Chapter 367: The Wizard Hunting Squad

In the dark and shadowy Forbidden Forest, Hoffa clutched his injured arm, limping as he ran. The heavy blood loss and drained magic left him utterly exhausted. The pain from the bones broken by the Nightmare God was unbearable. Ever since he destroyed the Night God's heart in the Resurrection Pool, his advantage in the darkness had vanished completely. If not for the lingering magic of the Thunderbird, he doubted he'd even be able to stand.

But none of that compared to the mental torment brought by his returning memories.

How could he have had such a dream? Hoffa couldn't figure it out no matter how much he thought about it. He forced himself to push the troubling thoughts aside.

At least, the terrifying creature controlled by the Nightmare God hadn't pursued him, and neither Sylby nor Miranda had appeared. Hoffa kept running, heading straight for Hogsmeade. He still remembered seeing those wizards earlier—they were his kind.

Right now, his injuries were too severe; he needed medical attention. He feared he would die before even completing his mission.

However, when he arrived in Hogsmeade, its usual tranquility had been shattered. From a distance, he could hear the deafening roar of engines. Through the shadows of the trees, he saw motorcycles speeding through the ancient village, kicking up loose stones in their wake.

Soldiers sat in the sidecars, carrying rifles, while others went door to door, kicking them open, cursing loudly at the empty buildings.

Damn it. Are they ever going to stop?

Hoffa clutched his wounded arm, cursing inwardly.

These men had found Hogsmeade so easily and were now searching the place. Clearly, the secrecy of the wizarding world had completely collapsed. The Ministry of Magic was probably finished as well.

What the hell happened while he was gone?

Hoffa recalled the last time he had left the Ministry of Magic—back when Fatiel was still the Minister. After fifty years of adventures and an endless nightmare-like slumber, that moment now felt like an eternity ago.

Tat-tat-tat!

Gunfire and screams suddenly echoed through the village. Flickering flames caught Hoffa's attention. Dragging his weakened body, he moved toward the source of the sounds.

By the time he got there, the gunfire had ceased.

In an abandoned cabbage field, several corpses lay sprawled across the ground. A man knelt among them, hands over his head, with a soldier behind him, pointing a gun at his skull.

Nearby, another soldier held a rifle to the head of a man in a brown robe, snarling, "Speak! Where is your leader? If you don't answer, you die!"

"Stupefy! Stupefy!"

The wizard frantically waved his wand, but the weak sparks at its tip barely emitted any magic.

Smack!

The soldier kicked the wand out of his hand.

"You think a little wooden stick can threaten me?"

Pressing the rifle barrel against the wizard's forehead, the soldier sneered, "Times have changed, wizard. Your damn magic is worthless against science and logic!"

"You… traitors!" The wizard's voice was filled with sorrow. "I know you. You're from the Osmondell family! Your grandfather and father were once renowned wizards… And now, you side with Muggles?"

The soldier's face remained cold, but the wizard let out a bitter laugh. "No wonder you're a Squib. No wonder you were born magicless… Haha… You'll never understand… magic."

Bang!

A gunshot rang out.

A bloody hole appeared in the wizard's forehead, and he collapsed lifelessly.

Hoffa, hidden in the trees, widened his eyes and sucked in a sharp breath. Traitors?

Could it be that these soldiers running hospitals in London and hunting wizards were actually from wizarding families themselves? He knew Squibs existed, but for their numbers to grow this large—what had happened while he was gone?

After executing one wizard, the soldier calmly shifted his rifle to the kneeling man beside him.

"Tell me, who organized this gathering?"

The young wizard, about Hoffa's age, seemed paralyzed with fear. He remained frozen, sweat pouring down his face, trembling, unable to speak.

Seeing his silence, the soldier signaled to his companion, who immediately stepped forward and slammed the rifle butt into the wizard's face, knocking him over.

"Speak, or die!"

"You bastards! Traitors!" The young wizard clutched his bleeding nose and screamed, "I'll never give you any information, you turncoats! Gryffindor does not fear death! Do your worst!"

The soldier sneered and struck him again. "Screw your Gryffindor nonsense! Just because some ragged old hat put you in a House, you think it means something? Now talk!"

The wizard, now clutching his stomach, gritted his teeth. "I will not break the Statute of Secrecy!"

The soldier let out a mocking laugh. "Oh? Then you can go play house with the Grim Reaper."

He cocked his rifle, ready to fire.

Hoffa silently transformed his arm into a feathered blade, stealthily moving toward the clearing. He couldn't just stand by and watch wizards be executed. If he didn't act, and the soldiers killed everyone, then he might as well be dead too.

But before he could strike—

Thwip! Thwip!

Arrows whizzed through the air.

The soldier who had just been boasting was suddenly struck and sent flying backward, his body pinned to a tree. Several others suffered the same fate as silent, deadly arrows shot from the forest, cutting them down one by one.

The remaining soldiers, in a panic, opened fire wildly into the trees.

For a brief moment, the clash between cold steel and ancient weaponry reached its peak. Arrows rained down silently, while bullets tore through the air. Hoffa lay flat on the ground, barely breathing—he was too weak to join a fight of this scale.

But in the end, the seasoned hunters had the upper hand.

When the last wave of arrows found their marks, the battlefield fell silent.

The soldiers lay sprawled across the ground.

Not a single one was left standing.

The young wizard lay motionless on the ground, not daring to move. Fortunately, he was lucky—he hadn't been hit by any stray bullets. As the gunfire subsided, he cautiously lifted his head, taking in the scene of corpses and blood all around him. His legs trembled, his face turned deathly pale, and it looked like he might faint at any moment.

At that moment, Hoffa noticed a soldier pinned to a distant tree—still alive, but barely. The soldier's dying eyes burned with hatred as he shakily pulled out a pistol and aimed it at the trembling young wizard.

Hoffa instinctively shouted from behind, "Hey, watch out!"

The wizard turned his head in confusion, but before he could react, Hoffa ignored his own injuries and lunged forward, tackling him to the ground.

Gunshots rang out in quick succession.

Dragging the wizard with him, Hoffa slipped into the shadow realm. However, due to his depleted magic, the ghostly step lasted only a few seconds before he was forced out.

Luckily, the soldier had reached his limit. Only his first shot had any real accuracy—the rest were fired wildly. After emptying his magazine, his head slumped to the side, lifeless.

As the gunfire ceased, Hoffa exhaled in relief while staring at the soldier's corpse pinned to the tree. But the pain from his wounds only intensified.

Nearby, several fallen soldiers had backpacks. Hoffa shoved the young wizard aside and crawled toward them, rummaging through the bags. Luck was on his side—he found some fabric and hastily wrapped it around his wounds to prevent excessive blood loss.

The wizard, whom Hoffa had just saved, finally snapped out of his daze. He looked at Hoffa, who was sitting on the ground bandaging himself, and after scrutinizing him for a moment, his eyes widened in shock. He gasped sharply and scrambled forward, staring at Hoffa without blinking.

"Y-You're Hoffa Bach?" he stammered in disbelief.

"You know me?" Hoffa asked without looking up, focused on tying his bandages.

The wizard studied him for a moment, his initial fear and unease fading away, replaced by excitement.

"It really is you! Bach! Senior Bach! I'm from Gryffindor, a year below you! Don't you remember? Back in my first year, you were a teaching assistant in our Transfiguration class! But back then, your eyes weren't this color... though your face hasn't changed much. You're still as handsome as ever, Senior!"

Hoffa doubted he was anywhere near handsome, and this guy clearly had no sense of occasion. Flattery in a place filled with corpses? Seriously?

"Enough talk. It's dangerous here. Get out of here while you still can."

Hoffa finished bandaging his wounds and tried to stand up, reaching out to help the Gryffindor wizard. But dizziness hit him hard, and instead, he collapsed back onto the ground.

Blood loss. He couldn't walk anymore.

The wizard finally noticed the extent of Hoffa's injuries, his robes soaked in blood. Panicked, he rushed over to support him. "Senior Bach, you're seriously hurt!"

Gritting his teeth, Hoffa muttered, "Enough. Help me up. Take me to your group. The owner of the Hog's Head Inn—what was his name again? Aberforth, right?"

"That's me."

A rough voice sounded from the woods.

Hoffa turned his head.

Several men carrying torches emerged from the forest. They were heavily armed—some carried bows, others wielded wands, axes, and hammers. They looked like a medieval hunting party.

The leader was an older man with messy black-and-white hair, wearing a sheepskin coat and high boar-hide boots. He was tall, with a long, hooked nose, and deep-set blue eyes.

Now that his memories had returned, Hoffa immediately recognized the man. Aberforth—the owner of the Hog's Head Inn in Hogsmeade. He was also Albus Dumbledore's brother, bearing an uncanny resemblance to him.

But unlike Professor Dumbledore, his nose wasn't crooked and looked quite normal. And even in terms of temperament, this Dumbledore brother seemed far rougher and wilder.

The young wizard Hoffa had saved shouted excitedly at Aberforth, "Sir! Do you know who this is? This is Hoffa Bach! The pride of Ravenclaw! A legend of Hogwarts! The strongest Animagus!"

"Enough! Stop talking!" Hoffa cut him off immediately.

Had this been the past, he might've laughed at such praises. Now, they only made him feel heavy-hearted and embarrassed.

Aberforth stepped forward, raising his torch to illuminate Hoffa's face. He straightened up in surprise. "You? It's really you? So you're the one who came from London that day!?"

"It's me," Hoffa confirmed.

"I was wondering who couldn't even answer the Order of the Phoenix's code phrase. Turns out it was you! Didn't that old fool Albus teach you anything before you came here? And what's with your eyes? My bar still has your wanted poster up—you dyed your hair, fine, but why the hell did you dye your eyes too?"

Aberforth bombarded him with questions, but Hoffa had no time for idle chatter. He anxiously glanced behind him, the lingering presence of the Nightmare God and Sylby making his skin crawl. Urgently, he said, "No more questions! We need to leave—now! Mr. Dumbledore, hurry! There's an extremely dangerous creature inside Hogwarts, and it could come after us at any moment!"

"How dangerous? We came here to take back Hogwarts Castle!" Aberforth declared aggressively. "No matter how many Squib soldiers they send, we must reclaim this sacred ground!"

"Do I not look wounded enough for you!?" Hoffa snapped, sweating from anxiety. He thought to himself, Even Dumbledore himself might hesitate to face that thing, and you're out here with a bow and arrow? But he kept those thoughts to himself.

Just then, a sharp scout's whistle echoed from the other side of the forest.

"They're over here! Wipe them out!"

Everyone's faces changed.

The ground trembled.

From the dense forest beyond Hogsmeade, a deafening rumble erupted. A moment later, several heavy tanks crashed through the trees, their metal bodies gleaming ominously under the moonlight.

(End of Chapter)

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