Chapter 388: Lifeline Heaven

An hour later, Hoffa drove a truck sullenly, leaving the neon-lit Chinatown behind. Miller sat in the passenger seat, his feet propped up on the dashboard, a toothpick dangling from his mouth as he gloomily stared at the towering skyscrapers outside. He said nothing.

Hoffa had no idea why Miller was so angry, but he was just as frustrated. A few years ago, if someone had thrown a drink at him like that, he and Miller would have brawled on the spot. But after everything with Grindelwald and six thousand cycles of repetition, Hoffa had no desire to fight with the few companions he had left.

Through the rearview mirror, he glanced at Miller's stormy expression—his face was so dark it seemed like it might start dripping water. Sighing, Hoffa pulled the truck over to the side of the road, stepped out, and bought a map from a nearby newsstand. When he got back in, he tossed it to Miller.

"Look at the map for me," he said. "Find the location of Elder Hospital."

Miller stared at the map on his lap, completely unmoved.

"You're making this really difficult for me," Hoffa said with a sigh as he aimlessly drove around New York City. "If we keep dragging this out, your sister is going to spend the rest of her life with that Half-Blood King."

Still, Miller remained indifferent.

Hoffa chuckled. "A lifetime sounds pretty long. No matter how long this mission takes, I'll find Elder Hospital eventually. Are you planning to stay silent forever?"

Miller spat out the toothpick. Hoffa turned his head slightly to dodge it.

"How is my sister any of your damn business?" Miller retorted.

Despite his words, Miller picked up the map from his lap, unfolded it, and glanced over it.

"Turn left."

Hoffa turned left.

"No, wait—turn right."

Hoffa sighed and turned right.

"Sorry, I misread it. We should actually turn around and go back the other way."

Miller said it with shameless confidence.

Hoffa had had enough. Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, he reached for the map.

But Miller snatched it away and, with a smirk, stretched his arm out of the window and let go—letting the map flutter off into the night.

"You said you'd find Elder Hospital eventually, right? Go ahead, find it."

Miller grinned mockingly.

"Enough, Miller!" Hoffa slammed the brakes, grabbed Miller by the collar, and growled, "This isn't how you handle things!"

Miller stared at him for a long moment before slowly saying, "Turn left, then take a right. Go three kilometers past the Empire State Building, then take the ninth right. Follow the Hudson River straight ahead, and you'll be there."

"You didn't even look at the map," Hoffa said, astonished.

"Oh, please. I've been there before," Miller replied expressionlessly. "After my father died, Aderbay put me there for a month."

Hoffa slowly let go. "You could've said that earlier," he muttered.

Miller adjusted his collar and said, "Think carefully about who you're dealing with. With so many unidentified organs being delivered to a top-tier hospital, the people using them must have some serious backing. I don't want to walk in there and never come out."

Miller's directions were spot on. Before long, Hoffa arrived at a massive hospital on the coast. Security guards were stationed at the entrance, and they stopped Hoffa's truck, demanding identification. Hoffa had none. But that wasn't a problem for Miller. With a subtle flick of his fingers, a few concealed Imperius Curses struck the guards in the chest. Moments later, they were inside.

They hadn't driven far into the hospital grounds before someone stopped them again. This time, it was a bespectacled man in a black trench coat. He knocked on Miller's window, and Miller rolled it down.

"Shaba? Why are you here in person? Where's your master?" the man outside asked impatiently. "You haven't shown up for so long, and you're not answering calls."

(Shaba is the name of the woman Miller is possessing.)

"My master is…"

Miller, unfamiliar with the title, hesitated.

Hoffa leaned in and whispered something in his ear.

Miller responded casually, "My master is in seclusion, training."

"Seclusion? Training?" The man's anger flared. "Do you still want this job or not? If you quit, there are plenty of people waiting to take your place! You're an hour late today. The higher-ups aren't happy. Get out and move the cargo now."

Hoffa jumped out of the truck and started unloading the cargo from the refrigerated compartment—ice boxes filled with organs. A few nurses arrived with carts, collecting the boxes one by one.

Meanwhile, the trench-coated man handed a black briefcase to Miller and reprimanded him sharply. "Don't be late again next time, or I won't be so generous."

With the transaction complete, he waved them off, signaling them to leave.

Back in the truck, Miller bit his finger and muttered an incantation under his breath. A wisp of gray smoke slithered from the vehicle and crept up the backs of several nurses. They shuddered as their eyes slowly turned a dull gray. After a brief pause, they resumed pushing their carts forward.

The truck rolled to a stop under the hospital's outer tree line.

"Is it done?" Hoffa asked Miller.

Miller slumped back in his seat, his irises completely gray. He nodded. "It's done. Those nurses are under the Vision Curse now. Whatever they see, I can see."

Hoffa was satisfied. In an unknown situation like this, silent surveillance was the best approach.

"Where are they going?"

"The elevator. Probably the top floor… or just below it. They're still on the way."

As he spoke, Miller suddenly sat up straight. The gray mist in his eyes vanished completely.

"Damn it!" he exclaimed.

Hoffa immediately tensed up and asked, "What happened?"

"Someone forcibly dispelled my spell," Miller said.

"Forcibly dispelled your spell?" Hoffa was taken aback. He had never heard of such a thing before.

"A mental force field here is completely different from that of European wizards—it's like a boiling cauldron of oil, an extreme manifestation of desire." Miller shook his head, as if savoring something.

"What does that mean, Miller?" Hoffa wasn't well-versed in spell mechanics, and Miller's explanation only left him more confused.

"If a wizard's mental force field is extremely dense, then other people's spells will fail within that area because it has essentially become their domain. This is an extreme case in spellcraft—I've only ever read about it in books. I never thought I'd actually encounter it here."

"So you're saying there's a powerful wizard inside this building?" Hoffa asked.

"Possibly more than one. I can't be sure; I didn't have enough time to analyze it. But if it were just a single person, I doubt anyone in the world could dispel my spell in an instant."

Hoffa remained silent. It seemed this mission was going to be far more difficult than he had anticipated.

"Hoffa, are you still going? It could be very dangerous," Miller said.

"Of course. This involves the financial sources of the Half-Blood King—I have to go." Hoffa responded.

"Then my suggestion is to avoid taking the conventional route. That disturbance just now may have already put them on alert. If we use spells, we'll likely be discovered right away."

As if to confirm Miller's words, a group of men in black high-collared trench coats and matching black top hats suddenly emerged from the hospital entrance while they spoke. With their hands casually tucked into their pockets, they swiftly moved to the hospital gates, meticulously searching every vehicle in sight. The inspections were anything but courteous—doors were flung open, and people were dragged out and pinned against their cars.

Seeing this, Hoffa immediately grabbed his suitcase, pulled Miller out of the small truck, and held him close.

Then, using his ghostly stride, he stepped out of the material world with Miller in his arms. In the grayish-white void, Hoffa unfurled his wings and forcefully stomped the ground. With an immense burst of power, he shot upward like lightning. Mere seconds later, he landed atop the hospital's highest rooftop, stepping out from the shadow realm.

"There, no spells used, so no magical energy fluctuations either."

"Brute."

Miller muttered under his breath while nestled in Hoffa's arms. "Such a crude solution—completely devoid of a wizard's elegance."

"As long as it works," Hoffa shrugged and released Miller.

The rooftop was empty, except for a ventilation fan. Hoffa and Miller scouted the area, and before long, they found a hidden maintenance hatch for servicing the exhaust system.

Since they couldn't use the unlocking spell, Hoffa instead converted his magical energy into raw vitality. With a slight tug, the hatch's lock snapped with a crisp clang. He then took the lead and jumped down from the rooftop.

The maintenance tunnel was dimly lit, illuminated only by scattered emergency lights. Feeling his way along the wall, Hoffa quickly found a large wooden door locked up tight, bound with numerous thick chains.

Miller climbed down leisurely and walked over to Hoffa's side, inspecting the chains with a puzzled expression. "This is strange."

"What's strange?"

"There's an incredibly dense mental force field here, yet there are no traces of protective spells," Miller muttered, rubbing his chin. "That shouldn't be possible."

Hoffa didn't waste time speculating. He reached out and, with another sharp snap, tore the chains apart.

Miller shook his head disapprovingly, as if he found Hoffa's brute-force methods distasteful.

As the door creaked open, Hoffa found himself staring down at an impeccably pristine floor—glossy tiles seamlessly fused together, resembling a smooth, flowing river of milk. The tiles stretched forward in an unbroken path, bordered by glass partitions.

Beyond the glass walls lay a breathtaking indoor garden—lush greenery, vibrant flowers, even birds and butterflies fluttering about. A waterfall cascaded from a height, refracting soft hues of a miniature rainbow under the lights. The melody of chirping birds intertwined with the gentle notes of a piano and the soothing rush of water, creating an atmosphere of pure serenity.

The sight left Hoffa momentarily stunned. He had never seen a hospital with such opulent decor—it could rival the grandest exhibition halls.

But the vision lasted only a few seconds.

In a flash, the scene before his eyes warped—though the location remained the same, everything had changed.

The pristine tiles and vibrant flora vanished, replaced by dense, brownish-red stains splattered across the floor. Plastic sheeting was scattered everywhere, and winding, blood-soaked corridors stretched into the unknown. Rotting organs, oozing with decay, spilled endlessly from the pipes, their crimson contents slithering toward unseen drains.

A sinister laughter echoed faintly in the halls—sporadic, erratic, and utterly mad.

The alternating visions sent a wave of nausea through Hoffa. He clutched his head tightly, bending forward as distorted memories resurfaced—fragmented flashes from the days when he had lost his memories. The flickering images blurred the line between nightmare and reality, making him shudder uncontrollably.

"This place… is terrifying."

Miller murmured beside him.

"What do you see?" Hoffa asked, his voice trembling.

"The mental force field here is so intense that it has distorted reality itself," Miller whispered.

Hoffa shut his eyes and took deep breaths. Slowly, the pounding headache subsided. The grotesque, blood-soaked vision faded, and the spotless white tiles returned, as if that glimpse of horror had been nothing more than an illusion.

Yet, like flowers blooming atop a grave, beauty only served as a reminder of the bones buried beneath.

"Let's go," Hoffa said. "Let's find out what this place is hiding."

(End of Chapter)

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