Chapter 391: The Blood of the World

After everything disappeared, Hoffa finally realized that he was standing at the entrance of the fire escape, gripping the wooden handle in his hand. From start to finish, he had not moved an inch. And right in front of him was that incredibly filthy and wretched place.

Inside the dimly lit, foul-smelling hospital ward, old men lay haphazardly on iron-framed beds. They were skin and bones, their bodies covered in tubes, unmoving.

Beside their beds sat several nurses. They were far from the clean and efficient figures Hoffa had seen in the illusion. In reality, their white uniforms hadn't been washed in who knew how long and were completely soaked in red. Their faces were gaunt and smeared with grime, devoid of any spirit.

Hoffa drifted silently behind the nurses. They were in the middle of replacing an old man's internal organs. But to call it an organ transplant was misleading—there was no medical precision, no adherence to any proper procedure. The shriveled, emaciated old man lay on the bed with his chest cavity wide open. Most of his organs were an unnatural shade of blackish-red, writhing weakly like a dying, starved horse.

His frail body was connected to a tangle of tubes leading to a machine that emitted a steady "滴哒, 滴哒" (tick-tock) sound.

With lifeless eyes, the nurses replaced the organs with blood-stained hands, handling the operation as if they were merely swapping parts in a factory.

When Hoffa and Miller appeared, they neither screamed nor fled. Instead, they simply continued their mechanical, repetitive motions in eerie silence.

As Hoffa watched, one old man's heart withered at a visibly rapid pace. It shrank, darkened, and even turned to charcoal before his eyes. A nurse then carefully placed a fresh, pulsating heart into his open chest cavity.

"You can just put the organ in like that? No need for a match?" Hoffa asked flatly, breaking the silence.

"The drugs suppress rejection and force the hearts to work," the nurse answered in a low, submissive voice.

"Look, it's grabbing onto the heart."

Following the nurse's pointing finger, Hoffa saw a tendril of blackish-purple gas seep out from the old man's severed blood vessels. Like a writhing tentacle, it coiled around the newly transplanted heart, which then began to twitch violently, like a horse struck by a whip.

Despite the stark contrast between this reality and the illusory world from before, Hoffa noticed something eerily familiar. Hanging from the IV stand beside the old man was a small crystal vial identical to the one in the illusion. Inside, a faintly purple liquid swirled slowly, emanating an unfathomable aura.

"What is this drug?" Hoffa asked.

"The Blood of the World. That's what they call it," the nurse responded, her tone numb and indifferent.

"Do you even know what it really is?" Hoffa pressed.

The nurse shook her head. "We don't know anything."

Hoffa continued, "How long have you been doing this?"

At his question, the nurses flinched slightly, shrinking back as they lowered their heads. One of them muttered, "T-Three years."

"Three years. How many organs have you replaced in that time?"

"We don't know… One per person per day, sometimes two…"

Their voices trembled, filled with nothing but despair, numbness, and an overwhelming, inescapable fear.

As he observed them, Hoffa suddenly thought of livestock in a slaughterhouse—filthy, covered in excrement, alive but utterly lifeless. Their eyes were devoid of spirit, like soulless husks awaiting their fate.

"Why don't you run?" Hoffa asked softly.

"There's no escape. This place is sealed off. Nothing can come in except organs and food."

Hoffa understood. Such cruel, inhumane acts were unfolding openly in the heart of this grand city—a suffocating realization.

"If you're going to kill us, just do it," one of the nurses suddenly sobbed. They pleaded, "Stop asking questions. We don't know anything… We don't want this…"

Hoffa looked at them in surprise.

"We're going to hell."

A nurse spoke, her voice trembling but unwavering. "Every day, we watch bloody, raw organs pass through our hands. We know, one day, we will go to hell. This land is disgusting, revolting… Please, just end it. Free us. We don't want to come back to this place ever again. I don't want to have been born into this world…"

Hoffa froze. The nurse's words were soft, but they carried an unshakable determination—an indomitable will that even he, as a wizard, found deeply unsettling.

Miller stepped forward and shouted, "What are you talking about?! If you're being forced, then run! The fire escape is open—if you want to leave, then leave now!"

Unexpectedly, the three nurses remained motionless. They didn't even make an attempt to escape.

Hoffa, however, stopped Miller. Shaking his head, he said, "We're not going to do that. If you want to end it, do it yourselves—it has nothing to do with me. If you want to die, then take it outside. I still have questions for these people."

Miller looked at Hoffa in shock, as if he was seeing him for the first time.

Hoffa's indifference was chilling. The nurses stood up from the beds and slipped past him one by one. Whether they were going to flee or take their own lives, he didn't care. Decades in the dream world had taught him that some things were beyond his ability to change.

"You're so cold, Hoffa," Miller whispered beside him.

Hoffa didn't respond. His fingers traced the edge of an iron-framed bed as he approached the old man with an open chest cavity. Inside, the purple-black gas slithered through his organs. The old man lay there with a look of contentment, a blissful smile on his face—completely oblivious to the fact that he had been cut open in reality.

"Hhhaahh… hhhaahh…"

A violent tremor made Hoffa avert his gaze.

On another iron-framed bed, an old man suddenly convulsed. His chest heaved up and down, emitting strange noises, his arms twisting uncontrollably. Hoffa walked over.

Under the enshrouding black-purple gas, the old man's body began to wither at a visible rate. His moisture drained away bit by bit, his bones protruded more and more, his eyes rolled back, yet his face still bore a satisfied smile.

滴!

滴!

滴!

滴!

The machine beside him blared an alarm, even prompting a voice alert:

"Please replace organ. Please replace organ. Please replace organ."

Hoffa, of course, had no intention of doing so. He simply stood there, watching. The old man convulsed violently for a while before his skin and veins paled, draining of all color. His flesh shriveled, clinging tightly to his skeleton. Within less than three minutes, he had gone from violent seizures to faint twitches—then, finally, absolute stillness.

The alarm ceased.

All that remained on the bed was a bundle of tiny, shrunken bones—so small they looked like they belonged to a child.

"What the hell is this… A Slytherin curse?" Miller muttered.

"No, Slytherin's curses are painful. Look at them—these people die happy."

Miller swallowed, glancing around uneasily. "My god… What is this place even doing? And those monsters in the illusion—what were they?"

"They're dreaming. Those monsters… are probably their own creations, meant to protect themselves."

Hoffa removed the crystal vial from the shriveled old man's IV stand. This time, he didn't touch it directly. Instead, he lifted it by the tube.

At that moment, another bed creaked.

This time, however, it wasn't another old man drying up and dying.

It was someone slightly younger. The man clutched his head, groaning in pain as he sat up and shook his head violently, mumbling nonstop.

Hoffa stared at him for a moment and noticed that his IV's crystal vial had run dry.

After mumbling for a while, the man noticed Hoffa and Miller and asked, "Who… are you?"

"Who are you?" Hoffa countered.

"I… I'm Locke… Locke Martin…" the man muttered. "I think that's my name…"

"Who is Locke Martin?" Hoffa asked.

The man's face went blank, as if he didn't know the answer himself.

Miller rubbed his chin. "I've heard of him. He was North America's most famous arms dealer… also one of the world's biggest oil tycoons. But supposedly, he died in 1943. So why is he here?"

The old man on the bed suddenly had a moment of realization.

"Yes… Yes, you reminded me… I sell oil and weapons… But what is this goddamn place? It stinks—absolutely reeks…"

He suddenly remembered something, and his expression shifted from confusion to severity. He cursed loudly, "Where's the nurse? Damn it, damn it! Where's the nurse? Where's my medicine?! Where's my Blood of the World?! You worthless scum! Despicable parasites!"

However, the nurse was already gone. He shouted for a long time, but no one responded. His gaze inevitably turned to Hoffa.

His withered face was filled with intense longing, a desire burning fiercely in his eyes, reminding Hoffa of what he must have looked like in his youth. Hoffa looked into those eyes and thought of Sylby.

"Hey, kid, what are you holding?!"

The old man noticed the pale purple crystal vial in Hoffa's hand and reached out. "That's not yours. Give it back to me."

Hoffa took a step back. "Give it back? Can you even move?"

The old man lunged at Hoffa but collapsed to the ground due to his frail body. Lying on the filthy floor, he pounded it in frustration, cursing, "Damn it! Can't you let an old man relive his youth just once? Why must you be so cruel? Why must you be so cruel?"

Hoffa glanced at the crystal vial in his hand and said indifferently, "I can give it to you, but I have one condition."

"Name it," the old man blurted out.

"How do you know the Half-Blood King? Tell me, and I'll give it to you," Hoffa asked.

"Ah, that guy? I've known him for a long time," the old man slowly climbed up from the floor. "I met him back in the 19th century. At that time, he used incredibly advanced technology to cure my father's illness, extending his life by at least fifteen years. Later, when I grew old and fell ill, he didn't use those cold metal treatments on me. Instead, he saved me with fresh organ transplants. It was then that he introduced me to this."

He pointed at the crystal vial in Hoffa's hand, his eyes filled with yearning. "Now, can I have it?"

"Well…"

Hoffa pulled his hand back and continued asking, "What is the Blood of the World?"

The old man waved his hand impatiently. "I don't know. But as long as I take it, I can enter a whole new world. In that world, I won't age. In that world, I will never die. In that world, there are no scheming plots or endless betrayals like in reality. In that world, I am the supreme ruler."

"Hah."

Miller sneered. "Aren't you already supreme in this reality? So much money, such high status—yet you have to seek that kind of illusion?"

"What's the point? What's the point?!" The old man roared, pointing around. "Look at what they've done to me! Look at the place I'm living in! What do you know?! As long as I'm alive, even for one more day! One more day! I can't do whatever I want! That damn work, endless documents, countless business deals, orders from the president, dealings with Congress, and those two damned political parties bickering endlessly! Only in that place can I find peace! Only in that place… that place…"

The old man could no longer contain himself. He reached out to Hoffa, pleading, "Give it to me."

Hoffa remained unmoved and asked, "How much does the Half-Blood King charge for the Blood of the World?"

"Are you done yet?! So many questions!!"

The old man roared, his face twisted with rage.

Hoffa didn't budge, not even blinking.

After several deep breaths, the old man had no choice but to relent. "One hundred million pounds a year."

Hoffa asked, "How many members does the Half-Blood Church have?"

"No fewer than a hundred."

"Do they all pay?"

"Yes, they all pay."

Hoffa's heart skipped a beat.

Miller felt a chill down his spine. "Hoffa…"

Hoffa asked, "Do you think we could start a company that makes ten billion pounds a year?"

"That would require the combined efforts of all the goblins at Gringotts," Miller replied.

"Ah, now it all makes sense."

Hoffa murmured, "Sylby sells these dying tycoons a drug that traps them in a dream world, giving them an extraordinary experience far beyond reality. But this extraordinary experience still requires a physical foundation. These aging tycoons' bodies can't withstand the Half-Blood King's drug, so they have to constantly collect fresh organs to sustain their dreamlike existence.

Meanwhile, Sylby uses the membership fees from these tycoons to amass soldiers and expand his influence. No wonder he always has unlimited resources. Who knows how many more places like this exist in the world."

"I've told you everything I know. Now give me the drug! Hurry!"

The old man was growing impatient, urging nonstop.

Hoffa said calmly, "You want to use this? But there are no nurses around now. Who's going to replace your organs?"

"That's none of your business! Look at me! What difference does it make whether I'm dead or alive?! Inside that world, time is infinite. That's my true home! Hurry! Give it to me! Give it to me!"

Miller couldn't take it anymore. He strode over to Lockmartin, grabbed him, and with a wave of his hand, a burst of flames blasted a hole in the hospital wall. Dragging the old man to the burning gap, he dangled him over the edge—dozens of floors high.

"If you want to die so badly, just jump and restart your life!"

Miller sneered. "Why even take the drug?"

"No!! Let go of me!! Let go of me!!"

The old man was terrified, screaming, "I can pay you! I can pay you! Look, I own five thousand acres of land in North America, ten billion worth of plantations in South America, I have arms deals and oil fields! Let me go, name your price!!"

"Wow~"

Miller tilted his head and asked Hoffa, "Brother-in-law, what do you think? Should we take the deal?"

Hoffa gazed into the desperate eyes of the tycoon and said indifferently, "I once encountered a situation in my nightmares when I was the Minister of Magic. There was a place where houses were ridiculously expensive. Everyone cursed the high prices, but everyone wanted to buy those houses. They would do anything—take out loans, fight for them—so the houses kept getting more and more expensive. The more expensive they got, the more people cursed them, and the more they cursed, the higher the prices rose. Miller, do you get what I mean?"

Miller was momentarily stunned—this was the first time Hoffa had voluntarily mentioned something from his nightmare.

"Oh, I get it."

With that, he grinned wickedly and loosened his grip.

As his hand slipped slightly, Lockmartin screamed and kicked frantically. "Wait!! I know what you want! You're after the Half-Blood King, aren't you? But do you know where the rest of them are?! Let me go! Let me go!!"

Hoffa gestured with his finger. Miller, with a look of disdain, tossed him back onto the ground. The old man, frail as a ragdoll, landed at Hoffa's feet, likely breaking a few bones as he groaned in pain.

Hoffa slowly crouched down and shook the crystal vial before him.

"Speak. Tell me, and I'll go find them. Then you'll be free."

Lockmartin, at the peak of his agony, stared at the crystal vial. His reflection in the glass showed his younger self, the face of his youth. He reached out, entranced.

"The rest… they're in Genoa… guarded by the Half-Blood King's elite forces. He once invited me there for treatment… but I was too confident… too arrogant… I regret it… I regret not listening to him…"

As he spoke, he reached out toward the vial suspended in the air. This time, Hoffa didn't stop him. The moment he touched it, a satisfied smile spread across his face. He clenched it tightly, his bony hand bulging with veins like iron hooks.

"But it doesn't matter… I'm about to wake up again… on the other side of that world… where this filthy reality doesn't exist… where a gift, the most beautiful gift, awaits me… Ah… the golden years… the best time of my life… Don't you agree, my precious?"

Murmuring like a possessed man, he pulled the stopper and swallowed the pale purple liquid in one gulp.

The crystal vial clattered to the ground.

Suddenly, he stood up—revitalized, as if reclaiming his youthful dominance. Hoffa tensed, pulling Miller behind him and raising his sword in caution.

But no other movement followed.

Lockmartin, arms outstretched, began to shrivel. Within seconds, his body twisted and collapsed, as if consumed by an invisible fire. In mere moments, he was reduced to bones—and then even the bones crumbled into ash, vanishing without a trace.

(End of Chapter)

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