"You like blowing up buildings, don't you? Go ahead and blow up the one next to us." Hoffa said calmly.
Miller was stunned by Hoffa's words.
"Huh?" He looked at Hoffa, baffled.
"Blow it up," Hoffa repeated.
"You're serious?"
Miller frowned at him.
"Yes." Hoffa nodded.
"You have to give me a reason. I'm not just going to blow up a building because you tell me to. I'm not some crazy wizard." Miller said.
"You need a reason?"
Hoffa glanced at the musician playing guitar in the building outside and sighed.
"You do know Italy is a defeated nation, right?"
"I know." Miller replied.
"The lira is about to be abolished. If I'm not mistaken, the lira is already nothing more than worthless paper. The Muggle sovereign government here is gone. Do you really think their currency still holds any value?"
Miller's mouth opened slightly.
Hoffa pointed at a newspaper filled with numbers and said flatly, "A kilogram of apples costs five hundred lira. A bag of flour costs a thousand. But a pizza? Only a hundred lira. What do you think? Is this place running a charity, selling food without considering costs? And if it were just charity, that would be one thing. But a waiter's salary here is eight hundred thousand lira, which, when converted, is nearly five thousand U.S. dollars. Even in New York, there aren't many waiters earning that kind of money. So tell me, is Italy a victorious nation, handing out cash like this?"
Miller's mouth fell further open. He had never considered these things before. He thought Hoffa was just making casual remarks. But after hearing his explanation, Miller couldn't help but shudder.
"Then… why is this happening?"
Hoffa looked out the window. In the distance, the Mediterranean Sea stretched before him—his final destination in the nightmare. At this moment, it looked just as beautiful and blue as it had in the dream. Yet, standing in the same place now, fear gripped his heart.
"These numbers are fake. Everything here is fabricated.
"Everyone remembers the most beautiful moments of their lives. But if every memory were perfect, how would the world function? Someone has to suffer."
Hoffa spoke softly, "Look at the people on the street. Look at how happy they are, laughing without a care in the world. Such happiness… where else could it exist, besides in an eternal dream?"
Miller froze.
"From the moment we arrived here, we've been inside it. This is a mirage—a much larger illusion than New York. An entire city-wide illusion."
Miller no longer hesitated. He slowly raised his finger.
In the sky, violent magical energy began to surge. The clouds were torn apart by a raging force. Amidst the gasps of the people below, scorching meteors appeared in the sky, streaking toward the ground with a deafening roar.
The searing heat turned the sky red. Pedestrians screamed and scattered. Drivers blared their horns in panic. The musician dropped his guitar. Lovers clung to each other, wailing in terror.
With a thunderous crash, the meteors struck the buildings around Hoffa. He remained seated, motionless, as shards of glass flew in every direction. The flames engulfed him entirely.
Then, the burning inferno slowly vanished.
Pedestrians laughed and strolled along the old-fashioned streets. Couples embraced on balconies, listening to the music. Artists played their instruments with deep passion. The glass windows were spotless, and Fiat cars cheerfully honked as they drove down the road.
Miller and Hoffa were still sitting in their chairs, fingers raised—as if the terrifying meteor shower had been nothing but an illusion.
Except… there was now someone standing behind Miller.
Hoffa looked at the newcomer. It was a man in beachwear, as if he had just returned from a seaside stroll. He wore sunglasses and sandals. His hand, adorned with a green ring, reached out and rested on Miller's raised finger.
Miller slowly turned his head. His eyes met the man's strikingly handsome face. His slicked-back hair gleamed under the light. His brightly colored Hawaiian shirt was patterned with countless snakes.
The man gently pressed Miller's finger down. Then, he pulled up a chair and sat beside them.
"Who are you?" Miller asked.
The handsome man didn't answer. He picked up Hoffa's newspaper, glanced at it, and chuckled bitterly.
"My mistake, my mistake. I haven't participated in society for so many years—I've forgotten how these things work. I thought as long as they were happy, it didn't matter. I never expected to meet someone who actually understands the details. It doesn't hold up to scrutiny… not at all. But don't worry, I'll fix it."
"Fix what?" Hoffa asked, his nerves stretched to the breaking point.
Compared to the monstrous abomination he had encountered in the New York illusion, the pressure emanating from the man before him was far, far greater.
"The details, of course. What else?"
The man sighed. "Make it more logical, more livable."
Then, he sighed again. "But it's a paradox, really. If everything were truly logical, truly like reality, who would even want to come here?"
"Snake…"
Miller pointed at the man's face and slowly muttered, "You're… Salazar Slytherin. I saw your portrait when you were young, in A History of Hogwarts. You look exactly the same."
Hoffa's eyes widened in shock. He stared at the handsome man before him, then at the ring on his finger.
Salazar Slytherin? No… impossible. Wasn't Slytherin long dead?
"I don't know any 'Slytherin,' and I have no need for a name."
The man spoke carelessly. He looked at Hoffa and asked,
"You must have spent a long time living in a dream. And your status must have been quite high. Otherwise, you wouldn't have seen through the flaws so quickly… would you?"
Hoffa's fingers slowly tightened against the table.
The man picked up the apple juice in front of Hoffa, took a sip, and said, "If I were to reconstruct these details, would you help me?"
"Why would I help you?"
Hoffa replied, "I'm here to kill you."
"You can't kill me. When you entered, you weren't even aware of my existence, nor could you see the reality beneath the dream. Pardon my bluntness, but your mental strength is not as strong as mine. Ah, I don't mean to belittle you—after all, I am not human."
Hoffa pressed his lips tightly together and remained silent. Indeed, this was the most troublesome part for him. Back in New York, he could still perceive the reality beneath the distorted illusion. The mental strength of the nightmares forming that illusion wasn't very strong; he had only needed to lure away the guardian beast of the illusion for three days before it could no longer hold on. But if that beast had been mentally stronger, the outcome might have been entirely different.
Hoffa said, "It seems the Half-Blood King has great confidence in you. Even after such an incident, he hasn't removed you but instead placed you all in Genoa. Is he really not afraid of losing everything?"
"I don't understand the Half-Blood's intentions, and whatever he plans has nothing to do with me. I am merely an old man lingering here, hoping to experience the beauty of youth and the tranquility of everyday life. I only ask that you not disturb me."
Leaning back in his chair, the man gazed out the window with a hint of sorrow and said, "Look at this scenery—so artistic. Do you really have the heart to destroy it?"
"What if I refuse?" Hoffa asked.
The man shook his head with a smile. He stood up, stretched his limbs, patted Miller on the shoulder, and said, "It's not up to you. You can't leave anymore. Just stay here—your companion seems to like it here quite a bit. Let me know when you've made up your mind. As long as you're in this world, I can hear your voice."
With that, he casually strolled out of the shop, paying no mind to Hoffa and Miller.
Just as he reached the door, Hoffa suddenly asked, "Do you use organs? With so many fresh human organs consumed on the black market every year, do you use them here as well?"
The man was slightly taken aback. He turned his head and said, "Of course. Everything has a price, don't you think?"
Hoffa knocked over his chair and disappeared from his seat. As the chair was still rocking, he had already appeared behind the man, swinging his cross sword at his neck at lightning speed.
Slash!
The man's neck was severed, but he showed no reaction. He merely raised a hand and tapped Hoffa's chest.
Boom!!
With a deafening explosion of air, Hoffa was sent flying backward like a cannonball. He crashed through the table beside Miller, shattered the restaurant wall, smashed through an exterior building, pierced through a towering spire, wrecked a Fiat on the street, and finally hit the granite pavement. After breaking the tiles, he rebounded and slammed into the church wall with a thunderous crash, creating a web of cracks. Countless sharp splinters pierced his body, leaving him looking like a broken ragdoll.
"Hoffa!!!"
Miller screamed. He scrambled along the hundreds-of-meters-long path of destruction, rushing toward Hoffa.
Hoffa was slumped against the wall, unable to move. Blood gushed from his body as if it were worthless. He felt like his entire body had been destroyed—there was not a single part he could move.
"Hoffa!! Hoffa!!"
Miller reached his side, shouting frantically, "Hoffa, are you okay!?"
Hoffa didn't answer. He couldn't speak.
Miller's eyes reddened, his hands trembling as he reached out to touch Hoffa. "Don't die," he pleaded softly.
"I won't die," a voice said.
Miller shuddered and instinctively spread his arms, shielding Hoffa.
The man whom Hoffa had decapitated spoke. Holding his severed head under his arm, his mouth opened and closed as he said, "I suppose this young man has realized that this is not the real world. If he has already decided that he won't die here, then he simply cannot die here."
As he spoke, he placed his severed head back onto his neck and adjusted it as if putting on a hat.
"It's unfortunate," he continued, "but most of the time, people kill themselves. The world doesn't dictate death—people are just too used to dying."
The spikes piercing Hoffa's body gradually retracted. The mangled flesh that was Hoffa fell to the ground. Slowly, he started crawling, his bones realigning, his flesh regenerating. He staggered to his feet, trembling uncontrollably from the immense pain.
But before he could even steady himself, twenty sharp spikes suddenly emerged from the ground—ten vertical, ten horizontal. The vertical ones impaled his fingernails, while the horizontal ones pierced his fingers. Tiny, hair-like barbs sprouted densely across the spikes.
"Stop!!" Miller screamed. He lunged at the man with a small dagger formed from magic, but his blade passed straight through the man's body, as if he were a ghost.
"But this pain," the man said, "is very real."
He extended a finger, and the spikes embedded in Hoffa's body began to slowly rotate.
Hoffa couldn't help but grunt in pain. Even for him, this was unbearable.
"Would you rather endure endless torment here, or live a peaceful life with your lady companion, as a good citizen of this world?" the man asked. "The choice is yours, isn't it?"
"Hoffa!!"
Miller shrieked again and charged at the man in green. "Let him go!!"
The man glanced at Hoffa, smiled faintly, and pointed at Miller.
Hoffa's eyes widened. This pain was his alone to bear—he could not allow anyone else to suffer!
With a spray of blood, Hoffa tore himself free from the spikes, his flesh ripping apart. Then, ghost-like, he vanished into the air.
In a blur, he grabbed Miller, dragging him away from the man's outstretched hand. But this time, he did not strike back at the man.
He just held onto Miller and ran for dear life.
(End of Chapter)
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