Chapter 390: Run a Horse to Death

In an instant, the tranquil space of the hospital's upper floors was shattered. The black-clad individuals who had come here simultaneously drew their weapons. Miller snapped his fingers, and a legion of armored guards descended from above, landing in front of Hoffa and raising their shields.

But the shields lasted less than two seconds before the armored guards melted like softened clay, collapsing onto the ground in a gooey mess. The moment the guards lost their effectiveness, countless yellow beams of light burst from the muzzles of guns, shooting at the two of them from all directions.

To ensure safety, Hoffa grabbed Miller and slipped into the shadow world, wrapping them both in his wings.

However, the retreat into the shadow world did not last long. To conserve magic, Hoffa exited quickly.

Miller, enveloped by Hoffa's wings, looked up at Hoffa's face and reached out to touch it. A sharp sting pricked his fingertips. Hoffa grabbed Miller's wrist and moved it away, only to see fresh red blood on Miller's fingertips.

Despite his quick reaction, Hoffa had still been struck by the first wave of bullets. He immediately realized the situation was far more troublesome than he had imagined. Under normal circumstances, bullets from Muggles would never be able to harm him. But these bullets were faster and far more powerful.

"The spell has been undone, Hoffa," Miller said within his wings.

"Ah."

Hoffa slowly unfurled his wings and surveyed his surroundings. The bullets that had struck the glass and the floor had mysteriously disappeared, as if they had hit an invisible soft gel and been absorbed.

So many bullets had been fired in that round of shooting, yet there was not a single trace of damage in the surroundings. The old man beneath the tree was even still snoring peacefully. The scene was indescribably eerie.

Hoffa's expression grew heavy. He pressed the switch on his suitcase.

The group of black-clad individuals opposite them did not look at ease. A woman nodded and said, "No wonder you two dared to break into Paradise. You do have some skills. You must be the legendary wizards?"

"You flatter me. Compared to you, I might as well not be a wizard at all."

Hoffa said, "No matter how powerful a wizard is, I doubt they can conjure an illusion out of thin air and pretend to live normally within it. Compared to you, I am nothing."

The woman's face changed, and so did the expressions of the other black-clad figures.

Hoffa pressed the button on his suitcase, opening the long, heavy case to reveal a massive cross-shaped sword. Slowly drawing the sword, he faced the group before him and asked, "Hey, tell me, what exactly are you using those organs for? If it's just for treating diseases, you wouldn't need such a large quantity, would you?"

His answer was another round of gunfire. Hoffa grabbed Miller's hand and vanished. When he reappeared, he was already behind the woman. With a swift slash, five or six black-clad individuals were cut clean in half at the waist.

The terrified faces and flying strands of hair flashed past Miller as he was dragged along. His gaze involuntarily dropped downward. The wounds on the severed bodies were unnervingly smooth, like perfectly sliced butter—completely clean, without a trace of dirt or filth.

"Hoffa," he warned uneasily.

Three consecutive leaps, accompanied by flashes of silver blades, and every black-clad figure present had been struck. When Hoffa finally stopped, the ground was littered with heaps of dismembered body parts. However, what was even more bizarre was that these severed pieces were not lifeless. They lay on the ground, whispering to each other.

A severed head, lying not far from Hoffa, suddenly spoke: "A wizard who refuses to obey interests can still maintain such power? You must be one of the fugitives the Half-Blood King despises so much."

Good heavens. Hoffa had encountered undead beings before—like Mansfatil—but this kind of bizarre undeath was something new. Clearly, the people before him were not real humans.

The severed pieces smiled. From the sliced portions of their bodies, limbs sprouted out. The fragments crawled back together, chaotically piecing themselves into new forms.

Seeing this, Hoffa's years of combat experience made him realize something. Instead of making another futile attempt to slay the monster, he vanished from the physical world with a ghostly step and, in the shadow world, swung his sword toward the sleeping old man.

His timing was pinpoint precise, leaving no room for reaction. The moment his blade appeared, the old man's head tumbled to the ground, rolling a few times.

This time, from the wound, a faint purple liquid oozed out—almost identical to the liquid in the IV drip. Seeing it, Hoffa paused momentarily in surprise.

"Bastard!!!"

A monstrous roar erupted.

"You dare to make me bleed?! My noble blood, spilled because of you lowly creatures—unforgivable! Unforgivable!!"

Hoffa whirled around sharply. Before him stood a creature assembled from countless fragments.

Its form resembled a twisted version of the Nightmare God he had once seen. But unlike the Nightmare God's elegance and oppressive aura, this was a crude, grotesque imitation—like a poor cosplayer's attempt at an earnest tribute to the original.

Even so, it was terrifying enough.

The creature raised a massive, writhing arm and smashed it down toward Hoffa.

Hoffa dodged with a swift side step. The ground where he had stood was completely obliterated—the exquisite pond, the glass, the singing birds, and even the old man's severed head were reduced to a pulp.

However, as soon as the creature lifted its arm, the ground instantly restored itself. Even the old man's head reattached to his body. This restoration was different from time reversal—it was as if this space grew out of a pile of debris.

"Hoffa, this won't work. The mental field here is too dense—overwhelmingly so. We won't be able to defeat it here; we have to leave," Miller said anxiously. "I can't use magic here."

"Yeah, got it."

Hoffa replied, "Let's go."

With that, he pulled Miller and ran back the way they had come. This place was far too strange. Until he understood what was going on, Hoffa had no intention of wasting energy fighting something that couldn't be killed.

"You won't escape!"

The monstrous entity roared, swinging its massive, snake-like arms wildly in an attempt to seize Hoffa. But Hoffa, dragging Miller, darted up and down, dodging each attack with precision.

With each evasion, the distance between them and the creature grew. But the path they had come from had completely disappeared. Before them stretched unfamiliar corridors. Before long, at the end of the hallway, a gigantic eye appeared. Its owner grinned, opening its massive jaws to swallow them whole.

Hoffa turned and ran. As he fled, he saw the monstrous creature again. It laughed maniacally, full of glee.

"Insects, you will never escape my control! This is my world!"

Miller, tense beside Hoffa, asked, "We can't get out. What do we do?"

Hoffa said nothing, vanishing momentarily before grabbing Miller and resuming their flight. Before long, they hit another dead end and had to change direction, beginning yet another frantic escape, dodging the monstrous entity's attacks time and time again.

"I can fail a hundred times! But you only need to fail once, wizard! If I catch you—just once—you're dead! Dead!!!"

The creature's thunderous roars echoed through the exquisitely crafted hall, accompanied by the chirping of birds, as if they were affirming its words.

Hoffa did not respond. He raced through his thoughts. This creature bore a resemblance to the Nightmare God he had once seen. If the Nightmare God had a weakness, then this creature must share it.

But try as he might, Hoffa couldn't recall what that weakness was. In truth, from his first encounter with the Nightmare God to the vampire priest of the Night God, and even to the Grim Reaper in the Deathly Secret Realm, Hoffa had never truly understood these divine beings' weaknesses—nor had he ever managed to harm them.

If there's no way out, then do nothing.

Hoffa thought to himself. He had fully switched into escape mode. Bedivere's cross sword was slung onto his back, and his entire focus was on evasion.

Hoffa possessed the power of the Thunderbird, and with years of combat experience, rolling and dodging was second nature to him. But as they kept running, Miller began to struggle. Gasping for breath, he clung to Hoffa's shoulder and panted, "What are we supposed to do? Say something, Hoffa! Is there any way out of this?"

Hoffa replied, "Just hold on for now. Power this strong doesn't just appear out of thin air. Even a Turing machine needs electricity. Since we can't escape and we can't kill it, let's see who has more patience."

"I—" Miller was on the verge of tears. "I want to keep running, but this body just can't take it anymore. Hoffa, let me stay on you instead."

Hoffa looked at the face before him and couldn't help but think of Miranda. Though the body Miller inhabited bore no resemblance to Miranda except for the short hair, he could always see a trace of Miranda in Miller's eyes. He couldn't bear to let this body—one that carried Miranda's presence—die before him, even if it was just an illusion. He felt he wouldn't be able to accept it.

"Alright, get on my back. I'll carry you."

Saying this, he bent down, signaling Miller to climb on.

"Huh?" Miller was taken aback and eyed him suspiciously.

"Hey, what are you thinking?" Miller asked ominously. "Don't tell me you're attached to this body and can't bear to ruin it?"

"Just get on, stop dawdling."

Hoffa urged impatiently.

"I need an explanation."

Even in this situation, Miller stopped and said leisurely, "I'm curious."

"ROAR!! FOUND YOU!!!"

A massive monster slid through the corridor. Hoffa gritted his teeth and, without a word, grabbed Miller, hoisting him onto his shoulder before taking off at full speed. The monster's attack missed once again, fueling its rage as its size doubled.

"This position is killing me!" Miller shouted. "Hey!"

Hoffa ignored him and sprinted on. Magic flowed steadily through his body, and he even meditated as he ran, ensuring he didn't engage the monster head-on.

An hour passed, and the monster grew increasingly agitated. It hadn't expected Hoffa to be able to run non-stop for so long. It cursed and swore at him, trying to provoke him into a direct fight.

Two hours passed, yet Hoffa still hadn't stopped—he just kept running.

At this point, the monster finally understood what was happening. Unable to find more insults, it simply fell silent and played along in this endless chase.

Three hours passed, and Hoffa was still running.

But the monster wasn't a machine—it had a limit. Three hours of continuous pursuit had drained most of its patience. Its attacks became more reckless and aggressive, its movements wide and frantic.

Yet the real nightmare was only beginning. No matter how much it cursed or how terrifying its attacks were, Hoffa continued to dodge without retaliating.

Four hours. Five hours. Six hours. Another three hours passed. The monster, which had barely managed to suppress its frustration, finally snapped. This time, it didn't just curse—it summoned a flamethrower and began incinerating everything in sight.

Under the scorching flames, the scenery melted away.

The pristine floor tiles, elegant glass walls, artificial waterfalls, and decorative rock formations vanished without a trace. What replaced them was a dark red room—old iron bunk beds, swarming mosquitoes, a putrid stench. Skeletal figures lay on the rusting beds, hooked up to bloodstained medical instruments flashing with green waves. Beside them stood nurses, their faces lifeless like corpses, holding something in their hands.

Before Hoffa could take a clear look at this filthy, disgusting space—

The scene disappeared.

The grand exhibition hall returned, along with the roaring behemoth. It stowed away the flamethrower and wailed, swinging its massive arms at Hoffa in despair.

"Face me! FACE ME!! FACE ME!!!"

"Hoffa! That overwhelming psychic force just flickered for a moment! My magic—it feels like I can use it now! Let me try!" Miller shouted excitedly from Hoffa's shoulder.

Hoffa coldly evaded another attack, ignoring both Miller's words and the monster's howls. He kept running.

Seven hours. Ten hours. Twenty hours.

This was an endless escape. The monster was beyond tormented, teetering between rage and madness, cursing Hoffa over and over, only to fall into silence before starting again. Meanwhile, Hoffa kept catching glimpses of that dark red room—of the nurses replacing organs for those dying old men. But this was far from over.

One day passed.

Two days passed.

Three days.

For three whole days, Hoffa had done nothing but flee, never once striking back. By this point, it wasn't just the monster that was on the brink of insanity—even Miller, clinging to Hoffa's back, was about to lose his mind.

He had already stopped trying to understand on the first day. But what baffled him even more was that Hoffa had dragged this monster around for three days straight.

Three days without eating, drinking, or even speaking. Just running.

Miller no longer knew who the real monster was.

During these three days, the red hospital room appeared more frequently. Hoffa grew increasingly familiar with its details. And he realized something—the passage of time was not synchronized between the two worlds.

In that wretched hospital room, the nurse hadn't even finished replacing a single heart. Yet in the exhibition hall, he had spent three entire days playing this twisted game of tag with the monster.

Finally, as the third day drew to a close, the chase stopped. The insults stopped.

The monster slumped in the center of the exhibition hall, repeating the same phrase over and over:

"So boring… so boring… so boring… I need to find something else fun. I need something else…"

It had run out of words. Run out of rage. All it wanted now was to forget this accursed chase.

The transition between worlds accelerated, and the grand exhibition hall barely held together.

Hoffa looked at the exhausted, hollow-eyed monster. He dropped Miller—who was completely numb from the waist down—onto the ground, then drew his cross sword and placed it before Miller.

"Help me."

Miller understood. Supporting himself as he climbed to his feet, he ran his fingers along the blade and opened his mouth—unleashing a surge of blazing, searing fire. The roaring flames engulfed the cross sword entirely. This time, they didn't fade. Instead, they burned even fiercer.

Hoffa swung the flaming sword, his eyes closed, making a simple, effortless slash.

The pristine hall, the flying birds and flowers, the nightmare-like monster—everything was swallowed by the raging inferno and vanished.

(End of Chapter)

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