Harry Potter: I am the Legend

Screech.

With a faint tearing sound, the bandaged soldier's chest was split open, just like the poor soul who had been disemboweled earlier. The tall and short men methodically went to work, extracting his organs in the same manner.

Hoffa stood outside, staring blankly at the gruesome scene unfolding in the secret chamber. This was not something one should witness under normal circumstances. Normally, the thing hanging on that hook shouldn't be a human.

"What do we do now? It's cold outside, and there are bad people inside. We have nowhere to go."

The girl leaned close to Hoffa's ear and whispered.

Hoffa turned his head to look at her. The flickering light in her deep, dark eyes seemed to dance with excitement. Was she… enjoying this?

"What's with that look?" he asked.

"I'm feeling a little uncomfortable."

Her voice was soft.

"Where?"

Hoffa asked with concern.

"My heart."

She replied.

As she spoke, her hand moved to grip the door handle.

Hoffa quickly placed his hand over hers and whispered, "You can't. Right now, I'm like a headless fly—I don't remember anything. If we act rashly, we might put ourselves in danger."

"We're not in danger."

The girl grinned.

"We are the danger."

Hoffa's eyes widened in shock.

Before he could react, the girl had already twisted the handle and strolled into the room as if she were taking a leisurely walk in a garden.

Inside, the two men were busy with their work, skillfully transferring human organs from the chest cavity into black rubber bags. They were so focused that they didn't notice the girl approaching from behind.

She walked up to them lightly, casually patted their shoulders, and asked, "Hey, what are you guys doing?"

The tall and short men clearly hadn't expected someone to suddenly appear. Their heads snapped around, their faces twisted in shock. The shorter man fared slightly better, perhaps due to his lower center of gravity—he simply froze in place like a statue. But the taller one immediately fell backward, scrambling away in terror. His shrill scream was as sharp and piercing as a frightened Chihuahua.

The noise was deafening. Hoffa's unease grew. The girl had walked in so recklessly, throwing them into an unknown situation. Who knew how many people that scream would attract or what consequences it might bring?

The short man was the first to recover. Without hesitation, he lunged, swinging a sharp scalpel toward the girl's neck.

Seeing this, Hoffa reacted instinctively. In two quick strides, he rushed forward and knocked the girl aside.

"Haha."

The girl laughed, delighted.

As she stumbled back, she kicked upward, striking the short man's wrist and knocking the scalpel from his hand. Using the momentum from Hoffa's shove, she leaped onto the operating table, then agilely swung herself onto the system of ropes suspending the corpses. Sitting there with one leg crossed over the other, she gazed down at the two men and teased,

"You two are really bold, harvesting organs in a place like this. Are you with a private group or a public organization?"

"You're asking for death!"

The short man growled darkly.

By now, the tall man had recovered from his fright. He got up, yanked open his bloodstained black rubber apron, and pointed to a golden lion emblem on its inner lining.

"We are researchers from the Britannia Royal Hospital, operating under a fully licensed permit! Who the hell are you?! Are you with those damned journalists?"

Hoffa watched the two men, feeling both numb and wary. Nothing had been under his control from the start—perhaps nothing had ever been under his control. He had no other choice but to adapt.

"Hey, Hoffa."

The girl suddenly called out to him.

"Hm?"

He responded, tense.

"Do you remember how the Queen of Britannia once issued privateering licenses to pirates?"

Hoffa was silent for a moment before answering, "I don't remember."

He truly remembered nothing.

But the girl's words struck a nerve in the two men before them. The short man's face twisted in rage.

"Where the hell did you nosy journalists come from?!"

With a snarl, he grabbed a gutting knife and flung it at the girl.

Perched high on the ropes, she dodged effortlessly, swaying like a sailor in the wind. Laughing, she called down,

"Hoffa, take care of them for me!"

"How am I supposed to take care of them?!"

Hoffa snapped, turning to glare at her.

As someone who had no recollection of his past, he found the girl's expectations completely unreasonable. From the looks of it, he was just an eighteen-year-old boy. How could he possibly fight two burly adults?

But whether he wanted to or not, the tall and short men had already marked him as a serious threat. Wielding their surgical tools like weapons, they charged at him.

Seeing the glinting blades slicing toward him, Hoffa instinctively twisted his waist, dodging backward. He continued to evade, retreating swiftly. But soon, surprise flickered across his face.

It was just like riding a bike after a long time or an artist picking up a brush again—his body moved effortlessly, his reactions fluid and natural. Dodging blades felt as easy as breathing.

"Hey! Calm down!"

Hoffa protested, skillfully dodging each attack.

"If you actually hit me, things will get ugly!"

"Stay still, damn you!"

The short man raged, swinging wildly.

"Who sent you?!"

"We're just here looking for something."

Hoffa replied, his movements becoming even more fluid. He could predict their attacks before they even struck, making their swings seem sluggish and uncoordinated.

"Have you ever heard of the Heartstone?"

He asked as he dodged.

"The what?"

The short man panted heavily, his eyes red with fury, and questioned frantically.

"I don't know. It seems to mean 'a stone in the heart'—literally."

Hoffa dodged a dozen slashes in succession while explaining seriously.

"A stone in the heart? Are you kidding me!?"

The short man was on the verge of losing his mind. The boy was as slippery as a fish and somehow still had time to ask questions.

"Cardiac stones. That's what my friend called it."

Hoffa replied.

"Cardiac stones, my ass! How the hell could a heart grow stones?!"

The short man swung his blade wildly, nearly driven mad with rage. But in his frantic movements, his wrist accidentally struck the sharp corner of the raised metal autopsy table. The impact left a deep gash, exposing bone.

The pain was unbearable. He could no longer grip his weapon and collapsed to the ground, clutching his injured hand, screaming in agony.

"John!!"

The tall man, seeing his companion injured, abandoned all thoughts of fighting. He dropped his blade and rushed to check on the wound.

"I said the same thing! How could a heart possibly grow stones?"

Hoffa added, looking displeased as he cast his gaze upward. He hoped the girl above would recognize the absurdity of the so-called "cardiac stones" after hearing this professional's reaction.

But she remained seated up high, her eyes chillingly cold. The sight made Hoffa involuntarily shudder.

The short man, still crouched on the ground, cradled his wounded hand and wailed.

"Pick, how long are you going to keep watching? Do you really want our hideout to be exposed?"

Hoffa's heart skipped a beat at those words.

That... didn't sound like he was talking to the tall man.

The tall man had been knocked down in fear the moment they met—he didn't seem like someone capable of turning the tide. But if John was shouting like that, it meant there was a third person here.

That thought flashed through Hoffa's mind, and he instinctively rolled to the side.

Bang!!

Just as he ducked, sparks erupted from the metal operating table in front of him. A scorching bullet struck the surface, ricocheted, and tore off a chunk of the tall man's ear.

Clutching his bleeding ear, the tall man screamed, "Pick! Are you blind?!"

Amidst the cries of pain, a refined-looking young man emerged from a hidden door on the far side of the room. He had a cigarette between his lips, gold-rimmed glasses resting on his nose, and a double-barreled shotgun in his hands.

"What the hell is going on? How did you idiots let a stranger in?" he complained as he walked.

Then, without hesitation, he raised the shotgun and fired at the girl above.

Boom!

With the gunshot, the girl fell from her perch.

"Took you long enough!"

The short man, still crouching and clutching his wound, snapped in frustration.

"Calm down, John. Nothing is more important than closing the deal first."

The young man, Pick, replied coolly. He reloaded two fresh shells into the shotgun, then turned and fired at Hoffa.

At the moment he pulled the trigger, Hoffa saw the gunpowder ignite and the smoke billowing from the barrel. He could even make out the fine grooves on the spinning bullet as it hurtled toward him.

But it all happened in the blink of an eye—like a fleeting illusion.

Hoffa dived for cover, ducking behind the metal operating table. He scrambled forward, dodging the bullets as he crawled toward the fallen girl.

Pick, however, showed no signs of stopping. His hands moved with practiced efficiency, pulling oversized rounds from his belt and reloading as he continued to fire at Hoffa's position—shot after shot, relentless and unyielding.

Strangely, though, every time a bullet was fired, Hoffa could momentarily glimpse its trajectory. It was brief, almost illusory, but it was enough. Enough to let him anticipate the bullets' paths and evade them.

The slaughterhouse erupted into chaos.

Gunfire tore through already gutted corpses, turning them into riddled husks. Organs stored in ice buckets were blasted apart, their contents raining down in shredded pieces. The floor was soon drenched in blood and carnage.

Amid the mayhem, Hoffa rolled and crawled until he reached the girl. She was covered in blood, clutching her chest, her tear-filled eyes fixed on him.

Seeing her expression—so weak and vulnerable—Hoffa felt as if he had been struck by lightning. His body trembled uncontrollably.

Reaching out with a shaky hand, he asked, his voice filled with fear, "A-Are you okay?"

"Are you… worried about me?"

She whispered weakly, barely holding on.

Seeing her so fragile, Hoffa nearly passed out from shock. A rush of fragmented memories flooded his mind—discussions beneath a towering structure, a kiss in the snow, fleeting images that vanished as quickly as they appeared.

Pain surged through him, draining the color from his face. He clutched his head, cold sweat pouring down, and stared at her desperately.

"Tell me… what's your name?"

The girl locked eyes with him. Her expression shifted—first from frailty to irritation, then finally, to disappointment.

"Hmph."

She pushed his hand aside, sat up, and impatiently brushed him off.

"I was just messing with you. I'm not that easy to kill."

The drastic contrast in her demeanor nearly made Hoffa pass out from sheer frustration.

She had faked it so well—it was practically Oscar-worthy.

And here he was, genuinely worried for nothing.

(End of Chapter)

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