Chapter 321: The Ball Invitation

Helheim, the Land of the Dead. A black star flickered in the sky, obscuring the white star on the other side, like a black hole swallowing light.

Hoffa gazed at the exit above, watching a man desperately leaping upward, only to be pulled back down again and again. A wave of unease washed over him. If even Cadmus Peverell, the creator of the Resurrection Stone, was trapped on the Path of Thorns, could he, who harbored similar ambitions, truly escape the gaze of Death?

A sudden push from Barty jolted him from his thoughts.

Barty said, "She's gone."

While Hoffa had been watching the struggling man, the silver-haired wraith had silently drifted off the Path of Thorns. By now, her figure was barely visible in the distance.

"Hey, Aglaia, wait for me!"

Hoffa quickly waved his arms and ran after her. But by the time he reached the bottom of the Path of Thorns, the silver-haired wraith had already climbed onto a floating long-eared rabbit and was flying downward, paying no attention to Hoffa or Barty.

"What now?"

A cold wind swept past them as the two abandoned figures stood at the edge of the abyss, exchanging uncertain glances.

Hoffa hadn't expected Aglaia to leave them so abruptly. She didn't even glance back. Her indifference left him unable to fathom what she was thinking.

Just as they were at a loss, a deep rumbling sound came from above. A massive boulder tumbled down the Path of Thorns, crashing into a stone pillar at the bottom with a thunderous boom.

Moments later, a muscular, bronze-skinned man descended from above, stopping beside the massive rock. He placed his hands on it, strained to lift it, and then began rolling it up a slope.

Hoffa saw his face, taut with effort, his cheek pressed against the stone, his shoulders bearing the weight of the dirt-covered boulder. His feet were covered in wounds. He was none other than the man condemned to push the stone for eternity—Sisyphus.

"Hey, old man?"

Hoffa saw a glimmer of hope and rushed to Sisyphus's side, bending down to ask the sweat-drenched man beneath the boulder, "Excuse me, how do we get down from here?"

Sisyphus glanced at him. "Jump."

"It's too high! Jumping means certain death," Barty exclaimed.

"But you're already dead," Sisyphus replied, continuing to push his boulder like a dung beetle rolling its ball.

"This…" Barty wanted to argue but found no words.

Hoffa quickly nodded. "I understand. Thank you, sir."

Sisyphus ignored him and continued his labor, his eyes focused only on the stone.

The two of them walked toward the edge of the Path of Thorns, hesitating with every step. Hoffa, unable to shake his doubts, turned back and chased after Sisyphus once more.

"Wait a moment, sir."

"Hm?"

"Why don't you jump down?"

The boulder-pushing man smiled. "Why should I?"

"Your feet are a mess," Hoffa pointed to his bloodied, battered feet. "And that rock… how many years have you been pushing it?"

At that, Sisyphus laughed even more heartily. He rested his shoulder against the boulder, pausing for a moment. Then he asked, "Do you think everyone on this path is suffering?"

Hearing the distant screams of Prometheus, Hoffa couldn't help but nod solemnly. "It's terrible."

"No," Sisyphus shook his head. "The ones who truly suffer are those down below. Pain and exhaustion are better than numbness. Look—this is my task. I may fail endlessly, but at least it gives me purpose."

With that, he smiled and resumed pushing his boulder uphill, his heavy, determined steps carrying him toward a torment with no end in sight.

Hoffa returned to Barty, lost in thought.

Barty asked nervously, "Do you really think that guy was telling the truth? Can we really jump down? What if he was messing with us?"

Without a word, Hoffa kicked Barty off the edge. As Barty fell into the abyss, screaming in terror, Hoffa leaped after him.

They plummeted like shooting stars, falling thousands of meters in the blink of an eye—only to land as gently as drifting leaves. It felt no different than stepping down from a single stair. Sisyphus hadn't lied. There was no second death in the Land of the Dead.

However, they hadn't landed on the dark, pancreatic island where Aglaia had gone. Instead, they found themselves on a heart-shaped island, about the size of a football field. The twin suns and moons shone in the sky, and the ground was eerily empty, devoid of even a single insect.

"Huh. We're actually fine."

Barty scrambled to his feet and dusted himself off before pulling Hoffa up. "Mr. Bach, do you actually plan on leaving this place?"

"Can you stop asking me that?"

Thinking of how Aglaia had abandoned him, Hoffa felt a pang of bitterness. "This place is perfect—no worries, no enemies."

"No way! There's nothing to do here—I'm losing my mind!" Barty complained.

"You just can't sit still, huh?" Hoffa scoffed.

"But don't you feel it too? The second you have nothing to do, don't you start to panic?"

"No," Hoffa denied immediately, but deep down, he couldn't help but agree. He had no idea how long he'd be stuck in this void, but doing nothing was definitely not his style.

Suddenly—

Clap! Clap! Clap!

A deafening roar of applause erupted around them, startling Hoffa.

Turning his head, he saw a towering, curved coliseum in the distance. The cheers and applause echoed from within its grand structure.

This place was vastly different from Aglaia's dark island. The architecture was majestic, the ground solid. Countless souls were flocking toward the massive arena, their faces alight with excitement.

Hoffa suddenly remembered—this was the "entertainment venue" Avada had once mentioned. He had been curious about it, but after running into Barty and setting off to find Aglaia, he had forgotten all about it.

He hadn't expected that, after jumping from the Path of Thorns, he would end up here.

Hogwarts, Defense Against the Dark Arts Office.

It was the dead of winter. Snowflakes drifted from the sky, piling relentlessly on the window sills.

The fireplace crackled, but the warmth did nothing for Miller Gorshak. He wasn't sure if it was his aging body or the fact that that damned man had been missing for months.

Sitting behind the desk in Alastor Moody's body, Miller's expression was grim as he studied a letter. He toyed with a sharp dagger, running his finger along its blade before pulling away, his face filled with hesitation.

The crackling of pine logs mixed with another sound—soft, persistent weeping. The cries wavered in pitch, becoming more unbearable by the second. At first, Miller forced himself to remain calm, but eventually, his patience snapped.

"Shut up. You're giving me a headache."

He finally stood and strode toward a large trunk in the room. Yanking it open, he revealed two men lying motionless on separate beds. The crying came from a shadowy figure kneeling beside one of them.

She sobbed and wailed, "Young master! Please wake up! Wake up!"

"I said shut up. Didn't you hear me?" Miller snapped.

"I… I can't…"

The house-elf turned to look at him, her face streaked with tears and snot, her sobs uncontrollable.

"Enough whining. Tell me—how is he?" Miller demanded impatiently.

"His life force is fading," the elf choked out between sobs. "Two weeks ago, his breathing was normal. Now… now he only takes a few breaths a day. I… I don't know what to do… WAAAHH!"

Her cries grew louder. Miller's expression darkened. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the elf flying into the wall. She let out a pained yelp before falling unconscious.

Silence at last.

Miller turned back to the two unconscious men. One had ginger hair. The other was a middle-aged bald man.

Miller lifted the bald man's hand, examining the aged, veined skin. The boy had aged two decades in mere months, his body deteriorating before his eyes.

Beside him, a bloodstained parchment lay on the bed—the sacrificial ritual for entering Helheim.

Miller picked up the parchment, his expression hesitant.

That guy, Hoffa, had entered Helheim less than a day ago and had already lost contact with him. He hadn't returned at the agreed-upon time, and there was no telling what he had encountered in the underworld. If this continued, the body before him would soon decay and collapse due to the depletion of its lifespan.

Should he do something?

Should he go to the underworld and bring him back?

He hesitated.

Knock, knock, knock!

A series of urgent knocks jolted him from his thoughts. He glanced outside—the sky was already nearing dusk.

Knock, knock, knock!

The knocking became even more impatient.

Annoyed, Miller put away the parchment, closed the chest, opened his office door, and stepped out.

As soon as the door opened, Miller was met with a sight of greasy black hair—akin to a kitchen curtain unwashed for a decade. Beneath the oily strands were a pair of deep-set eyes and a daunting hooked nose.

Having been at Hogwarts for quite some time, Miller had already memorized the faces of all the professors, including this cold and greasy Potions Master—the Head of Slytherin. But aside from Dumbledore, Miller regarded most Hogwarts professors with disdain.

"Severus?" Miller spoke in a tone reserved for elders. "What brings you here?"

Severus Snape frowned, clearly displeased. "Dumbledore asked me to inform you that you must attend tonight's Christmas Eve Ball. Professors from other schools will be attending as well."

"A ball?" Miller raised an eyebrow. "Isn't that common knowledge? Was it really necessary for you to come all this way to tell me?"

"Perhaps he was worried you wouldn't find a dance partner?"

There was a faint trace of mockery in Snape's tone. "If you can even find one, that is."

"Hmph."

Miller merely snorted, making no further comment.

"You might want to do something about that Auror attire before tonight," Snape remarked, pointing at Moody's (Miller's) clothing. He then handed over what appeared to be an invitation and turned to leave without lingering, clearly unwilling to engage with Miller any further.

"What a little brat."

Miller shut the door, gave a cursory glance at the light blue envelope in his hand, and tossed it onto the desk, sighing heavily as he sat down.

It was already Christmas Eve. By now, he should have long since completed his mission and returned to where he came from. Yet, Hoffa's disappearance had shackled him to this post, leaving him unable to move.

Knock, knock, knock!

Before he could even get comfortable, another knock sounded at the Defense Against the Dark Arts office door. Miller's irritation grew. He was starting to think coming here to find Hoffa was the biggest mistake of his life.

Bang!

Miller yanked the door open.

This time, standing outside was a third-year Gryffindor student alongside a middle-aged man with impeccably combed hair.

"This is Professor Moody's office," the Gryffindor student said. "Professor, this is Mr. Crouch. He's here to see you."

"Barty Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation?"

Miller eyed the middle-aged man, whose well-groomed appearance and perfect smile felt almost unnatural. He was taken aback. "What business do you have with me?"

"I'm looking for someone."

The man with neatly combed hair replied calmly.

"Who?" Miller's expression darkened.

Instead of answering immediately, Barty Crouch Sr. first turned to the student and said warmly, "Thank you for guiding me, Daniel. I need to have a word with your professor."

"Alright! You two chat—I'm off to the ball!" The Gryffindor student waved cheerfully and left without a second thought.

The moment the student disappeared, the pleasant smile on Barty Crouch Sr.'s face vanished. Without warning, he shoved Miller into the office, kicked the door shut, and delivered a resounding slap across Miller's face.

Smack!

"You disgraceful wretch! What the hell are you doing here?"

The previously composed Barty Crouch Sr. now looked like a completely different person—his gaze fierce, his expression ruthless.

Miller was stunned by the slap. Holding his cheek, he stared at the man who had just struck him, utterly incredulous.

Without giving him a chance to react, Crouch Sr. pulled out his wand, his face as cold as iron. "How many people know about this? Where is Alastor Moody? Where is the real one?"

Before Miller could answer, Barty Crouch Sr. had already begun searching the office. He bent down to check under the desk, yanked open the wardrobe, and rummaged through everything as if he owned the place.

Miller rubbed his face and gradually pieced things together. He glanced at the chest in the corner of the room, realizing that this man had mistaken him for his son—Barty Crouch Jr.

Failing to find what he was looking for, Crouch Sr. tossed aside a bedsheet and leveled his wand at Miller. "Hand over Mad-Eye Moody and come home with me. Now."

"Who told you about this?"

Miller's voice was sharp.

"Who told me?" Crouch Sr. sneered. "You think I'm oblivious to your little tricks? Speak! Have you gone crawling back to that half-dead master of yours?"

As he spoke, he raised a hand, ready to strike Miller again. But this time, Miller easily dodged the blow.

"Oh, now you dare dodge?"

Crouch Sr. seethed. "Do you have any idea how much effort I put into cleaning up your mess? If it weren't for me pulling strings, the fiasco at the Quidditch World Cup alone would've gotten you kissed by a Dementor a hundred times over!"

"I'm not your son."

Miller stated plainly.

"Not my—?! Petrificus Totalus!"

Furious, Crouch Sr. brandished his wand, sending a gray spell streaking toward Miller's face.

Miller's eyes flashed cold. He rubbed his hands together and casually shattered the spell mid-air.

"What kind of look is that?" Crouch Sr. snarled. "Don't think that just because you've learned some magic, you can—"

Before he could finish, his body was suddenly lifted off the ground. His wand flew from his grip into Miller's hand, and with a flick of the stolen wand, his limbs contorted into an unnatural angle.

"You… you ungrateful brat!"

Crouch Sr.'s rage turned into panic. "How dare you raise your wand against me?!"

"Who tipped you off?!"

Miller's face was like carved ice. "Without an informant, there's no way you'd know someone was impersonating Moody. Speak!"

"You—?!"

Crouch Sr.'s eyes widened in horror as he finally looked closely at Miller's expression. "You're not my son… and you're not Moody either… Who are you?!"

"Too late to figure that out now."

Miller clenched his fist. Crouch Sr., still suspended in mid-air, began to choke, his eyes bulging as he struggled to breathe.

Just then, the chest in the room clicked open, and a house-elf with a bruised forehead, Winky, crawled out.

Upon seeing Crouch Sr. floating helplessly, she froze for a moment before letting out a shrill, terrified scream. She scrambled toward Miller, clinging to his leg and sobbing.

"Please, please don't kill my master! Don't kill him!"

"Get off me, Winky."

Miller kicked her aside and turned his focus back to Crouch Sr. "Last chance—tell me who tipped you off, or you die."

Crouch Sr.'s face turned purple, his legs kicking frantically.

But Winky, unfazed by the kick, clung to Miller's leg again, crying out, "Your little master's fate is unknown, and your friend is dying! Shouldn't you be saving him instead?!"

Miller stiffened.

After a long pause, he sneered at himself and threw Crouch Sr. aside like garbage.

"Bring me my dress robes," he muttered. "I need a celebration."

(End of Chapter)

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