Chapter 397: Endless Torment

Seeing Miller suddenly go mad, Hoffa was so furious he almost exploded! He rushed forward, covering Miller's mouth, and shouted, "Are you sick again?! If you hate me so much, then use the Cruciatus Curse on me! Do it! Do it!"

"I already did. Your skin's too thick," Miller replied calmly. "Besides, you won't die anyway. Let's try something new."

In the blink of an eye, a green flash streaked through the air. The man in green landed effortlessly behind Hoffa, draping an arm over his shoulder. Clicking his tongue in amusement, he said, "You two sure are brave—choosing the endless hell? I won't disappoint you."

Hoffa's chest heaved as he glared at Miller.

"Let's suffer together," Miller said with a smile.

As soon as he spoke, he was thrown high into the air. From beneath the ground, a massive fist shot up, slamming into Miller with such force that his lower body twisted unnaturally, and blood spurted from his mouth.

Hoffa watched in stunned silence.

The green-clad man beside him smirked. "I've heard some people are born with a twisted nature, relishing in inhuman torture. Could your companion be one of them? I'm curious—how long can your minds hold out here?"

Hoffa clenched his fists and tried to use Ghost Walk again to escape with Miller. But just as he had the thought, a powerful mental shockwave struck from behind. His brain reeled, and in an instant, he could no longer sense even a trace of magic.

"I don't know how you escaped last time, but I won't be deceived twice. This time, enjoy yourself," the green-clad man said.

He lifted Hoffa and hurled him into the air, then followed, pressing his hands against their heads before slamming them together. A sickening crack rang out.

Then, two heavy punches followed—one for each of them—sending Hoffa and Miller crashing to the ground like meteors, leaving deep craters where they landed.

And then, the fists came down like falling stars, pummeling Hoffa relentlessly, leaving him utterly defenseless. Bound within the field of fear, he could no longer perceive magic at all. Before long, he and Miller were nothing more than pulped flesh at the bottom of the pit.

Yet, his consciousness remained.

Hoffa knew this world was an illusion. He had to escape, destroy Sylby's source of wealth, disrupt his plans, and return to the future—fifty years ahead.

With that thought, the mangled heap of flesh began to wriggle, slowly reforming into human shape.

When Hoffa opened his eyes, he found himself lying at the bottom of the pit, beside another shifting mass of flesh—Miller's. His face was unrecognizable.

Against all odds, despite the unimaginable torment, Miller was also regenerating. And not just that—he was smiling.

"Oh, my poor brother-in-law, look at us now. Do you regret anything yet?" he slurred through mangled lips.

"You… you're a demon," Hoffa gasped.

Miller grinned. "Even now, you still haven't changed?"

"I don't understand… I really don't," Hoffa murmured, pain lacing his voice. "Why is it always those closest to me who stand in my way?"

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

A rain of arrows descended upon them.

Just as their bodies had barely reformed, Miller and Hoffa were skewered again—turned into human pincushions.

The green-clad man landed lightly before them, bow in hand. Bending down, he tilted his head. "Still chatting? Am I just air to you?"

"You're not very good at torture," Miller noted seriously, his body riddled with arrows. "If I were you, I wouldn't be so quick about it. I'm not even in pain—I just feel numb."

Hoffa nearly lost his mind.

The green-clad man stood up, shook his head, and laughed.

"I've maintained this world for centuries, and this is the first time I've heard such a request. But you make a good point. I have much to learn from you two."

He stepped back, leaving the pit, and walked to the center of the street. Spreading his arms wide, he shouted,

"Come, my friends! Witness the execution of true evil! Behold the punishment of those who seek to disrupt our harmonious world! This is the pinnacle of artistic torment! Let them bring a touch of dark entertainment to our sweet and peaceful lives!"

The citizens of Genoa stopped their work. Artists let go of their instruments. Travelers ceased their sightseeing. Lovers halted their embraces. From all directions, they gathered around the pit.

One by one, the arrows were yanked out. One by one, the stakes were hammered down. Hoffa and Miller were stripped and tied to new wooden posts.

A dense crowd stood before them, their eyes alight with madness. Slowly, they drew small, glinting knives from their belts.

"Enjoy it—the release of your darkest desires. Enjoy it—the feel of the blade slicing through flesh. Enjoy it—the rush of blood spilling forth. Enjoy it—the melody of screams. Enjoy it—the agony of your fellow man… and the unparalleled pleasure built upon that suffering."

As the green-clad man chanted, a knife slid lightly across Hoffa's skin.

A scream tore from his throat.

He trembled uncontrollably, terrified of what was to come.

Then, another blade. And another.

Hoffa thrashed against his bindings, screaming in agony.

Through the pain, he caught sight of Miller, who was also being flayed. His face contorted in pain, but his gaze never left Hoffa.

Hoffa almost couldn't bear to meet those eyes.

That bastard… He hadn't made a sound. Not one. What was he thinking? He'd rather endure this than give Hoffa even a moment of reprieve.

"This… is what you wanted?" Hoffa snarled through clenched teeth. "Watching us get carved apart? Watching yourself suffer—does it make you happy?"

"It hurts, but it's exhilarating," Miller gritted out, stubborn as ever.

"You're insane."

"I'm not insane, Hoffa. Maybe… you think I am. But from the beginning, I've always known exactly what I'm doing."

Hoffa shut his eyes.

Of course, he knew what he was doing, too. It was the only thing keeping him sane through this torment. But what he couldn't understand was how Miller's resolve remained unshaken—even under this relentless suffering.

Time stretched endlessly beneath the knives, and the torment went on for three full days.

By the end, Hoffa and Miller had been reduced to little more than piles of shattered bone and minced flesh.

Yet, because of their unyielding spirits, their flesh writhed and reformed, over and over again.

Under Miller's "guidance," the green-clad man perfected his craft. He learned to time his tortures perfectly—waiting just until they were nearly healed before beginning anew, ensuring they never grew numb to the pain.

For three days, the frenzied citizens of Genoa and the green-clad man butchered them endlessly.

By the third day, Hoffa was nearing his limit.

Bloodied beyond recognition, he turned to Miller and rasped, "Come with me. If you really want to talk, let's do it by a warm fire. I'll make you tea. If you want to torture me, do it yourself. I've had enough of being torn apart by strangers."

Miller, just as mangled, trembled as he hoarsely asked, "Then… how do we escape?"

(Slash. Slash. More flesh cut away.)

"He can torment us like this… only because his psychic power far surpasses ours. This is his domain. We can't break free, can't see reality, can't even use magic… But… Miller… New York. That monster proved it's possible to merge countless minds… But such a mind would be chaotic, purely instinctual… The only way… for it to act so deliberately… is if the heir of Slytherin is controlling it…"

Hoffa struggled to speak through the torment.

"I've… known that for a long time. Stop wasting my time," Miller growled, his patience finally reaching its end.

Hoffa gasped, "Then… why is Riddle's power… greater than ours? He isn't stronger… he isn't even more skilled than you or me… His mastery of dark magic is unrivaled, yes… but why can he do this?"

Miller's eyes darkened. "It must be… because he's fused with a spirit that creates illusions."

"Yes."

"So what? So what? We know, yet we are still no match for him. We can't even resist."

"We can't do it alone, Miller."

Hoffa's voice grew lower: "We... none of us alone can do it. But clearly, in this space... spirits can merge."

"You and I are both Ravenclaws. We've known each other since we were eleven. We've been through countless adventures. If we merge our spirits, the entity we create will surely—surely—be able to surpass the monster before us, this cursed fortress."

On the wooden stake, Miller, bloodied and mutilated, was momentarily stunned. He looked at Hoffa, his eyes gradually lighting up, as if he had forgotten about the blades dancing across his flesh.

"Then... how exactly do you plan to merge with me?"

Miller asked in confusion.

Hoffa thought for a moment, and an answer surfaced in his mind.

"Legilimency." He said.

"You want me to use Legilimency on you?" Miller asked in disbelief.

"Yes, and I will use Legilimency on you as well. But my skill in the spell is lacking—I may not succeed."

Miller fell into contemplation.

Hoffa could no longer bear the pain. It felt like suffocating, the kind that could still be endured while walking down a road, but became unbearable the closer he got to the end.

"Well? Miller?" He asked impatiently.

"Are you sure you want to exchange emotions and memories with me?"

Miller was still uncertain. He looked at Hoffa, hesitating.

"I'm sure." Hoffa said decisively.

"But... I have many things..."

Miller lowered his head and whispered, "things I don't want you to see."

"I can't take this anymore. Damn it, Miller, do you think I have no privacy or secrets of my own?" Hoffa said, "Just do it, quickly! This is the only way we can escape!"

Miller finally lifted his head again and asked seriously, "Are you absolutely sure you want to merge with me?"

"How many times do I have to say it? I'm sure. Completely and absolutely sure."

"Are you sure that after seeing into my mind, you won't hate me?" Miller asked weakly.

Hoffa was taken aback. He looked into Miller's eyes and thought of Miranda again. Shaking his head, he said softly, "I won't. I never have. Never."

"Then there's no need for something as troublesome as Legilimency."

Amidst the repeated lacerations, Miller suddenly reached out with his bloodied hand and grasped another bloodied hand bound to the wooden stake. Their fingers interlocked. Then, he muttered an incantation:

"Forbidden Spirit Fusion."

Hoffa's vision went black, and in that instant, all the pain left him. It felt as if he had embarked on a strange journey.

On this journey, he saw a boy stepping into a train compartment, saw a lost boy wandering the school halls, saw an impulsive boy atop a high tower. Reckless fool—does he not realize how deep the darkness he's approaching is?

In the blink of an eye, he saw a boy wiping tables in a rundown bar—ha, he'd grown taller, but still just as poor. How pitiful. Maybe I should let him stay with me. Then, he saw a figure inside a massive Shield Charm, saw hair rapidly turning gray. Ugh, people like him are so irritating. How can I make him suffer a little? Never mind, I'll give him some of Aya's medicine—it looks bitter enough.

Wait... was this Miller's perspective?

No, Hoffa thought. No, this is my perspective.

The images stretched like film on a projector.

Soon, he saw that same silent boy sitting in the train compartment again. He was taller now, but he looked exhausted—truly exhausted. Hoffa had never seen someone so weary before. What had happened to make him like this? Ah, never mind. He'll be fine after some rest. After all, he's done so many remarkable things. A little fatigue is nothing.

As the images stretched again, he found himself standing alone beneath a pumpkin lantern, watching people rush past. The two companions who had once spent Halloween with him were gone. Time moved so fast. The world was ruthless. Fate was unpredictable.

How was that guy doing out there?

Never mind. It didn't matter. Just an old companion—not that important.

He tossed a well-read newspaper into the fireplace, watching the flames consume the photos until they turned to ashes.

At some point, the rapid stream of images slowed, becoming clearer, brighter. The dull black-and-white tones turned vivid and colorful.

To his surprise, he saw that same boy sleeping on a park bench among the homeless. He had grown thinner but... somehow more handsome? Wait, what? How did that happen? Unbelievable.

A small motorcycle zoomed down the street, and suddenly, someone behind him wrapped their arms around his waist.

That moment was slowed to the extreme, as if the memory's owner had replayed it countless times.

Hoffa no longer remembered who he was. He only felt an unfamiliar sweetness melting inside him.

He saw a steaming bathtub at night—a girl, overwhelmed by emotion, slowly reaching between her legs.

But the sweetness faded in an instant.

No matter how much the memory's owner cherished that moment, the scene rushed forward.

The snow-covered ground.

A soft kiss placed gently on his head—so helpless, so bittersweet.

Then, the images darkened again.

This time, he stood alone in a forbidden library, a torch in his hand, surrounded by towering bookshelves filled with banned magic. The dim flame flickered, barely keeping the vast darkness at bay.

And there, among the gnarled roots of an ancient tree, sat an old man, slowly withering away.

He heard Miranda's voice, trembling, sobbing softly:

"Hoffa..."

And with that, Hoffa's consciousness faded completely—along with Miller's.

On the wooden stakes, the two bloodied, mutilated bodies remained motionless, hand in hand. Their wounds no longer regenerated, their eyes empty and lifeless. Blood dripped steadily from them, staining the earth beneath them crimson.

Around the stakes, the frenzied citizens continued slicing into their flesh with small knives. But no matter how much they cut, the bodies gave no response.

Sensing the disappearance of their spirits, a man in vibrant summer attire set down his coffee on a nearby street. He stretched lazily, got up from his bamboo chair, and smirked.

"I thought they'd last longer. Three days, and they're already done? Hmph. Overestimating themselves."

He strolled leisurely to the wooden stakes, clapped his hands, and announced, "Alright, show's over. The dark party is finished. Go back and enjoy your lives in the sun."

The madness in the citizens' eyes faded. Looking at the two mangled bodies on the stakes, they screamed and fled in all directions.

"Pathetic."

The man in green snorted.

With a casual wave of his hand, the bloodied corpses fell into a pit, buried beneath a cascade of rubble.

The street was once again neat and pristine. The man dusted off his hands and turned to leave.

But after just two steps, he hesitated. Something felt... off.

Turning back, he stared at the buried bodies, his expression shifting.

A faint, almost imperceptible ripple of energy seeped from beneath the street.

"Persistent ghosts..."

He muttered, raising his arm.

In an instant, his arm transformed into a massive, writhing serpent. It lunged forward, its enormous jaws crashing into the earth, shattering the ground with a thunderous crack.

The serpent writhed. The man in green took a step back, his face twisting in shock.

Something was lodged in the serpent's mouth.

And it refused to let go.

With a furious roar, the man yanked the serpent's head from the ground—only to see a strange young man sitting calmly between its fangs.

The boy raised a single finger, pressing it against the serpent's razor-sharp teeth.

His golden eyes gleamed.

His shoulder-length black hair framed delicate, elegant features—yet his lips were unnervingly sharp.

From his neck down, his body was covered in eerie violet tattoos, creeping like vines over his skin.

A sinister presence clung to him, impossible to define.

(End of Chapter)

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