Harry Potter: I am the Legend

Every day after that, the doctor would arrive at Hoffa's room on time to help him study the contents of several books. Each lesson, he required Hoffa to take notes and answered his questions at set intervals. Due to the inexplicable and chaotic state of his mind, Hoffa obeyed the doctor's words almost without question. He cooperated actively with the treatment, trying to alleviate the invisible pressure and anxiety that constantly loomed over him.

The doctor's treatment continued day and night. Every single day, Hoffa repeated the same process of answering and memorizing. It seemed as if these people were determined to engrave certain ideas deeply into his mind, erasing the impulses and desires buried within him.

Yet, no matter how frequently the doctor visited, Hoffa could never sleep peacefully. The recurring headaches constantly reminded him that there was something important he had yet to accomplish.

Moreover, the hospital remained in a state of extreme cleanliness at all times, an almost unnerving level of order and sterility. This environment exerted a strange, invisible pressure on him, making him constantly feel the urge to leave. However, each time he voiced this request, the doctor would refuse, insisting that his course of study was not yet complete and that he had not met the standards for discharge.

That night, as usual, the doctor arrived at Hoffa's room. It was a day for routine examinations, as well as another lesson. The doctor brought him a new textbook, but before starting the new material, he began with a question.

"Bach, tell me—what is the happiest life?" the doctor asked.

"A successful career, a happy marriage, and children," Hoffa answered. This was what the doctor had been teaching him for days.

"And what are the indicators of a successful career?" the doctor continued.

"Power, status, and wealth," Hoffa murmured. These were answers that had long been written in the books.

"Very good. Excellent."

The doctor praised him, saying, "You are getting closer to true perfection."

Hearing the praise, Hoffa instinctively smiled, but the smile quickly faded without a trace.

The doctor placed the new book in front of Hoffa. The moment he saw the cover, a dull pain began to throb in his head. The large, golden title on the cover read: "Perfect World."

"Tell me, Bach, what is the most important thing in this world?"

Hoffa remained silent, hesitating whether to open the book in front of him.

"Ahem."

The doctor coughed twice with deliberate seriousness, then wrote a few words on the blackboard:

Equality.

Hoffa looked up, staring blankly at the doctor's words, not offering any argument. Seeing this, the doctor became more enthusiastic, his tone fervent and impassioned.

"You see, the root of all conflicts in this world stems from differences, and all differences arise from inequality. These conflicts and disparities are the sources of all suffering. I believe that your pain also originates from this."

"Is that so…"

Hoffa muttered. He wasn't sure if his pain truly came from that, but one thing was certain—his headache was growing worse.

"If every person in the world were exactly the same, would there still be suffering? Of course not! If everyone were equal and happy, then this world would be perfect—smooth, flawless."

The doctor spoke with an almost obsessive reverence.

Hoffa stared at the book before him, his headache intensifying. A vague memory surfaced—an image of blinding white light, a light that consumed everything.

Was it a nightmare? Or reality? He could no longer tell.

"This is the purpose of our treatment, Bach." The doctor continued, "Only by discarding all abnormal thoughts and engraving what we teach you deep in your heart can you be completely free from headaches, free from unhealthy thoughts and behaviors."

The doctor's voice grew distorted in Hoffa's ears, fluctuating between near and distant. The title Perfect World gleamed before his eyes, and an incessant ringing buzzed in his ears.

"Now, let us open the book and begin our new lesson."

The doctor spoke.

The sound was piercing—each syllable transformed into a steel needle, stabbing and twisting within his eardrums.

Seeing that Hoffa did not obey his command to open the book but instead remained motionless in his seat, the doctor frowned and said, "Bach? Why aren't you moving? Do you not want to leave the hospital and live a normal life?"

Hoffa remained silent. Amid the doctor's wavering voice, the blinding white light flashed incessantly in his mind. Beneath the light, a discordant black dot appeared. It expanded, little by little, like a black hole—like a tunnel, deep and endless, leading to an unseen world, a world twisted and grotesque.

Faint sounds emerged from the darkness. They were somewhat similar to bird calls, yet indistinct. But when he focused intently, Hoffa felt as if he could understand them. It was a call filled with doubt, and it repeated a single word—"Death."

"Bach! Hey! Bach!"

The doctor's voice turned harsh. "Hurry up and open the book!"

The words dragged Hoffa's consciousness back from the depths of his trance. He mumbled, slurred, "Death..."

"What are you saying? Open the book now!"

The doctor commanded.

Hoffa's lips moved slightly as he repeated the word under his breath.

The doctor didn't catch what Hoffa was murmuring, but after giving the order multiple times without a response, he pulled out a whip-like object from his waist and stepped beside Hoffa. Slowly bending down, he whispered into his ear, "Does your head not hurt anymore? You'd better calm down and listen to the lesson properly. Otherwise, based on my experience, this illness will torment you until the very end."

The doctor's words barely brought Hoffa back to awareness. Drooling slightly, he lifted his head and mumbled, "W-what... lesson?"

"Equality."

The doctor pressed the leather whip against Hoffa's chin.

"What... is... equality?"

"Everyone—the same." The doctor's voice was cold.

The phrase etched itself into Hoffa's mind, making the white light even more blinding. But at the same time, the black hole beneath the light suddenly expanded, swallowing the illuminated world at an alarming speed. A near-thunderous roar erupted from the abyss, and that roar in his mind soon manifested in reality.

Hoffa, gripped by excruciating pain, completely lost consciousness. Instinctively, he bellowed a single word—

"DEATH!"

In the next moment, the doctor holding the whip was sent flying backward. With a deafening crash, he slammed against the blackboard, shattering it completely. Cracks spread across the surface like a spiderweb, and countless shards of broken black glass rained down onto the floor.

Blood spurted from the doctor's mouth. His teeth stained red, he turned toward the door and screamed, "Patient Zero is out of control!!"

Boom! The door burst open, and a dozen armed soldiers stormed into the room, raising their weapons at Hoffa. At that moment, he resembled a wild beast, devoid of consciousness, crouched on the floor. The straps binding his feet snapped, flipping the heavy iron bed onto the ground with a shower of sparks.

One soldier rushed to the doctor's side. The doctor, blood spilling from his lips, rasped hoarsely, "Don't let him escape! Capture him and seal him in the basement. Let the boss deal with him!"

The soldiers raised their weapons and fired. A series of tranquilizer darts shot through the air—but they clattered uselessly against the iron bed. Unconscious yet somehow moving, Hoffa lifted the bed and hurled it forward with all his strength.

The leather straps snapped completely. Hoffa collapsed onto the floor, while the soldiers in his path were sent flying, crushed beneath the overturned bed in a heap. A nearby nurse, holding a metal tray, let out a terrified scream.

The piercing shriek stabbed into Hoffa's ears and struck deep into his mind. With his memories gone, he was entirely consumed by agitation and rage. He wanted only one thing—to escape this damned place. The pristine white tiles, the precisely cut lines of the hospital—they were driving him insane.

With reckless abandon, he crashed through the glass and iron railings, throwing himself from the third-floor hospital ward.

The doctor, still sprawled on the ground, turned deathly pale at the sight. Ignoring the blood pouring from his mouth, he forced himself up and staggered to the shattered window, staring down at the street below.

Under the dim night sky, he saw the boy crash onto the roof of a military jeep, caving it in completely. But then—unbelievably—he got up. Barreling through several security guards, he staggered forward, moving on all fours like a drunken beast, desperately fleeing.

The sight sent a chill down the doctor's spine. He turned to the approaching soldiers, his voice trembling as he shouted, "Catch him! No matter what it takes!"

(End of Chapter)

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