Chapter 399: Mind and Heart

Hoffa tapped several times, but Riddle did not wake up. It wasn't until Hoffa pinched his fingers and placed the bottle of World's Blood on the table beside him that Riddle shuddered slightly and slowly opened his eyes.

"Mimi Hawk?"

Half-asleep and dazed, Tom Riddle muttered in confusion.

"To hell with your Mihawk! You're still dreaming, aren't you?" Miller cursed.

His voice echoed through the empty, desolate church. Immediately, the sound of hurried footsteps approached from all directions. Figures emerged from the darkness, drawing their wands and aiming them at Hoffa and Miller.

"Hey! Who are you? How did you get in here?"

The hooded first-generation Death Eaters questioned them.

But Hoffa and Miller paid no attention to these lackeys. Their eyes remained fixed on Tom Riddle. It took Riddle quite some time to fully wake up from his sleep. When he finally recognized the figures before him, his whole body convulsed, and he nearly leaped up, screaming aloud:

"Bach! You—!?"

"It's me."

Hoffa responded indifferently, pressing Riddle firmly onto the chair, preventing him from moving.

Riddle froze for a second before instinctively reaching for the yew wand at his waist. But Miller was faster. Before Riddle could react, Miller flicked his fingers and cast a Disarming Charm. The yew wand spun through the air and skidded far across the floor.

With his weapon taken away, Riddle immediately began to tremble. The Death Eaters behind him were stunned, shouting in alarm:

"Let go of our master!"

Some of them raised their wands, preparing to cast spells.

"STOP!!"

A sharp voice commanded.

The one who spoke was none other than Riddle himself.

A forced smile—one that looked uglier than crying—appeared on his face as he turned to Hoffa and said, "We can talk things over, can't we? No need for violence."

"Smart choice. You wouldn't want to test speed against a Metamorphmagus."

Hoffa said, "If I wanted to kill you, you'd already be dead—many times over."

Whether it was the lingering memory of his dream or the reality sinking in, Riddle's body gradually relaxed. He slumped into the chair, a sarcastic and indifferent tone in his voice.

"Oh? Then tell me, what brings the legendary Metamorphmagus Hoffa Bach to my doorstep? And by the way, if you came looking for the Half-Blood, you'll be disappointed—I sent him on a mission."

"You sent him away? Hah."

Hoffa sneered. "Where did you send him?"

"What's it to you?" Riddle muttered, barely perceptibly curling his lips in disdain.

Hoffa noticed that flicker of contempt and let go of his grip.

At that moment, though Riddle appeared nonchalant, his body was tense. Seeing Hoffa's movement, he immediately shrieked:

"I'm warning you! If you dare to harm me—even a single hair—I'll lift the Slytherin curse on the Half-Blood immediately!!"

Hoffa hesitated for a brief second before raising his hand and slapping Tom Riddle across the face.

SMACK!

The crisp sound echoed through the church, leaving Riddle stunned. The Death Eaters watching were equally dumbfounded. Only Miller stifled a laugh, his eyes fixed on Hoffa.

"You think you can scare me, Tom? Even if you release the Half-Blood King, I'll kill him too." Hoffa's voice was cold.

Riddle was dumbstruck. He stared blankly at the man before him, whose presence alone exuded an overwhelming, mountain-like force.

In that moment of dazed realization, he became painfully aware of how vast the gap between them had become. The orphanage classmate he once knew was now so far beyond him that the mere thought of it sent a sharp sting through his mind. It was humiliating—so humiliating that he clenched his fists tightly and bit his lip in frustration, hissing through his teeth:

"Well, aren't you impressive, Bach? I'd love to see if you're just bluffing."

"Where did he go?"

Hoffa asked again.

"Oh-ho, aren't you supposed to be all-powerful?" Riddle sneered venomously. "Why would a wizard of your caliber need to ask a shadow for information?"

Sensing the nearly deranged killing intent radiating from Riddle, Miller raised a hand toward him, magic energy rippling ominously. But Hoffa pressed Miller's hand down.

"We can't kill him," Hoffa whispered.

"Why not?" Miller retorted defiantly. "I couldn't stand this snake back in school, and look at what he's done now. Killing him would be doing the world a favor."

Hoffa shook his head and murmured into Miller's ear, "First, his soul isn't whole. Killing him won't work. Second, I can't afford to make an enemy of him—not yet."

Realization flickered in Miller's eyes, and he slowly lowered his hand.

Hoffa looked at Riddle with a mix of disdain and regret. No one despised the ruthless, self-serving man before him more than Hoffa did. But just like Nicolas Flamel, Riddle was a key figure in the great war fifty years from now. If Hoffa wanted to maintain the stability of the timeline, he had to ensure Riddle lived through these fifty years—at least for now.

Bending down, Hoffa adjusted Riddle's disheveled collar.

Riddle stared at him, his eyes nearly splitting with rage.

Hoffa met his gaze for a moment before speaking:

"You're such a fool, Riddle. A fool. How could someone as cunning as you make such a pathetic choice? Working for a Half-Blood King? That's the kind of mistake a naive idiot like me would make. Not you, right?"

"I don't work for anyone. I work for myself." Riddle sneered. "And by the way, the person you've been hunting as a rival is nothing more than my servant. He bears my mark—the mark of the Death Eaters! He works for me."

"Then tell me—who is guarding the dragon's treasure? Who is locked away in a cramped, dark room, living in a stupor, day after day?"

Riddle's face twisted. His chest heaved violently as he snarled, "I'm not living in a stupor! I'm conducting a great experiment, Bach—an experiment that will shake the entire wizarding world! When I succeed, everyone will see me in a new light!"

Miller scoffed from the side, "Experiment, huh? Without even a cauldron? Riddle, did you return all your school supplies to the professors or something?"

"Stay out of this, you filthy half-blood!!"

Riddle roared.

Annoyed, Miller raised a finger at Tom Riddle, prepared to blast him into dust with a magic cannon. But Hoffa quickly grabbed Miller's hand and held it down. Frustrated, Miller kicked over a metal stand and plopped down onto the face of a sleeping old man.

"A 'great experiment,' Riddle. You mean this?"

Hoffa gestured toward the bottle on the table, which emitted a soft, violet glow.

"Do you even know what this is? Do you understand its true purpose?"

"It's a substance that enhances a wizard's mind—a tool for spiritual cultivation. It allows one's mental training to progress at an accelerated rate," Riddle said warily. If he could, he would have hidden the precious bottle away, but Hoffa had him trapped.

Hoffa chuckled. "That's what the Half-Blood King told you, isn't it?"

Riddle's lips twitched.

"Then tell me, did you ever ask your 'servant'—what exactly are these people lying around in this church doing? Have you even thought about it?"

"They are training as well! They are ascetics who neither eat nor drink!"

"Hahahahahaha~"

Hoffa burst into laughter, shaking his head in amusement.

Riddle's face burned with humiliation. But he was no fool—he quickly began to deduce unsettling truths from Hoffa's words. He glanced at the bottle of World's Blood beside him, deep in thought.

When Hoffa's laughter subsided, he sighed.

"You can't control him, Riddle. Even without magic, he's beyond your control."

"What do you want with Sylby?" Riddle asked. "If you truly don't care."

Hoffa glanced at Miller, who sat to the side, visibly agitated. After merging minds with Miller and experiencing those memories and emotions, the deliberately maintained boundaries between them began to blur. The voices he had repeatedly denied gradually faded away.

"My wife was taken by Sylby," Hoffa said softly.

Though his voice was barely audible, it struck Miller like a bolt of lightning. His frustration instantly turned to shock, his face going pale as he sat frozen on the shelf.

Even Riddle was taken aback. The future Dark Lord couldn't help but reveal a trace of gossiping curiosity. "You? A wife? Who are you talking about? Surely, you don't mean that tomboy Goshak?"

Miller lowered his head, clenching his hands on his knees.

Hoffa didn't deny it. He nodded. "Yes. I'm going to rescue her."

Riddle burst into laughter, a rare fit of crude amusement. "You actually have a thing for this, Bach? Even rabbits don't eat the grass around their burrow, but you just hop from one to another—one dies, and you swap them out. Is something wrong with your head? Is something wrong with your head? You know, over the years, I've often felt my mind wasn't entirely stable, yet even I never abandoned my pursuit of power over a woman."

Hoffa could endure Riddle's venomous mockery, but Miller couldn't. His face twisted in fury as he stood and took a step toward Tom Riddle. However, the moment Hoffa gave him a look, he stopped in his tracks, standing motionless.

Riddle stopped laughing and eyed the unfamiliar tattooed woman warily.

Hoffa said, "Maybe my mind isn't normal either. But people have different desires, Riddle. I want my wife, and you want power. Doesn't that make for a simple collaboration?"

Riddle still didn't agree; he hesitated.

"Riddle, don't take this the wrong way, but what's the point of working for someone else? Your subordinates call you 'Dark Lord,' yet here you are in Genoa, watching over a bunch of Muggles. Ha! And you call yourself the heir of Slytherin?"

"Don't tell me how to do things!!"

Tom roared. "Who do you think you are?!"

Hoffa wisely shut his mouth.

"Tell me what these Muggles are here for, and I'll tell you where that cripple went," Riddle said loudly, as if issuing a command. But Hoffa knew Riddle had already conceded; this was just his way of saving face in front of his men.

"These people are the Half-Blood King's financial backing—his assets. Every single one of them was once a billionaire. But they've grown old, too old, nearly at death's door.

"To survive, they have no choice but to use others' organs to sustain themselves. And to suppress rejection and keep their lives enjoyable, they use the Half-Blood King's product—the pale purple liquid you're holding. Guess how much they've paid to extend their lives?"

Tom Riddle asked, "How much?"

"One hundred million pounds," Hoffa said slowly. "Per year."

Tom Riddle was stunned.

Hoffa smiled and stoked the fire further.

"I imagine your loyal servant hasn't exactly been showering you with riches."

Crash!!

The table was overturned, and the crystal-clear Blood of the World shattered on the floor.

Tom Riddle bellowed in rage, "That old bastard tricked me! He tricked me!!"

As he roared, a realization hit him. His breath hitched, and he looked around, nostrils flaring.

What was this??

It took him until now to see it—he was sitting atop a veritable mountain of treasure, surrounded on all sides by wealth beyond imagination, and he had been completely unaware. If he could seize it all, if he could grasp every last resource, how much could he accomplish?!

"Tom, Tom."

Hoffa called to him coldly a few times.

But at that moment, Tom Riddle was drowning in his own mad fantasies, deaf to Hoffa's words. Billions lay within his reach. He licked his lips, his face flashing with the same beastly ecstasy he had shown as a child in the orphanage when eyeing another boy's prized possession.

"Dark Lord, I've done my part. What about you?"

Hoffa's voice was ice-cold.

"Hogwarts is destroyed. Beauxbatons is destroyed. Where else could he go?" Tom Riddle said impatiently. "He went to Durmstrang."

"You sent him there?"

Riddle didn't answer. His gaze was fixed on the countless iron shelves, his lips twitching in near-hysterical glee. If it were me, I wouldn't leave these old Muggles to slowly bleed out—I'd take all their wealth in one swift move. Not a single coin left behind!!

Hoffa's eyes sharpened. He turned to Miller. "Let's go. There's nothing left for us here. Burn these decadent fools before we leave."

Miller had long reached his limit. He raised his arms, and roaring flames shot from his palms, sweeping through the dim church and painting it in blazing red.

The inferno consumed the decrepit old men, as well as Riddle's extravagant dream.

Amid the searing heat, Riddle lunged at Miller in a frenzy. "I'll kill you! You bitch!!"

But Hoffa grabbed his shoulder, holding him still.

Riddle's heart bled. He roared at his subordinates, "Idiots! What are you waiting for?! Stop her!!"

But his men hesitated. They watched the girl conjure raging flames without a wand. They saw the towering, motionless boy with a sword. None dared to move.

The old men turned to ashes in the fire, their remains swirling around the nightmare god's statue like a ghastly dance. Riddle trembled uncontrollably as he watched, his voice cracking with agony. "What have you done… what have you done… Hoffa Bach, these were resources! These were power!!"

Hoffa looked at Riddle's rage-twisted face, and an inexplicable sadness welled up within him. It had been years since he last felt anything like sentimentality, but at this moment, he suddenly understood something. He knew—this would likely be the last time he ever saw Tom Riddle.

If the timeline remained unchanged, in fifty years, he would see Riddle again—crushing one of his Horcruxes beneath his foot. But… to Hoffa now, that was no longer his future. That was his past.

In his envisioned future, there was no Riddle, no Voldemort. He had no desire to meet this man again, no wish to be entangled with him any further. Their fates would diverge here and now.

In this moment, looking at the man before him, he couldn't suppress a deep, poignant pity.

"Tom." Hoffa gazed into the raging flames, his voice soft with melancholy. "Power isn't everything. Strength isn't everything. Wizards must understand this. People must understand this. Otherwise, it will be… pitiful."

"You're lecturing me, Hoffa Bach?! You're lecturing me!?"

Riddle pounded his chest, roaring in fury. "You burned my wealth! Destroyed my assets! And now you lecture me?! You lecture me!!?"

Hoffa watched Riddle's agonized face, the distorted tears evaporating from his reddened eyes. He opened his mouth slightly, then finally said, "Leave him ten, Miller."

Miller hesitated, unsure why Hoffa made this decision, but he lowered one finger. In the sea of flames, ten old men in far corners remained untouched.

Riddle was stunned. His furious, twisted expression froze. He looked at Hoffa standing before the inferno, at a loss for words, momentarily dazed.

This had completely shattered his expectations. He hated Hoffa, despised him, wanted to kill him—but he also knew Hoffa's actions were entirely logical. Yet he had never expected Hoffa to leave him ten. If their roles were reversed, Tom Riddle knew—he never would have left ten.

Hoffa watched Riddle's shifting expressions, let out a long sigh, and shook his head with a hint of regret. "Take care of yourself, Tom."

With that, he and Miller disappeared into the flames.

Only Tom Riddle and his Death Eaters remained, standing in stunned silence by the burning wreckage.

(End of chapter)

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