"So?"

  Hoffa frowned.

  "So I must do something for my master. I will unch the Dark Mark to announce this great moment!" Little Barty decred fanatically in the depths of the Bck Forest.

  Hoffa's jaw dropped as the realization dawned. This little Barty was unmistakably one of those fanatical star-struck followers you'd find in future generations—cking independent thought, quick to idolize anyone who seemed extraordinary. He dispyed an extreme loyalty to his chosen group while harboring deep hostility toward others. On one hand, he spared no effort to elevate his idol, and on the other, he cared little whether his idol actually deserved the pedestal. Ultimately, Barty's devotion wasn't about Voldemort; it was about safeguarding his own fragile sense of self-worth.

  If he dared to unch the Dark Mark here and now, it would practically paint a target on Voldemort, who was at his weakest. The Ministry of Magic already believed Voldemort was dead. Such a move would be tantamount to shouting to the world, "I'm still alive! Come find me!"

  Hoffa shuddered at the thought. There was no way he could let this fool fire the Dark Mark. It would make his own pns exponentially harder to achieve.

  "You dare!!"

  Hoffa's sudden roar startled Barty so much that he fell to the ground in shock.

  However, just as Hoffa was about to scold the fool and extinguish his dangerous thoughts entirely—

  Cp! Cp! Cp!The sound of hurried footsteps echoed from a distance.

  He turned his head sharply and saw a panicked man burst out of the dense forest. He was dressed bizarrely in a Scottish Highnd kilt and a South American poncho.

  Before Hoffa could process the scene—

  Bang!A crisp gunshot rang out from behind.

  The man in the kilt fell to the ground instantly.

  It was then Hoffa recognized him. Wasn’t this the very Ministry official who had greeted him that morning at the Quidditch World Cup campsite? Hoffa rushed over and helped the man up. The man was trembling all over, his back oozing eerie green smoke from a bullet wound.

  “What happened to you?” Hoffa asked in shock.

  “Sleep… sleep, and you’ll die… sleep, and you’ll die!”

  The man clutched Hoffa's arm tightly, his face twisted in agony, and his lips trembled as he repeated the words, "Sleep and die. Sleep and die."

  “What? What are you saying?” Hoffa struggled to understand.

  But before he could get an answer, the man's eyes widened and fell silent.

  “Hey! Hey! What’s going on?”

  Hoffa shook him forcefully, but the man’s body began to disintegrate before his eyes. First, his back, then his arms, and finally his head—all eroded by the wound, dissolving into fragments and dust.

  Hoffa’s head shot up. In the foggy night, a figure emerged. Dressed in a vintage bck military uniform, he wore a grotesque metal birdcage on his head, and his skeletal frame was barely able to support the gun in his hand.

  It was another one of those strange figures. Hoffa’s breath caught.

  He had seen this eerie attire before—in the Nightmare God’s memories. Fifty years ago, those controlled by Sylby had looked the same. Were they here for him? Or was his deyed return causing the timeline to unravel?

  The birdcage-headed man in the mist fired another shot without hesitation, this time aiming at the stunned Barty.

  Bang!A glowing green bullet hurtled toward him.

  Hoffa’s expression darkened. He kicked Barty out of the bullet's path and lunged at the attacker.

  The shot missed, and Hoffa tackled the birdcage-headed figure to the ground.

  "Who are you!?"

  Hoffa lifted the man effortlessly; he weighed less than 50 kilograms.

  “Savior,” the man said calmly, speaking in German.

  “Were you the one who burned my theater?” Hoffa demanded.

  The man smirked under the birdcage, his eyes filled with disdain. He looked at Hoffa as if he were a fool. Then, without warning, his body began to infte like a balloon.

  Sensing danger, Hoffa threw him away as if electrocuted.

  The man exploded in the distance.

  A brilliant green fsh lit up the area, eerily silent. Within a radius of dozens of meters, trees, tents, and even the man himself disintegrated into ash, drifting down like snowfkes.

  Hoffa frowned as he approached the scorched ground. The green smoke hissed and corroded the soil.

  When the smoke cleared, all that remained was a warped birdcage lying on the ground, still emitting faint green fumes.

  Hoffa reached out to touch the birdcage but recoiled in pain as the fumes corroded his hand, leaving pits in his skin.

  Dead? Just like that?

  Hoffa stared at his injured hand. The man’s sneering expression before his demise lingered in his mind. Something about this felt far from over.

  Spreading his wings, Hoffa soared into the air, leaving Barty gaping below. Hovering hundreds of meters above, he closed his eyes and extended his mental field across kilometers.

  Below him, he sensed cheering crowds, flying broomsticks, and… hundreds of men carrying torches encircling the Quidditch stadium. They stood silently, spaced roughly a hundred meters apart.

  Hoffa's eyes flew open, and his breath caught.

  He remembered the massacre at the theater. He had pyed the fool, luring a crowd of greedy Muggles who were then obliterated in an instant. Thousands reduced to dust, their deaths unnoticed by the world.

  And now, hundreds of simirly dressed figures surrounded the massive stadium. Hoffa realized these weren’t after him specifically—they targeted crowds. They were pure terrorists.

  Damn it!

  Hoffa thought of Voldemort’s target, Harry Potter, still watching the match. He had no time to waste. He dived back to the ground and barked at Barty, "Find a pce to hide yourself."

  “Mr. Bach? Mr. Bach! Where are you going?” Barty called after him, panicked. “When will you take me to see our master?”

  Hoffa did not respond. He untied the gleaming vines binding him and then vanished in the blink of an eye.

  "Now, it's neck and neck! Who will emerge victorious?"

  "They're getting closer, closer!"

  "Oh no! Lin Qi has fallen to the ground!"

  "The Golden Snitch! Viktor Krum has caught the Golden Snitch! My word, my word!!"

  "Irend wins!"

  The outcome was clear inside the stadium. Ludo Bagman yelled madly, though seemingly in disbelief, "Krum caught the Golden Snitch, but Irend still wins—good heavens, who could have foreseen such an ending?!"

  The scoreboard fshed the final tally: Bulgaria 160, Irend 170. The spectators were momentarily stunned, struggling to grasp what had just happened. Slowly, like the roar of a jet engine picking up speed, the voices of Irend's supporters grew louder, until they erupted into jubint cheers.

  "Irend's pyers are now taking a victory p accompanied by their mascots! The Quidditch World Cup trophy is being brought to the top box!" boomed Bagman's sonorous voice.

  The Irish team celebrated with unrestrained joy, their mascots showering them with a rain of gold coins. Fgs waved across the stadium, cameras fshed like starlight, and the Irish anthem filled the air from all directions.

  Amid the frenzy, Hoffa, his face etched with anxiety, made his way through the throng of fg-waving fans until he reached Nicos Fmel.

  Seeing Hoffa approach, Fmel stood up excitedly from his seat. "Kid, did you see that final moment? It was brilliant—so many twists and turns! Catching the Snitch didn’t even decide the game!"

  "How long does it take for a Corpse Venom to take effect?" Hoffa asked bluntly, gripping Fmel's shoulder.

  "What?" Fmel looked utterly confused. "What are you talking about?"

  Hoffa shoved a twisted iron birdcage under Fmel's nose. A faint green smoke coiled around it, sizzling as it corroded Hoffa’s skin on contact, only to be swiftly repaired by his vampiric abilities.

  Fmel's expression shifted from exhiration to shock, and finally to sheer terror as he took in the sight of the birdcage. He colpsed into his seat, his face as pale as a sheet of paper, beads of cold sweat dripping from his brow.

  "Someone just attacked me outside," Hoffa said coldly. "They detonated themselves, obliterating everything within a fifty-meter radius. Is this Corpse Venom?"

  Fmel stared at him, mute with fear.

  "Answer me!" Hoffa roared. "How long before it takes effect? Could the entire stadium already be poisoned?"

  Fmel snapped out of his daze, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "No—no way. Poisoning ten thousand people? Such a thing doesn’t exist in this world."

  "Then what is this?" Hoffa demanded.

  "I... I don’t know. I’ve never studied it. It might not be Corpse Venom, but it does share some alchemical properties with it," Fmel stammered.

  Meanwhile, the Bulgarian and Irish teams had finished their awards ceremony, and the crowd was pouring out of the Quidditch stadium in a jubint wave. Fans sang and cheered, while leprechauns darted overhead with their nterns, ughing raucously.

  This is bad.

  The thought struck Hoffa like a thundercp. If it wasn’t Corpse Venom, then the pn was likely mass sughter through explosions.

  Without hesitation, he dragged Fmel toward the top box. When they arrived, Harry Potter and the others were already gone. Hoffa peered through the gss railing at the scene below. To his horror, eborate celebrations were taking pce every hundred meters outside the stadium.

  At the center of each gathering were scantily cd women waving Irish fgs, tossed high into the air by burly men.

  As they ascended, the women’s bodies transformed into showers of glittering coins and vibrant flowers, scattering in all directions.

  The surrounding wizards, oblivious to the danger, remained immersed in the festive atmosphere, scrambling and ughing as they collected the coins.

  From behind the gss, Hoffa turned ghostly pale. What he saw was not a magical spectacle of women turning into riches. Instead, it was bck-cd men with birdcages strapped to their heads, exploding one by one amidst the crowds.

  Silent green fshes engulfed everything, extinguishing hundreds of lives in an instant. The victims, unaware of their fate, vanished without a sound, leaving behind only ash.

  The ash, wrapped in a cunning illusion, morphed into more enticing flowers and coins, drawing the crowd further into the trap.

  Under the night sky, countless silver specks of light drifted upward—unaware, aimless souls.

  Fmel colpsed to the floor, trembling from the horrific sight. Hoffa clung to the gss railing, barely keeping himself upright. In all his years, he had never witnessed such a btant yet insidious method of mass murder.

  A silent massacre.

  "What do we do? What do we do?" Fmel scrambled to his feet, panicking. "If this continues, Harry Potter will die! Even Barty Jr. might not survive!"

  Hoffa closed his eyes, biting his lip to force himself to think.

  "Someone is using Transfiguration to manipute the environment," he said through gritted teeth. "They’re turning the terror of explosions into something beautiful. If we don’t find the source of the magic, everyone here—ten thousand people—will die without even realizing it. We must find the source!"

  "The cage! That cage!" Fmel suddenly pointed at the iron birdcage in Hoffa's hand. "It’s an artifact from fifty years ago. It can share dreams."

  Share dreams?

  Without hesitation, Hoffa pced the damaged cage on his head.

  Snap!

  It was as if his mind had been struck by a giant hammer.

  A crack appeared in the seamless fabric of his consciousness.

  Behind him, an enormous, kaleidoscopic eye opened abruptly.

  A familiar presence engulfed him—a sensation he hadn’t experienced in years. It was maddening, hollowing, despairing, and all-consuming.

  The Void Dragon.

  Memories of his most harrowing moments surged forward. Hoffa tore off the cage, his eyes wide with disbelief as he looked upward.

  The source of the presence was at the highest point of the Quidditch stadium.

  "Grindelwald?!"

  An overwhelming tide of hatred surged through him.

  With six wings unfurling from his back, Hoffa burst through the top box ceiling, soaring toward the stadium’s summit.

  Under the vast moonlight, atop the smooth, mirror-like dome, sat a figure with his head locked in a birdcage.

  The man was emaciated, draped in tattered bck robes. Long, silvery-white hair cascaded down his shoulders, pooling like a stream around him.

  Though aged and worn, Hoffa recognized him instantly.

  The man opened his eyes and smiled faintly.

  "It’s been a long time, Bach."

  (End of Chapter)

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