Hoffa could no longer remember how he stumbled back to the bonfire. At this moment, the vast cold and loneliness of Siberia wrapped around him completely. Never before had he faced solitude so directly.
Miller had left him. The reason was simple—Miller had never truly belonged to Hoffa. He belonged to Miranda; he was Miranda's power. Now, he had returned to where he was originally born.
Yet, what pained Hoffa even more than Miller's departure was the overwhelming sorrow and guilt surging within him. No matter how much he missed Aglaia, no matter how much he longed to return to the world fifty years later, at this moment, the only thing on his mind was the girl standing just a few steps behind that tree.
Had he unknowingly become such a person?
On the day he left Aglaia, he could never have imagined that things would unfold like this.
Without a doubt, he had hurt Miranda, he had hurt Aglaia, and in the end, he had even hurt himself. And all of it had started because of a nonsensical prophecy. Or perhaps... Hoffa rubbed his head vigorously, frustration bubbling within him. He wished he could overturn all the snow in Siberia.
Guilt, regret, unease, sorrow—these emotions tangled within his heart, making even breathing feel difficult. He raised his hand and pointed a finger at his own head.
A rustling sound came from nearby.
It was the woman Miller had once possessed. She had regained consciousness and was now staring blankly at the thick layer of snow beside her.
Her expression reminded Hoffa of the moment he had first woken up in this unfamiliar place. He wanted to say, "Forget everything," but the words refused to leave his lips. Slowly, he lowered his hand and asked, "Are you okay?"
His simple question startled the woman, making her jolt upright. A moment later, she looked at Hoffa and let out a terrified scream, as if she had just seen a ghost.
Her last memory was of Hoffa knocking her unconscious inside a box back in New York. Now, she had suddenly woken up in this unfamiliar, freezing land, wrapped in a strange military coat, surrounded by nothing but endless snow. The sheer absurdity of the situation was enough to drive any normal person mad.
"Ahhh! Ahhh! Ahhh!"
She screamed blindly, kicking and scrambling backward.
Now that Miller was gone, everything around her felt unfamiliar. She had lost the only connection she had. Her presence did nothing to ease Hoffa's crushing loneliness.
Hoffa had no interest in comforting a stranger. He took all the U.S. dollars from his pocket and tossed them onto the snow, waving his hand to signal her to take the money and leave.
The woman didn't even grab the money at first. She simply scrambled away from the fire, screaming as she fled. But after only a few steps, she hesitated, turned back, snatched the money from the snow, stuffed it into her pocket, and then stumbled off into the distance. This time, she never looked back, disappearing completely into the white expanse.
Hoffa sat by the snow-covered ground, staring at the fading flames. He didn't know how to deal with the turmoil within him. He couldn't bear the thought of betraying Aglaia, nor could he endure the sorrow he felt toward Miranda.
But how was he supposed to fix any of it?
He had no idea.
Just then, an owl fluttered down onto his shoulder and extended its leg.
Hoffa blinked in surprise before taking the letter tied to the owl's leg and slowly unfolding it.
"Hoffa, I have received your letter. You acted quickly—I greatly appreciate it. Now, I need you to head to Durmstrang immediately. Find Headmaster Urikin and ensure that he strengthens Durmstrang's defenses at all costs. Beauxbatons has already fallen; we cannot let the same happen to Durmstrang.
Also, Osiwia Romanova is currently working at Durmstrang. If you encounter any difficulties, she can assist you.
Albus Dumbledore"
Dumbledore's letter was brief but written with careful precision.
On the back of the parchment, a small map gradually appeared, revealing Hoffa's current location on one end and Durmstrang's position on the other. The destination was incredibly far—near the border of the Black Sea and the Aden Bay.
Hoffa glanced at the owl, which had already taken off, flapping its wings rapidly.
It was fast—far quicker than an average owl. Hoffa mused that Dumbledore's letter had arrived at just the right time. He had been drowning in the pain of Miller's departure and the chaos of his own emotions, but this letter gave him a brief distraction.
Nothing was a better cure than work.
If not for his relentless work, he wouldn't have survived decades of nightmares. Even the time he lost his memories—it had crept up on him like an unnoticed shadow, during a rare vacation after exhausting himself with endless tasks.
If possible, Hoffa never wanted to rely on work to numb his soul again. If possible, he wished he could live like a normal person—tired, poor, but at peace.
But right now, that wasn't an option.
He picked up the letter, fixed his eyes on the map's markings, and set off without hesitation.
Miranda had traveled all the way to the Far East, to the Soviet Union. That meant Sylby had come here too. Time was running out. If Sylby planned to destroy Durmstrang as he had Beauxbatons, it would likely happen in just a matter of days. Whether it was bringing Miranda back or preserving this timeline, Sylby had to be eliminated.
After an entire day and night of relentless travel, Hoffa finally arrived at a fjord near the Black Sea. This land was even more remote than Hogwarts, crisscrossed with lakes and rivers, surrounded by towering, snow-capped mountains. Not a single trace of human habitation could be seen.
Fortunately, the arrow on the map guided him precisely, leading him through winding paths, across thick layers of snow, and deep into the mountains. Finally, on the evening of the third day, he arrived at the towering stone walls of a fortress perched on a sheer cliff.
Without a doubt, this was the legendary Durmstrang.
From the outside, it looked somewhat similar to Hogwarts, but its architecture was not as tall—perhaps because Durmstrang lacked an academy like Ravenclaw, which had a fondness for towering spires. The combination of cliffs and snow gave it an even steeper, more foreboding atmosphere.
Hoffa followed the cliffside fortress until he reached the foot of the mountain, where an iron gate was embedded into the rock. The gate bore the image of an iron bear.
He knocked on the massive door with great force. His strength was immense, and with each blow, snow fell from the mountain slopes.
But after a long wait, no one answered.
The entrance of Durmstrang was eerily silent. There were no figures in sight, no students moving about. Apart from the snow, the pines, the stones, and the river, there was nothing. Only the howling northern wind and falling snow filled the air, the silence so absolute it was unsettling.
A bad feeling crept into Hoffa's heart.
Had he arrived too late?
Or… had Durmstrang already been destroyed?
"Boom! Boom! Boom!"
He pounded on the iron doors again, even harder this time. The sound echoed throughout the valley, shaking the snow-laden branches.
Still, no one answered.
Hoffa's unease deepened.
There was no way they couldn't hear such loud knocking. If anyone was inside Durmstrang, they would have responded by now.
Thinking of the now desolate Hogwarts and recalling Senior Osivia, Hoffa felt a deep sense of unease. Without hesitation, he spread his wings and took to the sky, soaring above the castle. Suspended over Durmstrang, he noticed a strange mist of snow shrouding the area, obscuring his view of the castle's true form.
Hoffa retracted his wings and descended through the snowy fog, landing inside the magic academy nestled within the cliffs. The academy's interior was even more perilous and sharp-edged than he had imagined. Towering spires jutted out at eerie angles like fingers clawing at the earth. Statues stood as silent sentinels in the wind and snow, seemingly awaiting visitors.
"Is anyone here?" Hoffa called out into the snow-laden courtyard.
No one responded.
The ominous feeling in Hoffa's heart grew stronger. Had he arrived too late? If so, then... thinking of Senior Osivia and the high-ranking officials at Beauxbatons who had been utterly erased by the relentless flow of time, his heart clenched. He could not bear to witness such a tragedy again.
He suddenly sensed that someone—or something—was watching him. His instincts were sharp, and in just a moment, he detected it. He shouted, "Who's there? Come out!"
Silence.
Without hesitation, Hoffa drew his cross-shaped sword and leaped dozens of meters in an instant, landing at the source of the unsettling gaze. Before him stood a towering statue of an aging man, one hand resting on a serpent's head, the other clutching a scepter, his gaze fixed on the horizon.
Hoffa circled the statue, searching for any sign of movement, but he found none. Instead, he noticed an inscription at the statue's base:
"Power—supreme and absolute.
And I am destined to possess it."
—Salazar Slytherin.
Hoffa frowned slightly. He had not expected to see a statue of Salazar even here, in the far reaches of Durmstrang, beyond the illusions of Hogwarts.
However, as he glanced around, it became clear. The area was filled with statues of various wizards, each with unique inscriptions. It reminded him of the portraits of great figures and the motivational quotes that adorned the walls of Muggle schools.
But that eerie, almost imperceptible sense of being watched—where was it coming from?
As he pondered this, the sensation returned, this time emanating from within the hand-shaped castle. Without hesitation, he leaped once more, shattering the glass of Durmstrang's walls and landing inside the school's main building. He called out, "Who's there? Is anyone here? I am an envoy from Hogwarts!"
Again, no answer.
Then—click.
A window that had been ajar suddenly swung shut on its own.
Hoffa whirled around just in time to hear it—
Click.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Within a single second, every visible door outside slammed shut, one after another. Even the iron gate behind him was instantly reinforced with countless bolts and locks, sealing off any means of escape.
There was no doubt—this was magic. Powerful magic.
The good news? The school's magic was still intact, meaning Silby had not brought the Nightmare God here. The bad news? No one had come to greet Hoffa; instead, they had trapped him inside the castle.
Hoffa had no idea what Durmstrang's inhabitants were planning. He raised his cross-shaped sword high in a defensive stance.
As his breath grew heavy, dim lights flickered in the darkness. From the bear-head tapestries on the walls, transparent, floating entities slowly drifted out.
Their movement was slow, yet graceful.
Hoffa squinted—jellyfish?
Dozens of enormous, translucent jellyfish floated from the depths of Durmstrang's castle, gliding into the hall and surrounding him. Hoffa swallowed hard. The sight was unnervingly bizarre.
Then, a sharp whistling sound tore through the air.
Hoffa's eyes widened as he instantly leaped high. A deafening metallic clang echoed as—
A barrage of massive spikes swept across the spot where he had just stood, their speed astonishing.
As soon as he landed, the ground beneath him cracked open. Years of battle instincts kicked in—Hoffa jammed his sword horizontally across the fissure and threw himself onto it, preventing his fall.
Above, the floating jellyfish extended their tendrils and began to discharge electricity. A dense web of lightning formed, descending toward Hoffa.
Illuminated by the electric glow, Hoffa finally saw the pit beneath him.
Inside the pit was a massive iron cauldron, crammed with three severed giant heads. Their decayed skin reeked of rot, their mouths oozing thick, green liquid—clearly poisonous.
A trap.
A Dark Magic trap.
Hoffa's expression darkened. He dared not linger. With a flick of his sword, he vanished into Ghost Walk.
With the entrance sealed, his only option was to rush deeper into the castle. If there was magic, there had to be a spellcaster. He needed to find them.
But just as he stepped onto the staircase, a dozen hidden black arrows shot out, encircling the hall. Even though Hoffa was in Ghost Walk and unharmed, the sight alone sent a chill down his spine.
A curse.
Taking only a brief moment to steady himself, he sprinted toward the source of the arrows. However, when he reached the spot, he found that the arrows had not been fired by a wizard—but by a set of heavy suits of armor.
Then, ten seconds passed. His Ghost Walk wore off.
The instant he reappeared, the armor turned toward him. From the tower ceiling, a dozen enormous guillotine blades plummeted down.
Without looking up, Hoffa reactivated Ghost Walk, rolling swiftly to evade the deadly blades and another wave of black arrows.
Still, he had yet to see a single living soul in this castle.
Cold sweat drenched his back. He dared not linger near the armor and continued sprinting down the dark corridor.
As he ran, the ground beneath him began to feel soft. He glanced down—and cursed. The stone floor had liquefied into bubbling, sulfurous magma.
Hoffa almost swore out loud. From the moment he had entered this place, he had been caught in one deadly trap after another. Spreading his wings, he took to the air.
But the moment he ascended, the walls, floor, ceiling, and even the corridor's end lit up with eerie, burning red faces.
In unison, the faces opened their mouths, unleashing torrents of scorching hellfire that surged through every corner of the structure.
(End of Chapter)
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