Chapter 394: Social Investigation

Lost in meditation, time seemed to slip away unnoticed. Hoffa had no idea how long had passed until he felt Miller gently shaking him. Slowly, he emerged from his trance.

Night had fallen once again.

But unlike last night's raging storm, tonight was eerily calm—so still it was almost unbelievable. Even the seawater beneath the wooden platform seemed to be asleep, without the slightest ripple.

"Look, Hoffa."

Miller, standing beside him, pointed at the sky, calling softly.

Hoffa lifted his head—and saw a sight he would never forget for the rest of his life.

The sky was a breathtaking deep blue, and through it stretched a brilliant silver band of light. Within that glowing ribbon, countless stars of varying sizes shimmered. They were so bright, so clear, that even the bluish-purple nebulae were vividly visible.

Hoffa's mouth opened slightly in awe, momentarily frozen.

"Wow!! Hoffa!! Look!! A shooting star!!"

Miller, excited like a child, clung to Hoffa's arm, pointing at the dazzling meteor streaking across the sky.

Hoffa, of course, saw it too—the silent meteor tracing its path across the heavens. His eyes grew slightly misty.

In just a fleeting moment, the meteor vanished into the sea.

Beneath the water, bioluminescent jellyfish and nocturnal fish drifted silently past the wooden platform, their bodies glowing with the faint light unique to deep-sea creatures. The scattered phosphorescence flickered and shimmered, mirroring the starlit sky above, creating a breathtaking spectacle.

Miller alternated his gaze between the stars above and the glowing marine life below, letting out a soft sigh. He kicked off his shoes, dipped his feet into the cool seawater, and leaned against Hoffa's back, exhaling gently.

In that moment, it felt as though they were the only two people left in the vast, endless world. The entire starry sky, the silent ocean—they all seemed to be quietly putting on a show just for them.

"Hoffa."

Miller rested against his back, calling his name softly.

"Hmm?"

Hoffa, still gazing at the sky, responded.

"Do you think we'll ever get another chance to sit and watch the stars like this?"

Miller's voice was gentle, unlike his usual self.

"Of course," Hoffa said lightly. "Once I defeat Sylby, we'll have all the time in the world."

"We can watch as many times as we want."

"And if that really happens… where would you go?" Miller asked.

"Hmm…"

Hoffa thought for a moment. Suddenly, he realized there was no shame in admitting it—this was, after all, his truest desire.

"I want to go fifty years into the future," he said softly. "Miller, come with me."

"Pfft."

Miller chuckled against Hoffa's back. "I'm not that powerful. In fifty years, I'll be old—probably gone by then."

"Who says that? You'll still be here."

Hoffa insisted.

"You say that like you've seen it happen." Miller muttered.

Hoffa remained silent.

Curious, Miller turned his head and asked, "Hey, Hoffa… have you actually seen me?"

"Yeah, I have… it's just—"

Hoffa murmured to himself, "But who has truly seen the real you?"

Sensing the weight behind Hoffa's words, Miller lowered his head slightly.

After a brief silence, Miller hesitated before saying, "Hoffa, have you ever thought about—"

"Thought about what?"

Miller's lips moved slightly as if he wanted to say something, but he hesitated.

"Just say it."

Miller waved his hand impatiently.

"Never mind, forget it."

That only made Hoffa more curious. He nudged Miller lightly with the back of his head.

"Come on, just say it. It's not like we just met today."

Miller: "What if… we didn't bother with whatever Sylby is doing?"

"Huh?"

Hoffa didn't understand for a moment. "Why?"

"Forget it. Just pretend I farted."

Miller blurted out at lightning speed.

Hoffa caught on and grinned. "Could it be that you're also worried about Miranda's prophecy?"

"As if! I don't care about that at all. Stop overthinking things." Miller returned to his usual lazy yet sharp demeanor.

"Really?"

Hoffa smiled.

Miller waved his hand irritably. "And what about you? You already lost once in the dream. How do you know you'll win this time?"

For a moment, Hoffa felt like he had stepped into thin air—his thoughts wavered. Once again, memories were engulfed in that blinding white light. He clenched his teeth, forcefully pushing away the unpleasant experience.

"Why not?" he said firmly. "Last time, if it weren't for Tom Riddle's interference, he would already be dead. And this time, with your help, even if Tom Riddle shows up again, he won't escape death!"

Miller sighed. "Fine, if you say so. But don't get the wrong idea—it's not like I care. Honestly, watching you die in reality might be entertaining. Just… don't let my sister see it. She's not as amused by these things as I am."

Hoffa took a deep breath and stood up. As mesmerizing as the scenery was, it reminded him of all the unfinished business he still had.

"This isn't the time for sightseeing. Let's go." He said.

Miller grabbed his shoes and got up. Hoffa bent down slightly. Miller smirked, hooked his arms around Hoffa's shoulders, and climbed onto his back.

Then, the Thunderbird took flight once more.

Hoffa carried Miller, holding onto his small raft. Guided by the North Star, they glided across the tranquil sea, flying toward their destination.

On the way, it wasn't always as peaceful as that night. Hoffa and Miller endured the relentless heat with no place to hide, suffered the hunger of catching no fish, and experienced the disorientation of losing their way. But they also encountered the kindness of a fisherman who helped them, found respite on a small island, and were guided by friendly dolphins.

Finally, on the sixth day, they arrived—dusty and exhausted—at Genoa, Italy, in the Mediterranean.

By this point, Hoffa had no confidence in keeping the news secret anymore. If Sylby's information was accurate, he must have already learned about the destruction of the Elders' Hospital. Thinking rationally, Hoffa figured he wouldn't be foolish enough to keep his assets in the same place; he would have quickly transferred or dispersed them.

Nevertheless, Hoffa decided to come here. No matter what Sylby was thinking, any action would leave behind clues, and he was determined to find them.

From the illusion of the sea, he Apparated to the bustling port of Genoa, where there were far more people than Hoffa had expected. The harbor was crowded with busy cruise ships, hot air balloons drifted through the sky, groups of Fiat cars filled the streets, and travelers dressed in bright, colorful outfits moved about.

Standing at the port, Hoffa expanded his mental field, scanning the area within his reach. He was searching for a place similar to New York Harbor, but no matter how much he looked, there was nothing of the sort within his search range.

The hardships of the journey had already worn Miller out. As soon as they landed, he dashed toward an ice cream shop by the road and bought more than ten cones in one go. Then, standing next to Hoffa with ice cream between each of his fingers, he devoured them eagerly, occasionally urging Hoffa to join him.

But Hoffa ignored the ice cream Miller handed him, striding purposefully along the old streets of Genoa, searching for any signs of unusual activity.

The streets were lined with charming, ochre-colored buildings, and crisscrossing antennas stretched between the rooftops. Rather than appearing messy, they gave the city a vibrant, lived-in feel. From time to time, people opened their windows to hang clothes on the lines outside.

Elegant balconies housed elderly artists, legs crossed, gracefully plucking the strings of their guitars. On the upper floors, couples leaned on their balconies, listening intently to the melodies drifting through the air.

Hoffa's mental field swept through the buildings, inside and out, even scanning underground, but he found nothing out of the ordinary. Compared to New York, this place felt more like an ordinary tropical seaside resort.

They walked and walked until Miller finished all his ice cream, but Hoffa still hadn't discovered anything unusual. Miller then went to a street vendor to buy some sausages, chewing on them while enjoying the view. Compared to the tense and focused Hoffa, he seemed more like a tourist on vacation.

Hoffa changed direction and continued his search. As Miller chewed on his sausage, he looked around and said, "You know, Hoffa, this place is beautiful. The pace is slow, the scenery is great... If I ever make my own money, I'd love to live in a place like this."

Hearing Miller's words, Hoffa's heart stirred slightly, and he stopped walking.

Miller bumped into him. "Huh? What's wrong?"

Hoffa gazed at the bustling shops around him, his mouth slightly open in thought. After a brief pause, he suddenly walked into a newspaper stand, picked up a newspaper, and started reading. Most of the articles were entertainment and gossip—nothing substantial.

He asked the shop owner for a pen, reading the paper as he walked to a chair near a café.

Miller hurriedly paid for the newspaper and then followed Hoffa, asking, "Did you find something?"

"How much does a newspaper cost?" Hoffa asked.

"100 lira," Miller replied. "But I paid in dollars. The owner was thrilled—dollars are worth a lot."

"So cheap," Hoffa muttered.

He read through the entire newspaper, then went to a roadside fruit stall, picked up an apple, and asked, "How much per kilo?"

"500 lira," the vendor replied, gesturing while speaking in broken English.

Hoffa didn't buy the apple. Instead, he went to a specialty shop selling ham, noting down the prices on his paper. After recording the ham's price, he moved on to a store selling flour and cornmeal, writing down those prices as well.

Miller was utterly confused by Hoffa's actions. He had no idea what Hoffa was doing and could only trail behind him, running back and forth across the streets. Hoffa continued his notes until he finally entered a small Italian restaurant by the roadside.

Looking at the bright and colorful restaurant interior, he recorded the prices on the menu before ordering a classic Margherita pizza.

Miller, watching all of this, said, "Ah, so you finally came to your senses. Skipping all the food and going straight for pizza, huh? You could've just said so—New York has pizza too, you know."

Hoffa ignored him.

Seated at the table, he continued writing on the newspaper.

Miller had no idea what Hoffa was up to and could only sit beside him, chewing his sausage while observing his strange behavior.

Before long, the restaurant owner brought over a steaming hot Margherita pizza, along with two glasses of apple juice. As the waiter finished speaking and was about to leave, Hoffa called out to him.

"Excuse me, how much do you earn per month working here?" Hoffa asked.

The rather attractive waitress was momentarily stunned by the question, then replied, "800,000 lira. Why do you ask?"

"Are you satisfied with it?" Hoffa inquired.

"It's pretty good," the waitress nodded. Then, curiously, she asked, "May I ask who you are?"

"We're government social researchers, gathering data for the next round of welfare policies," Hoffa lied smoothly. Miller, listening from the side, was utterly dumbfounded.

The waitress, however, was delighted. "Really? That's great! But honestly, I think the current wages are already good enough—there's no real need for extra welfare policies. What do you think?"

"I think you make a fair point," Hoffa replied.

"Enjoy your meal."

The waitress turned and left.

The moment she walked away, Hoffa threw his pen onto the table, his expression dark and unreadable.

Even now, Miller had no clue what Hoffa was doing. He asked, "Mr. Bach, what exactly are you up to?"

Hoffa pointed to an old residential building outside the café's glass window and said flatly, "You like blowing up buildings, don't you? Blow up that one next to it."

(End of Chapter)

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