbed Barty, mounted the flying rabbit, and ordered, "Take us to the Path of Thorns."

And without looking back, they soared into the night.

(End of Chapter)

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