The Nightmare God's psychic field had almost completely dissipated.
The morale of the wizards had utterly collapsed after witnessing Hoffa Bach nailed in place, after seeing the miracle vanish.
At this moment, even the bravest wizards could no longer summon the thought of resistance. The only thing they could do was retreat, retreat, and retreat again. Or perhaps, flee recklessly—but where could they run?
The entire world had turned into a massive crucible.
Everyone had become mere ingredients, writhing and wailing within, yet unable to escape this dreadful battlefield.
Hoffa Bach was nailed to a cross, hanging upside down in the sky. He gazed at the crumbling, shattered castle in the distance, at the feeble shield above it, at the countless wizards perishing in agony.
Biting spells and roaring magic whistled past him. Above Hogwarts Castle, Silby laughed maniacally as he ravaged the land—just as he had once done. The only difference was that Hoffa no longer had Tom Riddle, no longer had that moment of sudden inspiration.
At this point, was there still a way to stop this man?
"Is there still a way to kill him?"
He murmured.
"Ah..."
"There is always a way."
"It's just a matter of whether you're willing."
His future self spoke to him.
At this moment, Hoffa looked through time, but he could no longer see the future beyond one day. He could no longer see himself beyond tomorrow.
For the first time in his life, he saw his own end. At this moment, he heard the call of the Thunderbird once more, light and ethereal in his heart. He returned to that familiar dream.
In the dream, he sat alone in a small boat, sailing across a stormy sea. Waves drenched his face, fierce winds tousled his hair. The sea was a vast, oppressive black—no direction, no compass, no companions. Only a tiny Thunderbird perched at the bow.
The Thunderbird had brought him back to this world, led him into adventure, guided him to the end of fate, and now, it carried him to a place with a faint glimmer of light.
A single, solitary light in the vast ocean.
He reached out, grasping that sliver of radiance in his palm.
At that moment, countless memories surged through his mind like a tidal wave.
He recalled his first time transforming into a Thunderbird in his first year, soaring freely through the sky. He recalled his second year, the first time he risked his life for another, basking in the admiration of his peers. He recalled his third year, witnessing the death of someone important for the first time, the piercing sorrow. He thought of that long, maddening journey through time, of the profound cycles of reincarnation and transcendence, of the endless labor within the nightmare.
Finally, he thought of Aglaea. Her silver hair rippling in the air, her ghostly blue eyes. He thought of the enchanted teacup with the moving troll insignia, the Christmas night when he wandered alone through the ancient castle with his wand in hand, the strands of a girl's hair drifting in the Black Lake.
He also thought of Miranda—her quiet reading on the train, her gentle hands folding his clothes. He thought of riding a small motorcycle with her, weaving through the streets. He thought of their fingers skimming the icy waters of the Black Lake from a boat. He thought of the elongated streaks of light on the ceiling of their shared hotel room—dreamlike, tender.
Those moments of passion, innocence. The darkness, the pain. The madness, the romance. The reckless youth. Even those seemingly mundane, seemingly tedious daily moments—all, in this instant, became weightless, drifting like windblown petals.
An unnamed emotion was born within him.
It was a ripple, an eternal, unyielding ripple.
He swayed slightly and smiled.
In this moment, no one could stop him anymore.
"Forgive me."
He spoke softly.
Blood trickled from the mouth of the inverted Hoffa, streaming down his ruined face, past his exposed skull. The searing pain of the wound reminded him that he was still alive.
His arm twisted.
Amidst the blood, he severed his own foot with a single slash, dropping from the cross to the ground.
Flames blazed and swayed around him like fiery dancers, joyfully licking his skin, welcoming the fallen son.
Broken and battered, Hoffa dragged his body forward with his only remaining hand.
Bit by bit.
Bit by bit.
Slow, resolute, unstoppable.
At last, he reached the discarded remains of the Nightmare God, cast aside by Silby.
The remains lay in filth, as foul and putrid as the darkness of this world.
Disgusting, repulsive, something people would rather avoid.
Yet Hoffa gazed upon the strange little octopus-like corpse on the ground, and with infinite tenderness, reached out—bit by bit, cradling it in his palm.
Thick, dark purple-black blood seeped from its body, icy cold.
Blood-streaked, Hoffa looked into the liquid where dim stars shimmered.
He slowly closed his eyes and whispered into the raging storm.
"Oh, world...
Oh, world..."
How many times, in your torment, have you lain awake through the night?
How many times, in unbearable agony, have you sought relief?
How many times, in unforgettable pain, have you longed to forget?
Oh, world, oh world...
How many nights have I spent reflecting on my own mistakes?
And how many nights have I spent yearning for the brilliance of your dazzling fire?
Oh, world, oh world...
You have treated me with a nightmarish reality, yet still, I...
He knelt on the ground, lifting the broken body in his hands high above his head. With a voice both ethereal and cold, he declared:
"Love you, as always."
With that, Hoffa suddenly lowered his head and sank his teeth deeply into the broken body.
Thick, dark purple blood sprayed out.
The icy blood flowed into his mouth.
Like the heaviest mercury.
He closed his eyes and slowly stood up.
Then—
His body swayed, and he vanished.
—
The outer walls of Hogwarts had long since crumbled under the onslaught of spells and magic. High above, Sylby soared joyfully, savoring a fleeting moment of absolute freedom.
Five years ago, he had felt this same fleeting moment.
But back then, a fool who didn't know his place had interrupted it.
Now, after five years of meticulous planning, after layers of calculations and careful maneuvering, he had finally returned to this place.
And this time, no one could stop him.
Not even he himself knew how he could possibly be stopped.
The summit—
It was within reach.
He landed before the still-intact main tower of Hogwarts, his gaze sweeping over the mass of wizards gathered before him, as lost and desperate as stray dogs.
Raising his arm, he prepared to unleash an unprecedented, cataclysmic spell—one that would reduce these weeds to ashes in an instant.
However—
A light figure emerged from the void and shadows—
And hugged him tightly.
Their eyes met.
Sylby stared at Hoffa, who clung to him, utterly stunned.
This scene—
It felt strangely familiar.
Only this time—
There was no Tom Riddle.
And even if there were, he would no longer be afraid. The Slytherin curse had been completely broken. As the greatest wizard of all time, he would never stumble at the same place twice.
He had originally planned to mock Hoffa ruthlessly, but the moment he recalled the past, the words got stuck in his throat.
Because he sensed a force beyond comprehension.
The wheel of history was turning once again—but this was no mere repetition.
What was he trying to do?
Even Sylby found himself intrigued.
What was this fool planning?
A thousand thoughts flashed through his mind in an instant.
Then—
Hoffa suddenly grabbed Sylby's face—
And, with ferocious intensity, pressed his lips against Sylby's!
At that moment—
Even Sylby, a wizard of his caliber, was caught completely off guard!
Even an unrivaled warrior who had survived millennia of battles could not have predicted this!
Even the half-human king, master of schemes, had not foreseen things would come to this!
In that instant, every wizard left on the battlefield—Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, Durmstrang—was utterly dumbfounded by this bizarre and frenzied scene.
A broken, half-bodied youth clung desperately to another, their faces pressed together, lips locked—like long-lost lovers reunited.
Yet beneath this moment lay a danger as deadly as love itself—something only those who experienced it could understand.
Cold, thick blood trickled from Hoffa's tongue into Sylby's mouth, flowing down his throat.
Only then did the half-human king realize what was happening.
But by the time he understood—it was already too late.
Their lips parted.
Sylby saw the blazing fire in that boy's eyes—burning like a torch, roaring like an inferno.
Hoffa smiled faintly.
He opened his mouth, revealing a set of dark purple-black teeth—teeth tainted with the Blood of the World.
An undiluted, ancient power, straight from the veins of forgotten gods!
With that chilling yet ethereal smile, Sylby felt his mind shudder violently.
At that moment—
Their consciousness was no longer bound to the battlefield.
They had transcended.
Beyond the world.
Beyond humanity.
Hoffa's hair began to whip wildly in the air!
And with his hair, the very planet beneath them began to tremble and twist.
Behind the planet, something stirred in the vastness of space—an unfathomable, indescribable presence.
A nightmare god, vast as a celestial body, its writhing tendrils moving in perfect unison with the broken youth's hair.
And then—
They spoke.
Their voices overlapped, resounding across reality itself:
"Welcome to—THE WORLD'S FORGE."
(End of Chapter)
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