Harry Potter: I am the Legend

The ground's magical array expanded rapidly, leaving no one untouched—not even the Aurors leading students away to safety. As the array caught up to them, they collapsed to their knees. Some clutched their throats, others tore at their faces, their bulging eyes filled with horror.

Within a hundred-meter radius, the air reeked of blood.

The four House Heads had also abandoned futile resistance and were now focused on evacuating the remaining students as quickly as possible.

Sylby strode through the lava, muttering to himself,

"A wizard is no child's plaything. A wizard is no fairy tale. A wizard is a wizard."

He clenched his fist and slammed it into the ground.

From the giant eye pattern on the ground, crimson tendrils sprouted near every fallen person.

"One thousand years of nonsense. It's time for it to end."

Standing up, Sylby spread his fingers wide.

The tendrils opened sharp maws at their tips, lined with rows of razor-sharp teeth.

But just as he prepared to clench his hand into a fist and slaughter everyone in sight, a figure suddenly emerged from nowhere.

Without warning, Hoffa launched himself onto Sylby, clinging to him like a long-lost lover reunited after an eternity apart.

Hoffa exited his ghostly step state, wrapping his arms tightly around Sylby's neck. He was gasping for breath, foam flecking his lips, his muscles weak and trembling. He had no magic of his own—the magic came from the crystal embedded in Sylby's severed mechanical arm. Hoffa had used the last remnants of that power to execute one final ghostly step, finally closing the distance to Sylby.

Sylby froze in surprise. Seeing who had latched onto him, he laughed derisively, raising his wand.

"Well, well, you're still standing, little brother?"

As he spoke, he gripped Hoffa by the throat with one hand, lifting him into the air.

"But at this point, what do you hope to achieve? Have you come to join me? Or are you expecting me to praise you?"

"D-dream on," Hoffa stammered, his teeth chattering uncontrollably. His arms hung limply at his sides as his magic bottomed out. His fingers began to wither, his cheekbones protruded sharply, and he felt the full terror of Slytherin's curse firsthand.

"Dream on?"

Sylby held up Hoffa's wand and sneered. "Oh? If you're not here to join me, then what? You came to take your wand back?"

Gripping Hoffa tightly, Sylby smirked. "Little brother, your wand suits me quite well. How about gifting it to me?"

He opened his mouth wide and, to Hoffa's horror, swallowed the wand whole with a look of satisfaction.

"What can you do to me now?" Sylby taunted, leaning close to Hoffa's face. "Without the power of the Four Founders, you're nothing. Nothing."

Hoffa, drained of magic and life, cursed and choked, yet somehow managed a faint smile. "You're right... But... I have... Tom Riddle."

"What?" Sylby's handsome face twisted in confusion. "Tom... Riddle? What are you talking about?"

Hoffa's trembling lips stretched into a pained smile as he muttered, "The taste of Slytherin's curse… really is awful."

The next moment, a dark shadow surged from Hoffa's orifices and flowed into Sylby's body. The two were mere centimeters apart, so close that Sylby froze for a second before his expression drastically changed.

He threw Hoffa aside, but it was too late.

The black mist seeped into Sylby's eyes, nose, and mouth, clinging to him like a relentless parasite. It quickly began leeching his magic and growing stronger.

Sylby had been cursed.

The blood-eye array on the ground collapsed like a receding tide. The crimson tendrils disintegrated into glowing specks of red magic, scattering and vanishing without a trace.

Those who had fallen to the ground jolted awake, curling up and coughing violently in terror.

"ARGHHHH!"

Sylby clutched his temples, letting out an earth-shaking roar of agony.

Behind him, Tom Riddle, kneeling on the ground, vomited a mouthful of blood before collapsing. His face was ghostly pale as blood seeped from every orifice. The massive mental backlash had shattered his psychic field completely.

But the Slytherin curse had been cast.

Sylby stumbled backward, clutching his chest. His hand, pale and trembling, was drenched in cold sweat, his teeth chattering uncontrollably.

But his reaction was swift. As soon as he realized he'd been cursed, he locked onto its source and charged toward Tom Riddle.

Hoffa, utterly drained of strength, somehow found a last reserve of willpower. With a desperate leap off the wall, he latched onto Sylby's leg, dragging him down and pinning him to the ground.

"Protect Tom Riddle!" Hoffa roared.

Dumbledore and the Aurors immediately understood. They turned and surrounded the Slytherin students, forming an impenetrable wall around Tom Riddle.

Sylby's power and magic rapidly drained away. He turned back and punched Hoffa hard in the face.

"You wretched brat!" Sylby snarled through chattering teeth. "Where… where did you get this curse?!"

Hoffa, unfazed, spat in Sylby's face and punched him back. "Was this part of your plan too, Sylby?"

Sylby grabbed Hoffa's collar, his voice a furious growl. "Do you even know… do you have any idea what you've done?!"

"Of course I do," Hoffa said, locking eyes with him.

Sylby's magic was completely drained by the curse. His fingers twitched uncontrollably as he leaned in close to Hoffa, laughing bitterly. "You're nothing but… nothing but a lucky… ignorant… fool."

"Maybe… but at least I know… what's wrong!" Hoffa snarled, pushing back with every ounce of strength he had left, even clawing at Sylby's face to shove him away.

"Wrong? Wrong?!" Sylby's voice cracked with rage. His face, now marked by the spreading curse, turned red as veins bulged across his neck. His bloodshot eyes glared with an unwavering intensity.

"I'll tell you… There's no right or wrong in this world—only… victory or defeat!"

With that, Sylby punched Hoffa in the face once more.

"Trash."

Hoffa threw a punch at Sylby's face.

"Pathetic fool," Sylby muttered, his trembling fingers pressing against Hoffa's chin.

This time, their punches were no longer as forceful as before. Yet, despite their dwindling strength, the two continued to claw and strike at each other like dogs fighting over a bone in the mud. A kick here, a punch there. A scratch from one, a slap from the other.

Each blow was weaker than the last, but neither was willing to stop. This was no longer a physical fight but a battle of sheer willpower—a clash of souls.

Gradually, onlookers gathered around them: the Minister of Magic, Dumbledore, the House Heads, professors, assistants, and students.

They could hardly believe their eyes. The two figures in the mud, bloodied and disheveled, were locked in a frenzied struggle, so indistinguishable it was impossible to tell who was who.

Hoffa, his face smeared with blood, had his arms locked around Sylby's neck, his knee digging into Sylby's back. Meanwhile, Sylby pushed against Hoffa's chin with one hand while gripping his throat with the other, blood and foam dripping from the corners of his mouth.

Who would believe this was a battle between two wizards?

Dumbledore, stunned and deeply shaken, raised his wand and pointed it at Sylby, shouting furiously, "It's over, Half-Blood King!"

But Sylby didn't even glance at Dumbledore. Trembling, he clung tightly to Hoffa's arm, his gray eyes locked onto Hoffa's, a mix of agony and an eerie smile on his face.

"I… I get it… I see it now," Sylby said with a strained laugh.

Seeing him smile, Hoffa instinctively felt a surge of dread.

"What… what do you mean?" Hoffa tried to pry Sylby's fingers away, but even in his cursed state, Sylby's grip was like an iron claw, unyielding.

"We… we're like two sides… of the same coin," Sylby rasped between shallow breaths.

As he spoke, his body began to disintegrate into fine gray dust, carried away by the wind.

Hoffa clung to Sylby's ear, his face twisted in anger. "You're not getting away!"

With a sudden effort, Sylby flipped Hoffa over, pinning him down. His teeth clenched, saliva flying as he snarled, "But I'm the front of the coin! Over a thousand years ago, no one could rival me. A thousand years later… it's still the same! I am the greatest wizard of all time, always have been, always will be!"

By this point, half of Sylby's body had turned to dust, with the rest rapidly following.

Realizing Sylby's lower body was already gone, Hoffa shouted upward, "Stop him! Seal him off! A barrier, any magic, just stop him!"

The wizards above weren't fools. As soon as Sylby's body started to disintegrate, Aurors and wizards raised their wands, conjuring layer upon layer of shields and magical barriers in the air.

"I… I respect your willpower," Sylby said, his voice faltering. "This time… fine, let's call it your win. But I swear—I swear—as long as I draw breath, I'll make you understand… understand what reality truly is!"

With a bloodied grin, Sylby opened his mouth wide and lunged at Hoffa to bite him.

Hoffa punched him square in the mouth.

But his fist struck nothing.

"Too late… Ha… ha ha ha…"

Sylby's upper body dissolved into sand. As his voice faded, his head disappeared entirely, scattered by the wind. None of the defensive barriers could stop him.

Hoffa punched the ground, his fist slamming into empty dirt.

Breathing heavily, he looked around, only to see that Sylby was completely gone. Not even ash remained, and with him, Hoffa's wand had also vanished without a trace.

Anger and frustration overwhelmed Hoffa. He dropped to his knees, then straightened his back, only to bow again, hammering his fists against the ground.

"Damn it!"

"Damn it!"

"Damn it!"

"Damn it!"

"Damn it!"

"Damn it…"

Hoffa knelt on the ground, his fists pounding the dirt, his voice growing softer and softer until it disappeared altogether. Finally, he knelt there motionless, utterly still.

The air was stifling, heavy with a deathly silence. After the sudden, frenzied battle had ended, the once grand and imposing ancient school lay half in ruins. Broken walls and rubble littered the grounds, with scattered flames still flickering in the debris.

The castle's ghosts hovered silently in the air, too frightened to descend.

Above, the cold moon continued to cast its pale light over the battlefield. Its glow fell upon Hoffa, who knelt on the ground, his shadow stretching long and thin across the shattered remains.

A chill wind swept through, carrying strands of gray hair that drifted onto the faces of the wizards still holding their wands aloft.

It was only then that they snapped out of their shock at the disappearance of the Half-Blood King. Their eyes turned to Hoffa, motionless on the ground. Aglaia and Miranda instinctively started forward.

But Dumbledore stopped them. He gazed intently at Hoffa, who lay still on the earth, and said softly, "Let me. Don't jostle him unnecessarily."

He descended the slope and gently lifted Hoffa into his arms.

As Dumbledore cradled him, everyone could see that Hoffa had long since passed out from sheer exhaustion. His gray hair drifted away in the wind, and with each step Dumbledore took, Hoffa's fingernails, brittle from the ordeal, broke and fell to the ground, revealing pale, raw flesh underneath.

Dumbledore paused briefly, hesitant to touch the fragile body any further. Instead, he used magic to lift Hoffa, letting him float gently in the air. Raising his wand, he carefully parted the crowd as he moved back.

The onlookers stepped aside in solemn silence. Aglaia covered her mouth, tears streaming uncontrollably down her face. Miranda wrapped an arm around her shoulders, saying nothing, her expression grim and pale.

Osivia stood watching, her gaze fixed on Hoffa, who floated in the air. His fingernails were entirely gone, but his fists remained tightly clenched. Her expression was one of deep, conflicted emotion.

Since the school infirmary had been completely destroyed, Dumbledore carried Hoffa toward the Great Hall.

The other House Heads began tending to the wounded students, including Tom Riddle and several prefects, gathering them and heading in the same direction.

A large crowd of teachers and students followed behind.

Back in the Great Hall, Dumbledore gently laid Hoffa on an invisible platform conjured with magic, letting him float above the ground.

Countless students gathered around the platform, even the Minister of Magic pushing his way to the front of the crowd, as if desperate to glimpse the legendary boy who had conjured the massive shield.

At that moment, all the students raised their hands in unison, clasping them in prayer. They gazed at the boy lying on the magical platform and began silently praying for him.

Dumbledore approached Slughorn and said in a low voice, "Heal him. At any cost."

The walrus-like Slughorn wiped the cold sweat from his brow with a handkerchief and turned away, squeezing through the crowd, presumably to fetch supplies or potions.

Dumbledore then moved to the still-stunned Minister of Magic and said:

"Bring back Headmaster Armando and the other school healers. The headmaster made mistakes, but they do not warrant death. You cannot let a Hogwarts headmaster die outside their post—it would lead to unimaginable consequences."

The Minister of Magic, however, seemed not to hear him. His unblinking gaze was fixed on Hoffa, who floated above them. Suddenly, he asked, "What is his name?"

Dumbledore stepped in front of Hoffa, blocking the Minister's line of sight, and said coldly, "Now is not the time, Leonard. Don't let fame and politics destroy the light of this world."

"Hmm."

The Minister shrugged, but his gaze remained locked on Hoffa, peering over Dumbledore's shoulder. Whatever thoughts he had, he kept to himself.

(End of Chapter)

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