Chapter 323: The Reaper's Game

Hogwarts' Great Hall was adorned with glistening silver frost on the walls, while the ceiling reflected a starry night sky. Hundreds of small mistletoe branches and ivy wreaths hung from above. The four house tables had vanished, replaced by a hundred small tables illuminated by lanterns, each seating about ten people.

Students from Europe's three major academies gathered together, filling the hall with life. The girls, dressed in colorful gowns, moved in groups—some shy, some lively, some flaunting their elegance. The boys clustered in groups, holding their goblets with refined manners, their eyes constantly scanning the female guests.

After a while, the four champions entered the hall with their dance partners, greeted by a round of applause.

Yet, to Miller, this joyous atmosphere felt as insignificant as a cup of warm water dripping onto an iceberg, unable to stir even the slightest ripple. Sitting in a corner, he watched the four champions and their partners pass by, but an overwhelming sense of oppression loomed over him. He felt completely out of place, as if merely closing his eyes would bring forth the vision of Hoffa's decaying, aging body.

Suppressing his discomfort, he took his seat, with others instinctively making way for him. Not far from where he sat, the champions were chatting among themselves. After overcoming two tasks, the boy he and Hoffa had once schemed against—Harry—seemed to have grown into his role as a champion. At that moment, he was conversing with Percy Weasley.

Percy Weasley: "I've been promoted. I'm now Mr. Crouch's personal assistant. I'm here on his behalf."

Harry: "Why didn't he come himself?"

Percy Weasley: "I regret to say that Mr. Crouch is not doing well, not at all. Ever since the World Cup, he has been acting strangely."

"Nosy bastard," Miller thought to himself.

Again.

He took out a piece of parchment inscribed with a sacrificial array and glanced at it. "None of my business," he muttered under his breath.

Tucking the parchment away, he tilted his head back and downed three large glasses of strong brandy. A mild dizziness coursed through Alastor Moody's body, but it did nothing to ease his anxiety.

Nearby, the other champions continued their conversation. Viktor Krum, who looked somewhat like a lumbering bear in his attire, was talking to his date: "Ah, we have a castle too, though it's not as large or as comfortable as this one. Ours only has four floors, and we can only light fires with magic. But our grounds are much more spacious—though winter days are so short that we can't use them much. In summer, though, we fly everywhere—over the lake, past the mountains—"

"Alright, alright, Viktor!" Karkaroff interrupted. "No need to reveal any more secrets, or your charming companion here might just figure out where we are!"

Dumbledore chuckled, his eyes twinkling. "Igor, with all this secrecy, one might think you're discouraging visitors."

"Oh, Dumbledore," Karkaroff said with a wide grin, revealing his yellow teeth. "We all like to protect our private domains, don't we? Shouldn't we carefully guard the schools entrusted to us? Only we know their secrets—isn't that something to take pride in? Shouldn't we keep those secrets safe?"

Their discussion about secrecy unsettled Miller. A vague, oppressive sensation pressed in from all sides, a feeling of déjà vu that made him want to flee.

"Oh, I wouldn't dare claim to know all of Hogwarts' secrets, Igor," Miller murmured.

"Oh, I wouldn't dare claim to know all of Hogwarts' secrets, Igor," Dumbledore said cheerfully. "For instance, just this morning—"

Clink! Clank!

The glasses on the table trembled slightly.

All eyes turned toward Miller, who had suddenly gone pale. He stood up shakily and staggered toward the exit.

Dumbledore called after him kindly, "Alastor, where are you going?"

Miller replied absentmindedly, "Just taking a walk."

Karkaroff sneered, "Calm down, old friend, there are no dark wizards here tonight."

Miller shot Karkaroff a cold glare. The latter looked like he wanted to say more but swallowed his words under Miller's fierce gaze.

Controlling Alastor Moody's body, Miller hurried out of the hall, his steps growing more frantic. The lavish, glittering ballroom felt as foreign as an ancient, untamed swamp.

"Wait, Professor Moody."

A woman called out to him.

A middle-aged woman with dark skin, wearing a tall pointed wizard's hat and a long black dress, stood before him, wringing her hands anxiously.

It was Aurora Sinistra.

Miller recognized her as the Hogwarts Astronomy professor, a reclusive figure who rarely left the Astronomy Tower. She had little to no social life, so it was a rare sight to see her attending the Yule Ball.

"What is it?"

For some reason, upon seeing her, the overwhelming sense of unfamiliarity vanished. It was as if a drowning man had found solid ground.

"Uh…"

Aurora Sinistra seemed incredibly nervous. She looked uneasily at Moody's blue magical eye, hesitating.

"Well? Spit it out."

Miller narrowed his eyes. "If there's nothing, I'm leaving."

"No! Wait, Professor Moody, would you… would you dance with me at the ball?"

Aurora Sinistra blurted out her request so quickly that she seemed to drain herself of all strength. She turned her head away, unable to meet his gaze.

Miller was taken aback. But after a moment's thought, it made sense. The Astronomy professor spent her nights gazing at stars, rarely interacting with others. Of course, no one had invited her to dance.

Under normal circumstances, he would have agreed. They were, after all, a perfect match—a crippled man and a socially withdrawn woman. More fitting than a whore and a dog.

Practically made for each other.

Yet, at that moment, an overwhelming sense of suffocation surged within him—being bound by rules, promises, disguises. A creeping déjà vu. He was so sick of looking at Aurora Sinistra's face.

"Fine—"

Miller suddenly clutched his head.

"What's wrong?"

Aurora Sinistra stepped forward, concerned.

The words of acceptance stuck in his throat. He abruptly raised a hand and shoved her away, snapping, "Get lost, old hag! I'm not dancing with you."

The Astronomy professor stood frozen, staring dumbfounded at Moody's scarred face. Suddenly, she covered her face and fled, nearly tripping over her dress at the corner.

After cursing out a completely unrelated woman, Miller felt inexplicably refreshed. As if a vast sky and sea had opened before him, and everything beautiful was now within reach.

Adjusting his collar, he scanned the room. Then, he approached a senior Beauxbatons student about ten meters away, bowed, and asked, "Would you care to dance with me?"

The stunning blonde, chatting and drinking with friends, turned to see Alastor Moody's disfigured face and let out a sharp scream, instinctively throwing her fruit wine in his face.

Laughter erupted around them. Miller laughed too. Wine trickled down his face, and with a swift motion, he slapped the beautiful girl across the face.

Smack!

The slap stunned every Beauxbatons student in the vicinity. They stared at Miller as if he were some ancient, mythical beast—unable to comprehend how such a person could exist.

Miller, without any hesitation, grabbed the beautiful girl's shoulder and tilted his head with a smirk. "What? Never seen a man hit a woman before?"

That extremely provocative remark was like ice water splashed into a pot of boiling oil, instantly triggering an intense uproar. Almost every Beauxbatons student put down their cups, and chaos was on the verge of erupting.

"Come on, then! Come on!"

Miller's breath quickened as he gripped the girl's shoulder tightly.

But before the chaos could fully spread, the eyes of all the approaching Beauxbatons students suddenly became vacant. As if they were sleepwalking, they stood still for a few seconds, then mechanically picked up their cups again, as if nothing had happened. Some resumed their conversations, some continued drinking, and others went back to dancing.

Miller's abrupt action was like a pebble thrown into a deep pool—after a small splash, it vanished without a trace.

Cold sweat trickled down Miller's pale face.

He realized that something was terribly wrong with this place.

Everything was being controlled.

"Alright, then!"

Miller gritted his teeth and boldly wrapped his arm around the young beauty's waist, his hand gripping her backside with force.

But the girl merely looked at him with an eerily calm expression.

—

Helheim. In the arena's sandy battleground, Avada smiled and asked Hoffa, "Since you're already here, why not keep playing?"

"Play what?" Hoffa asked coldly.

"The Reaper's Game."

"What?"

Barty Jr. dropped the rock in his hand and asked in confusion, "Didn't we just win? Why do we have to keep going?"

"That doesn't count."

Avada patiently explained, "That was a game between the Reaper and Davis Sawyer, not one with Mr. Hoffa Bach. Just now, Mr. Bach was merely a guest opponent. If he really wants to participate in the game, he must defeat his own opponent."

"I refuse."

Hoffa immediately thought of the souls hanging on the Path of Thorns and of what Aglaia had told him. Without hesitation, he blurted out, "I will not play the Reaper's Game."

"I see. What a pity."

Avada sighed softly. "No matter. But let me remind you—Death is beginning to forget you. If you don't join now, you might never get another chance."

"What happens if the Reaper forgets me?"

"Nothing at all. You'll become just like them."

Avada gestured toward the reveling spirits in the stands. "Newly arrived souls in Helheim—they have passion, warmth, memories, and hope. But those are the only things they have left. Once they forget all that, they lose their value. The remnants of their souls will linger here, neither entering reincarnation nor having any purpose. This is the true underworld—endless repetition and monotony. I hope you enjoy it, Mr. Hoffa Bach."

With that, Avada turned and walked away, his figure quickly fading into the mist of the land of the dead.

"Wait, this is too sudden! Can I have more time to think about it?" Hoffa called after him.

"Do you know how many people die each day? Few can cross the Bridge of the Past, but you're not the only one."

Avada's distant voice echoed back.

Barty Jr. anxiously turned to Hoffa. "Mr. Bach, he's leaving. What should we do?"

"Wait!"

Hoffa shouted.

Avada halted and looked back at him.

Hoffa clenched his teeth. "What if I win against the Reaper? Can I take someone out of here?"

"If you defeat Death, you could even become Death itself. Naturally, you can do whatever you wish."

Avada's words were shocking, spoken so casually that it was impossible to tell if he was supremely confident or simply making things up.

Hoffa's heart pounded. If he still had a heart, it would already be racing at 200 beats per minute. How should he choose? The answer was obvious.

In this timeless underworld, the only visible change was the constant transformation of writhing flesh. There was nothing to do here. He refused to become like those meaningless spirits, endlessly reveling in a void. He didn't want to sit idly forever, trapped in this stagnant eternity.

He wanted to take Aglaia back to the real world—to walk along soft, delicate beaches, taste different flavors of ice cream, explore landscapes and cuisines from around the world. He wanted to experience the changing seasons, the joys and sorrows of life, like a normal person.

"What is the game?" he asked Avada with difficulty.

Avada clapped his hands, and two enormous corpse flowers bloomed from the blood-red sand. The flowers spun open, revealing two naked humanoid figures inside.

The bodies had no distinguishing features—no hair, no reproductive organs—just like Avada. Aside from that, they were standard male forms.

"These are the bodies the Reaper has prepared for you. Of course, you can also prepare your own body—you know who to ask. In Helheim, there's no true second death. However, if your body is destroyed, you will be deemed to have lost the game. Understood?"

"And the losers are sent to the Path of Thorns."

"Precisely," Avada confirmed.

"Is this the same rule for everyone?"

"Oh, absolutely."

Avada grinned. Under his feet, a bubble formed out of thin air. It grew larger and larger until it transformed into a grinning clown's head.

Hoffa clenched his fists. He finally realized—during his battle with Davis, he hadn't had a physical body at all. That meant Davis could never have truly killed him. But Davis had a body—one that Hoffa could freely destroy. His defeat had been inevitable from the start. Death had never intended for him to win.

He wanted to question Avada, but Avada was already floating upward on his balloon. The volume of the arena's noise surged like a dial being cranked up. The roars of countless spirits flooded the air.

Hoffa and Barty Jr. stepped into the bodies the Reaper had prepared. It felt like slipping into a rubber suit—neither particularly uncomfortable nor very responsive. It was like controlling a character in a video game—he could see through its eyes, make it move, but he couldn't truly feel anything through it.

Amid the deafening cheers of the frenzied spirits, the arena's massive doors slowly creaked open.

Barty Jr. tensed and pressed close to Hoffa. "What kind of opponent will the Reaper assign you?"

"I don't know."

Hoffa was just as nervous.

"Your opponents must be terrifying."

"Yes," Hoffa admitted dryly.

Avada floated high above on his balloon, microphone in hand. "Our next challenger—let us welcome a wizard from the magical world. Serene yet passionate, intelligent yet foolish, pure yet complex, young yet ancient—the Ravenclaw wizard, Mr. Hoffa Bach!"

Boo!!

The spirits jeered in unison, just as they had for Davis, showing their disdain for the challenger.

Listening to Avada's description, Hoffa thought he might as well have just said he had schizophrenia. He hadn't realized he possessed so many contradictions.

Avada continued, "In his short yet tumultuous life, he has faced and defeated countless opponents. But he has never truly viewed external enemies as his greatest challenge. It is said that every proud Ravenclaw has only one true opponent—an ever-present shadow, elusive and obscure, a foe that even a lifetime may not reveal.

But here, in the land of the dead, in the Eternal Arena, the Reaper has prepared a special gift for him—a chance to glimpse the mysteries of life itself. Now, let us welcome Hoffa Bach's first opponent—his past self, the Master of Transfiguration!"

Creak.

On the far side of the arena, the doors slowly opened.

Hoffa instinctively shielded Barty Jr. and stepped back.

Then, he saw him.

A boy with black hair and black eyes, two or three years younger than himself, stepped into the arena.

He was dressed in Hogwarts' black robes, adorned with the blue eagle crest of Ravenclaw.

Hoffa froze.

It was his younger self.

(End of Chapter)

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