Chapter 373: A New Beginning

As the sun set, Hoffa, dressed in hunting gear, rode a gray horse along the gravel road outside the city, heading toward London. He held the reins in one hand and a cruciform sword in the other.

Of all the outfits he had worn since waking up, this hunting attire suited him best. It fit so perfectly, as if it had been designed just for him.

Flap, flap.

The sound of wings echoed from the sky.

Looking up, Hoffa saw a chestnut-colored owl gliding toward him through the twilight forest. It landed precisely on his shoulder, balancing on one foot while extending the other. Tied to its black talons was a rolled-up parchment.

An owl-delivered letter.

Hoffa loosened the reins and took the parchment, unrolling it.

The elegant handwriting on the parchment read:

"Proceed to Hogsmeade immediately. Aberforth will meet you there. He has an important task for you. Exercise caution in all matters."

There was no signature, but Hoffa recognized the sender at a glance.

It was Dumbledore.

"I'll return to Hogsmeade at once," he said to the owl.

The owl hooted twice, then spread its wings and vanished into the golden hues of the setting sun.

Hoffa stowed the parchment away and tested his magical reserves, only to find them still severely depleted—nowhere near sufficient for long-distance Apparition.

With a soft sigh, he patted the mane of his gray horse. Sensing something in his touch, the horse snorted excitedly.

"It'll be a tough journey," Hoffa murmured.

Turning his horse around, he urged it into a gallop, racing toward his destination.

Warm dusk winds brushed against his face as the horse surged forward with unrelenting power. The world blurred past him on either side, and deep within, something stirred—a faint but unmistakable awakening.

For the next three days, Hoffa and his gray horse traveled tirelessly, sleeping under the stars and following the railway line that Miranda had once led him along. They pressed forward at full speed toward Hogsmeade.

Three days later, after relentless travel, Hoffa arrived. But the Hogsmeade before him was not the same as the one he had visited previously. Barbed wire fences had been erected throughout the area.

Beyond the fences, broken vehicles and damaged equipment lay in disarray. Two Squib soldiers sat atop ammunition crates, smoking as they rested.

Hearing the distant sound of approaching hooves, they snapped to attention, grabbing their rifles and stepping onto the road.

"Hey! Where do you think you're going, cowboy? This is a military zone—stay back!" one of them shouted.

Hoffa instinctively moved to slow down, but his gray horse had no intention of stopping. It had run harder in the past few days than ever before in its life, and it was intoxicated by the thrill.

Like a flash of lightning, the horse leaped past the two soldiers. Startled, they raised their weapons to fire. But before they could, a cold gleam sliced through the air.

In the blink of an eye, their gun barrels were rendered useless.

Landing several meters ahead, Hoffa pulled sharply on the reins, bringing his horse to a sudden halt.

The two soldiers staggered back, clutching their wounded arms. Their guns and limbs fell to the ground in turns, blood quickly pooling beneath them as they let out pained screams.

Hoffa glanced at the cruciform sword, a gift from the Last Knight. The blade gleamed, untouched by a single drop of blood. He clicked his tongue in admiration—the sword's sharpness exceeded his expectations. When he had swung it, there had been no resistance at all.

He paid no further mind to the fallen soldiers. He had already steeled himself for what lay ahead, and those who tried to stand in his way needed to do the same.

Turning his horse, Hoffa galloped down the muddy path. This was exactly the kind of terrain the gray horse loved, its muscles rippling like ocean waves as it drooled with excitement.

The soldiers' screams quickly attracted reinforcements. The roar of combustion engines filled the air as a dozen military motorcycles emerged from the roadside, their riders taking aim and opening fire.

Hoffa blinked.

In an instant, the green and gold fields around him faded to gray and white. Shadows howled overhead, and both he and his horse vanished from the real world. Thousands of bullets tore through empty air, striking nothing.

The soldiers shouted in confusion.

"Where is he?! Where did he go?!"

In the shifting gray void, Hoffa swung his sword.

In the next heartbeat, he and his horse reappeared. A motorcycle soldier and his gunner were sliced cleanly in half. Their out-of-control bike crashed into the barbed wire fence with a thunderous impact, its wheels still spinning.

The remaining soldiers barely had time to react before the gray horse disappeared again.

"Damn wizard! Someone find him!"

A sergeant, standing in the bed of a transport truck, bellowed the order.

The moment he spoke, his world went dark.

The gray horse materialized above his head. A boy sat atop it, sword raised.

"Fire!" the sergeant screamed.

Hoffa's cold eyes flickered briefly. Then, the sergeant saw nothing more—his vision went black as the blade slashed through his eyes.

A storm of bullets erupted from all sides, but the sergeant and his motorcycle were caught in the crossfire, torn to shreds by his own men's panicked gunfire.

Meanwhile, the gray horse vanished once more.

It had reappeared and disappeared in less than a second.

Bullets sliced through the empty space it had occupied, striking and injuring soldiers outside the encirclement instead.

Now, fear gripped the remaining troops.

Their offensive stance crumbled.

Instead of attacking, they stopped their bikes, pressing their backs together in a desperate attempt at self-defense.

But to Hoffa, it made no difference at all.

He only intermittently entered the Ghost Stride and then exited it again, each time leaving a bloody storm in his wake.

After several passes, the ground was littered with fallen soldiers—soldiers who hadn't even managed to touch the hem of his clothing.

After flickering five or six times in succession, Hoffa's magic was beginning to wane. He had no choice but to pull on the reins, bringing his gray horse to a halt. Standing on the muddy dirt road, he silently faced the large group of terrified soldiers before him. Even now, the cross sword in his hand remained unstained by a single drop of blood.

The soldiers stared ahead. The gray steed pawed excitedly at the ground, snorting. Meanwhile, the black-haired young man swayed slightly atop the horse's back. Dressed in an old, black hunting outfit, he held a gleaming silver cross sword, looking like a knight who had stepped out of a medieval oil painting.

For a moment, one man stood against a hundred. Then, someone suddenly shouted:

"It's Hoffa Bach! The Zero! He's back!!"

That simple sentence seemed to carry an almost magical effect. In an instant, anger turned into sheer panic. As fear rapidly spread among them, the soldiers scrambled to start their motorcycles, fleeing in all directions like madmen.

Hoffa gradually realized that some of these Squib soldiers had once been wizards—casualties of the recent tide of magic depletion. They still remembered him. Some might even have been former Hogwarts students, perhaps even his seniors or classmates.

But that didn't earn them his sympathy. Instead, his gaze remained cold as he spurred his horse forward, chasing them down. His sword flashed, and blood sprayed.

More and more motorcycles were destroyed, and more and more soldiers fell lifeless to the ground.

"Smoke!!" someone shouted. "Block him! Hurry, stop him!!"

Smoke grenades were hurled into the air, and thick clouds of smoke quickly rose, shrouding Hoffa's vision. These smokescreens were even more troublesome than bullets, making it impossible to see his enemies clearly.

"Bring out the new weapon!!"

In the haze, someone roared, "Kill him!!"

With the shouting came the sound of heavy iron chains hitting the ground, followed by a deep, rhythmic tremor beneath his feet. Something was happening within the fog—soldiers screamed in agony, their cries echoing through the mist. Then, suddenly, the screams stopped.

A sense of foreboding crept over Hoffa. Without hesitation, he swung off his gray horse, dragging his cross sword across the horse's cheek. The bridle and reins snapped instantly. He patted the horse's flank, and understanding the signal, the gray horse galloped away, vanishing into the thick smoke.

Now on foot, Hoffa stood alone in the mist, carefully attuning himself to the disturbances around him. The vibrations in the ground grew heavier.

The soldiers' smokescreens were being inhaled and exhaled by something within the fog. With each breath, the mist churned, and then—something was launched from the darkness.

Hoffa instantly sidestepped, narrowly dodging the "projectile" as it whizzed past his body and smashed into the wreckage of a nearby tank with a sickening crunch. The impact sent bits of blood and flesh splattering across the ground.

It was a soldier—thrown like a weapon.

Hoffa hunched his back, his expression darkening.

A hunched and massive figure slowly emerged from the thick fog.

A giant.

Not just any giant—one clad in armor, wielding an enormous cannon. He stood at least eight meters tall, with a gun barrel spanning five to six meters, far surpassing the length of a standard tank cannon. Rows of shells were strapped across his chest, and a dense, weighty artillery platform was mounted on his back, making him look like a walking war machine.

The Squib soldiers had actually fused Muggle technology with a giant, creating something far more terrifying than an ordinary giant.

Hoffa raised his cross sword, assuming a defensive stance as he slid his foot carefully across the ground.

But the giant did not immediately attack. Instead, he slowly propped himself up on his arms, shifting from a kneeling position to sitting on the ground. His hands pressed against the earth as he fixed his gaze on Hoffa. Drool poured from between his massive teeth like a waterfall, quickly soaking the ground beneath him.

Hoffa found the giant's stare infuriating. That thing was looking at him the way one looks at food. Did it really think he was prey?

Neither moved. The standoff stretched on for several tense moments. The Squib soldiers had seemingly vanished, hiding away, while the mist continued to rise aimlessly from the corners of the battlefield, indifferent to the chaos unfolding below.

Shhh...

A faint rustling sound reached Hoffa's ears. His sharp gaze shifted slightly—he noticed the giant's fingers creeping along the ground like a spider, silently reaching for the barrel of a discarded tank cannon.

In the blink of an eye, Hoffa instinctively let himself fall backward. At that exact moment, a dark green blur sliced through the air, barely grazing the bridge of his nose.

The shadow passed, followed by a sudden gust of wind that sent his hair whipping around wildly. The attack was so swift that he had no time to even glimpse its shape.

The moment he hit the ground, Hoffa braced his palm against the dirt, pushing himself up. With a powerful motion, he flipped backward, retreating several paces in quick succession.

But before he could regain his footing, the green shadow descended from above, smashing into the ground with a deafening boom. The impact sent the earth soaring into the air, shaking the battlefield violently. Hoffa's own feet briefly left the ground from the sheer force of the tremor.

ROAR!!

The giant bellowed, gripping the tank cannon in his massive hands and brandishing it as a primitive club.

Then came the relentless onslaught.

Like a game of Whack-a-Mole, the giant swung the tank barrel down repeatedly, hammering the ground with devastating force.

The latest strike landed barely three inches from Hoffa—so close that he had only narrowly dodged the lethal blow. Yet, he did not counterattack. Instead, he kept retreating, sword in hand. His magic reserves were running low, and what little power remained had to be used with precision. He observed the battlefield, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

(End of Chapter)

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