Harry Potter: I am the Legend

What does excessive blood loss feel like? A racing heartbeat, pale and cold skin, and pitch-black vision. The nerves lose their sense of gravity, and the soul feels as if it's walking on clouds. It's a near-death experience, a moment when people often reflect on their lives—the past, the unfinished regrets.

But Chloe's thoughts lingered on fragmented images and hazy emotions. She remembered when she first set foot on British soil, walking alongside Hoffa through the desolate wilderness. They spoke little to each other, and at night, they would light a campfire beneath the starry sky. Across the flames, she could see the boy's face illuminated—a silent and focused expression. That boy had once promised to tell her why he was escorting her if they ever reached London. But now, she doubted she would ever hear his answer. All she hoped was for Hoffa to escape this place and avoid being entangled in the horrors of her powers.

A peculiar warmth coursed through her veins, reinvigorating her spirit. She faintly thought it might signify the end—Mance draining her blood, leaving her with an illusion of life's final flicker.

But that warmth grew increasingly intense, restoring her heartbeat to normal and bringing warmth to her body. The darkness faded, and she opened her eyes to find everything before her glowing like daylight.

She was still firmly strapped to a chair, but now an IV bag was attached to her arm. A man knelt beside her in silence, transfusing blood into her veins.

It was Mance.

In disbelief, she struggled slightly.

"Good thing you're not dead yet," Mance muttered, glancing at her before rising to his feet.

"You're awake!?" a familiar voice asked from nearby. "Can you hear me?"

Chloe turned her head toward the voice and froze.

The room was packed with people, clusters of them on both sides, each with distinct and peculiar faces.

There were young ones, defiant in appearance, and middle-aged ones, mature and composed. Some had a banana peel on their heads; others were battered and scarred, even androgynous figures among them.

But they were all Mance—different versions of him from various timelines.

It took her a long time to grasp what he had done, and she blurted out, "Lunatic!"

"I have questions for you," a androgynous Mance stepped forward from the crowd.

Chloe glared at him with hatred, a primal instinct surging in her chest, almost uncontrollable.

"When I gained control of time, I realized I could communicate with my past and future selves. But when I tried reaching my future self, I found I could only connect three hours ahead. Why is that? Why can't I communicate with myself three days, weeks, or years into the future?"

"That's why you're transfusing blood into me?" Chloe retorted with sharp mockery. "Taking my blood? I thought you'd have a better grasp of time by now!"

"Answer me. Why can't I reach my future self?" The androgynous Mance's tone was cold and detached, as dozens of versions of him stared intently at Chloe.

"Messing with time means you must be ready for time to mess with you," Chloe replied defiantly, refusing to answer.

"Indeed."

The androgynous Mance hummed before a burly version of him stepped forward and raised his hand.

Slap!

A heavy blow struck Chloe's face, forcing her head to the side and leaving a bright red handprint.

"I ask, you answer," the androgynous Mance commanded.

Chloe slowly turned her head back, a red mark on her cheek, but she smiled. "You're panicking, aren't you? My blood isn't as easy to handle as you thought. But if you think I'm afraid of death, you're wrong. The glory of heaven never shines on the ambitious. What awaits you is the torment of hellfire."

The Mances burst into synchronized laughter—a mocking, chaotic sound that abruptly ceased at a precise moment.

"I admire your kind's devotion and naivety," the androgynous Mance said slowly. With a wave of his hand, two more versions of him brought forth a polished brown wooden box with a semi-raised gray screen.

One Mance plugged it in, and another switched it on. The grainy, black-and-white display showed a boy dragging a female vampire through a fortress, his body covered in bloody wounds.

"Hoffa."

Chloe struggled to sit up at the sight, but a nearby Mance firmly restrained her.

Soon, more brown boxes were pushed into the room. As the screens lit up, the events unfolding across the battleship were displayed before Chloe, each detail clear as day.

"You and I share the same vision. What I know, you know," the androgynous Mance declared. "You must understand what's happening to him. By day, he's a mere beaten dog. Yet here he is, risking everything to get you out of this ship. Your bodyguard is loyal, far more than a false believer like me."

Chloe bit her lip, tears welling up in her eyes. The chains tightened around her wrists, cutting into her skin as she remained oblivious to the pain.

"You weren't supposed to care, were you, Sister?"

The androgynous Mance smirked wickedly. "You know how dangerous your powers are. If I wanted him dead, it would've been easy. But I'm not ready to burn all bridges with you."

"Nothing you say is trustworthy," Chloe spat, finding every gesture and expression of his utterly repulsive.

At her words, several Mances silently exited the room. Though they exchanged no words, their coordination was as precise as clockwork.

"What are you planning?"

"Proving myself through action," Mance replied.

Moments later, the missing Mances appeared on the black-and-white screens. Like figures from an old horror film, they stood silently in the corners of Hoffa's hiding spot, speaking as they searched.

After a tense standoff, the boy used transfiguration to burst a soldier's freshwater barrel. With the water flow, he formed a crystal to trap the four Mances.

Chloe breathed a sigh of relief. But soon, more Mances left the room, descending the stairs in silence.

"Will you stop?"

Tears welled up in Chloe's eyes as she clenched her fists in rage. On the screen, she saw Hoffa collapse in a washroom, gasping for air. Her heart ached for him.

"Not until you answer me. No matter how strong your bodyguard is, he'll eventually fall to countless versions of me," Mance declared as his clones marched downstairs relentlessly.

"Death!"

Chloe's head shot up, her red eyes blazing as she roared like a lioness.

Every Mance froze, turning to stare at her.

Chloe glared back. "In the arrow of time, only one thing is certain—death. Once death occurs, you cannot connect with your future self. Just as you can't speak to the dead."

Her words plunged the overcrowded room into a dead silence.

"You're saying... three hours from now, I'm already dead? That's why I can't communicate with my future self?"

"There's no other explanation," Chloe replied with a cold, startling grin.

"Death has severed our link to the future!?"

The Mances exchanged disbelieving glances, shock etched across their faces. Then, in unison, they declared, "Impossible. I cannot die."

Their synchronized voices echoed like amplified thunder, filling the room.

At that moment, a battered, tattered Mance stepped forward from the crowd. His voice was hoarse as he spoke. "She's right. I can feel death—it's just one step away."

"Who did this? Hoffa Bach?" The Mances turned as one, roaring at the injured speaker.

"No, not him," another equally injured Mance emerged behind him, as if by magic. "I defeated Hoffa Bach. Completely."

"Who is that? The boy playing with snakes?" the androgynous Mans asked, echoed by others of his kind.

"No, it's not him either."

In the crowd, another Mans shook his head. "That kid is already dead. In an hour, Hoffa will kill him."

"Could it be that useless female vampire and that background student?" a group of Mans from the past asked uncertainly.

The Mans from the future shook his head. "Not them either. The snake boy is dead, and the girl fled with the student to a place no one can find. They're insignificant."

"Then who is it!?"

All the Mans grabbed their heads in unison, their collective frustration filling the room.

The bizarre dialogue resembled a massive scene of schizophrenia. Chloe, despite her disgust and aversion, couldn't ignore the palpable madness emanating from the man. His obsessive desire to control fate bordered on the pathological.

"Wait, the black mistletoe."

A slightly injured Mans stepped forward and said grimly, "Hoffa is carrying black mistletoe."

Hearing this, the faces of the Mans changed in unison.

"No, that's not right."

Another Mans, blood trickling from his mouth, stepped forward. "The black mistletoe was broken by me. He can't do anything to me now."

"Oh."

All the Mans exhaled in relief simultaneously, the sound resembling the collective sigh of relief from a home crowd when the opposing team misses a penalty kick during a World Cup match.

But soon, they furrowed their brows again. "If the mistletoe is broken, who killed me?"

All the Mans turned to the most bedraggled version of themselves at the end of the line and asked in unison, "Who was it?"

"I don't know. The danger came from behind me. I didn't see who did it," replied the battered Mans at the back.

"Damn it, then who was it?"

"Who killed me?"

All the Mans questioned together, turning their gaze toward Chloe, hoping to extract an answer from the nun.

"You're asking me? But don't you already know everything I know?"

Chloe, seated on the iron chair, looked at them sympathetically. "However, I can tell you this: If God has decided that something must happen, then no matter how hard humans try, it's futile."

"Shut up!!"

A Mans by the television angrily swept his arm across the table, knocking over the old boxy TVs connected by cables. The convex screens shattered into fragments, crackling with electricity.

"Are you saying that my death today is inevitable?" All the Mans gritted their teeth audibly.

"I'm not saying it; you foresaw it yourself."

Unfazed by their rage, Chloe remained calm. "When I was at the monastery in France, the priest told me that any future that can be seen is almost always terrifying, painful, uncontrollable, and powerless. The things you fear almost always come true. In that sense, ignorance truly is bliss."

Chloe looked at him with pity. "You went to great lengths to capture me, extract my blood, and delude yourself into thinking that knowing the future would let you change it, strategize, and gain ultimate power. But that's nothing more than a fool's dream."

Her words abruptly stopped.

One Mans grabbed her throat, his eyes filled with loathing. "I don't need a blank slate like you, who's never been through anything, to lecture me about life! I am blessed by Death. No one can kill me. No one! I won't die from any injury—that's his promise to me! Unless..."

The crowded room fell silent all at once.

The Mans all seemed to realize something. After a long pause, their expressions changed again, as grim as fans witnessing a last-minute own goal.

"Unless..."

"Unless..."

"Unless..."

The Mans clutching Chloe's throat suddenly let go, leaving the nun coughing violently. He muttered through gritted teeth, "Grindelwald! It must be you, Grindelwald!"

Hundreds of Mans suddenly looked up, shouting at the invisible air. "Are you coveting my path to immortality too?"

And then, as if they were mere illusions, the vast majority of the Mans vanished into thin air. The once-crowded room became spacious and empty, leaving behind only one androgynous figure standing there.

This was the Mans of the present.

He cracked his knuckles and rolled his neck.

"You'll never control my life!"

With that, he strode down the stairs, disappearing from Chloe's sight.

(End of Chapter)

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