Harry Potter: I am the Legend

1940, Tynemouth Port, United Kingdom

The rain had been falling for over three hours without pause.

The soldiers had also been standing by the shore for just as long.

It was July, and the Atlantic's warm currents carried the rain down onto the ground. What should have been a cool, pleasant summer night instead bore a strange chill, as if winter were creeping closer.

The only source of light was the distant lighthouse on the turbulent sea.

A massive beam swept over the surroundings, illuminating jagged ruins of old abbeys and the dense, needle-like rain, before shifting elsewhere.

The air was filled with the sharp, salty stench of fish, emanating from the fishing boats docked along the harbor. The ground, slick and dark, was covered in damp bricks, where small, squirming sea creatures clung stubbornly.

Corporal Cos Diman brushed a cold raindrop off his face and shifted slightly, nudging aside a wriggling fish that had been left behind, still flopping on the bricks.

This was his first time on such a mission. Diman nervously swallowed and glanced at his comrades, who, like him, wore helmets, carried rifles, and draped themselves in black rain ponchos. They stood like statues in the downpour, their eyes fixed on the sea, as if waiting for something.

Suddenly, the beam of the lighthouse swept across the empty waves. A cargo ship's shadow emerged, silent and shrouded in the rain, its outline blurred, as if it had been placed there by some divine hand after crossing through layered dimensions.

"Squad Three, maintain vigilance."

"Squad Two, retrieve the cargo."

A tall, unusually thin man stepped forward from among the soldiers.

He looked like a human scarecrow, clad in a Victorian-era plague doctor's crow mask with a long beak. Round glasses, now wet with rain, obscured his eyes, and his lanky frame was wrapped in a long, black cloak. Heavy rubber boots squelched against the soaked ground.

Diman remained in place. He was in Squad Three.

Behind him, soldiers from Squad Two switched on their flashlights. Under the glare, a massive iron train, previously hidden by the rain, came into view.

Bang!

The soldiers filed into the train and began unloading large wooden crates, carrying them down and stacking them on the slick, black bricks of the port.

Meanwhile, the ghostly ship anchored offshore. Sailors in rain ponchos lowered two lifeboats: one for personnel, the other carrying a heavy, dark iron crate.

The strange, scarecrow-like man raised a hand, and the soldiers immediately went on high alert, gripping their Lee-Enfield rifles tightly and spreading out slightly.

Diman followed suit but caught sight of their "leader" pulling a black wooden stick from his coat and slipping it up his sleeve.

The lifeboats approached the dock.

The lead sailor jumped onto the pier and tied the boat to prevent it from drifting with the tide.

The second boat, carrying the iron crate, was pulled ashore with great effort. Four tall, burly sailors hooked their arms under the iron crate's rings and, muscles straining, managed to lift what should have required a crane.

They carried the 4-meter-long, 3-meter-high crate to the soldiers and set it down heavily.

Diman now got a closer look at the sailors. Their heads were bald and gleaming, their skin a sunburned brown, giving them a monk-like appearance—but only in their shaved heads.

Each man was exceptionally tall and muscular, dressed in patched, sleeveless shirts and long pants. Their skin bore strange tattoos: some resembling square-shaped characters, others featuring ominous red symbols.

Once the crate was down, the four sailors stood silently, hands folded at their waists, saying nothing.

"Where is Fatir?"

A woman with fiery tattoos on her face stepped forward from behind the group of men, her hands clasped behind her back. She seemed to be their leader.

She had striking features, a waist-length braid, and wore a loose-fitting traditional gown. Her bare feet rested on wooden clogs, yet her English was flawlessly fluent.

"Right here."

The man in the crow mask stepped forward. He was nearly two meters tall, and the Eastern woman barely came up to his chest.

The man extended a hand. "Good to see you, Miss Xi."

"Speak English, Mike."

The woman brushed aside his hand as she approached. Diman noticed a small beauty mark beneath the corner of her eye.

"Okay. It's been a long wait this time, huh?"

"The medicine?"

The woman cut him off directly.

"Here."

The masked man gestured, and soldiers carried the wooden crates forward. "Aspirin, antibiotics, sulfonamides, quinine, morphine... and some special items as well."

The woman crouched down to inspect the crates.

While the leaders negotiated, Diman's gaze wandered to the woman's legs, pale and slender beneath her gown. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, quickly averting his eyes—only to meet a pair of cold, dark ones staring back.

The towering foreign man standing near the iron crate had noticed him. His face was broad and square, his neck thick with corded muscles, and his eyes were lifeless.

Diman felt an overwhelming wave of salt and blood in the air. He swallowed hard and tightened his grip on his rifle, his fingers trembling slightly.

The motion caught the attention of the bald, yellow-skinned man, who narrowed his eyes and took a menacing step forward. Rainwater evaporated instantly from his gleaming scalp.

Diman instinctively retreated a step, raising his rifle slightly.

The commotion caused the tattooed woman to turn abruptly. "Chuen Jai, don't stoop to their level."

The man immediately stepped back, bowing his head in apparent submission.

Diman couldn't understand what she had said, so he leaned toward an older soldier nearby and whispered, "Who are these people?"

The veteran's lips barely moved as he replied, "People from HK. Keep your mouth shut."

After inspecting the rows of wooden crates, the woman nodded in satisfaction.

"The medicine's all here. Do you want to check your side?"

She gestured toward the large iron crate unloaded from the ship.

The man in the crow mask glanced at the crate. A cold, white mist puffed out from the birdlike nostrils of his mask as he shook his head and extended a hand.

"合佐雨酷爱."

"Hmm," the woman responded, clasping his hand briefly. Then, with a wave of her arm, she commanded, "Disperse."

The Eastern men in linen shirts immediately retreated to the wooden crates. Picking them up, they loaded them onto the two lifeboats and vanished into the dark, rain-soaked harbor without looking back.

The distant Far Eastern cargo ship flickered briefly amidst the black tides and then disappeared, as mysteriously as it had arrived.

Only a single, enigmatic iron crate remained on the pier.

Raindrops pattered against its surface, releasing hissing steam as if water were striking a burning furnace.

The tall, thin man in the crow mask walked slowly toward the iron crate. With his back to Diman, he tapped the crate lightly with his thin, jointed fingers, resembling bamboo stems, then pressed his ear against it, listening for a moment.

Straightening up, he ordered, "Take it to Wales."

A dozen soldiers stepped forward to comply, but despite their combined effort, the crate, which had been carried by just four Eastern strongmen, didn't budge an inch.

Only after the masked man discreetly tapped the crate with his slender wooden stick did the soldiers manage to lift it, carrying it into the waiting train.

Ten minutes later, the train at Tynemouth Port began to belch thick, scalding steam. Three powerful beams of light cut through the rain-soaked night, illuminating the unknown path ahead.

The foreign cargo was securely placed in the middle carriage of the train, surrounded by fully armed soldiers in both the front and rear carriages.

Corporal Cos Diman stood guard in the corridor of the carriage closest to the crate. Glancing back, he could see it through the glass window, bathed in the stark glow of the overhead incandescent lights. The iron crate, delivered from a faraway land, was covered with a thick, dark gray waterproof tarp and tightly secured with steel cables and iron nails to the train's floor.

For some reason, Diman felt a strange, volatile "rage" emanating from the crate.

The waterproof tarp trembled slightly, even though the train hadn't yet started moving.

"What are you staring at?"

The soldier standing watch beside him nudged Diman's shoulder with the butt of his rifle.

Diman snapped back to reality and noticed the man holding a cigarette between his lips, with another one pinched between his fingers.

"Uh, thanks."

Diman accepted the cigarette, struck a match, and lit it.

"Don't stare at it too much," the veteran warned him.

"Hey!" Diman exhaled a puff of smoke, unable to contain himself. "Aren't you curious? That crate's rumbling, and you're acting like nothing's happening."

"Curious?"

The veteran gave him a cold glance. "Listen, kid. There are too many things in this world you'll never understand. Don't stare, don't touch, don't think. Stay out of trouble, and trouble will stay away from you."

Diman fell silent, smoking his cigarette in thought.

But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stop himself from wondering about the crate's contents. It was like being told not to think about elephants—immediately, elephants filled his mind.

Time passed quickly.

The train hurtled through the dark, rain-filled night without slowing.

Inside the carriage, Diman's eyelids grew heavy.

It felt like hours had passed—or maybe just a second.

Suddenly, something brushed against his cheek, jolting him awake.

When he looked around, the veteran soldier who had been standing beside him was gone. So were the other soldiers nearby.

A gust of wind blew from behind him, sending a chill down his spine. He turned around in alarm.

The overhead lights in the carriage flickered, crackling intermittently. In the dim, shifting light, Diman realized that the foreign iron crate was now wide open.

The steel cables securing it had snapped, and the tarp fluttered wildly. Inside, the crate was empty.

"Chris?"

Diman swallowed hard and called out the missing veteran's name. No response.

It felt as though, in an instant, he was the only person left on the speeding train.

The flickering lights ahead revealed nothing. Heart pounding, Diman clutched his rifle and cautiously backed away, retreating into the next carriage.

Pressing himself into a corner, he leaned against something solid and let out a shaky breath. Slowly, warmth began to return to his body, the temperature rising.

Then it got hotter.

The heat intensified as though two scorching blowers were aimed directly at his back.

Diman turned around.

In the darkness—

A pair of massive, glowing orange vertical pupils opened, burning silently like flames.

(End of Chapter.)

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