Harry Potter: I am the Legend

1913, Africa, Mount Kilimanjaro

A small town near the Tanzanian border.

Scattered fires, ignited by battles, lit up the streets. The heat in the air was as stifling as boiling magma, cloaked beneath the night. A row of warhorses galloped wildly down the mountain path, their hooves kicking up clouds of dust on the yellow earth.

Trailing behind the horses were several young girls. Their hands were tied, and they stumbled forward as the ropes dragged them along.

On horseback, British soldiers clad in black uniforms carried shotguns and torches. Their faces were filled with fanatic zeal as they made their way back to camp.

At the camp's outskirts, soldiers dismounted and began dragging several African girls across the rocky ground. Their arms were twisted behind them, and their tattered clothes and disheveled hair painted a grim picture. These women were all Sukuma, and the perpetrators were uneducated brutes who clearly had done this many times before.

This land, under the oppressive rule of the British Empire, was a place where no one cared about what happened to a group of African girls.

At that moment, three horses approached from afar and stopped nearby. On horseback were three soldiers dressed in blue canvas uniforms.

One appeared to be a young boy with silver hair and pale skin.

The second was a tall, blond-haired, blue-eyed young man.

The third was a black-haired young man with blue eyes, a blade of grass dangling lazily from his lips, giving him a roguish appearance.

The blond-haired youth gazed coldly at the chaotic scene before him. There was no trace of fanaticism on his face—only indifference.

The black-haired man beside him, sensing the fervor hidden beneath his companion's calm exterior, spat out the grass and warned softly:

"Don't cause trouble, Grindelwald. We have more important things to do."

At that moment, a girl, barely ten years old, was dragged beneath the horses' hooves.

She screamed. Half of her face was swollen, bearing a distinct handprint. Her right eye was so bruised it could barely open, reduced to a narrow slit. Blood streamed from her nose and mouth, dripping onto the ground.

Her crudely made clothes had been torn apart, exposing dark skin streaked with scratches and blood. It was a harrowing sight.

The blond man said nothing, but his hand tightened around the reins.

The black-haired man opened his mouth to speak again but was stopped by an arm.

It was the silver-haired boy who turned his horse around and spoke:

"Hurry it up, Gellert. Don't expose yourself."

Gellert glanced at his teacher, nodded, and dismounted. He strode purposefully toward the soldiers.

Amidst the chorus of cries and screams, a bald soldier was pinned atop the young girl, his body moving frantically. He was a hulking man, his neck covered in tattoos and muscles rippling. His breath was ragged, and his bloodshot eyes glared up as he turned his head.

A gloved hand tapped his shoulder.

The bald man turned to see a tall blond youth in an ordinary soldier's uniform. He snarled viciously:

"What do you want, you German bastard? I'd advise you to mind your own busin—"

Before he could finish, a heavy fist answered him directly.

Thud!

Flesh collided with flesh.

The bald man's nose erupted in blood as he fell backward onto the girl, who screamed and scrambled away.

The bald soldier quickly staggered to his feet, clutching his nose and roaring:

"You're dead, you little brat!"

Gellert stared at him coldly, removed his gloves, and cracked his neck. Then, without hesitation, he punched the man square in the face again. This blow was even heavier, sending the man crashing into a group of soldiers.

At that moment, all the soldiers abusing the captive women turned their attention toward Gellert. Like a spark igniting gunpowder, the air crackled as the men's lust turned into violent fury.

The soldiers surrounded Gellert. Some of them hadn't even pulled up their pants, their filthy bodies swaying crudely in the air.

The bald soldier pointed straight at Gellert and roared:

"Kill him!"

"Kill the German bastard!"

The crowd charged forward. Two soldiers grabbed Gellert by the shoulders, allowing the bald man to take advantage of the opening and repeatedly punch him in the stomach.

"Kill him! Eat his flesh!"

"Drink his blood!!"

Amid the frenzied shouting, Gellert broke free of his restraints and retaliated without hesitation. He kicked the bald man hard in the abdomen, then seized the arms of the two soldiers holding him and threw them over his shoulder, slamming them onto the ground.

The fight quickly escalated into chaos.

From a distance, the black-haired young man on horseback frowned at the muddy battlefield and turned to the silver-haired boy:

"You're just going to let him do this?"

Fathir, however, lit a match and casually lit a cigarette. "He's my student."

"And what about me?" Jacob asked, disgruntled. "Don't cousins deserve the same respect?"

Fathir glanced at him, blew smoke in his face, and said nothing.

The brawl intensified on the battlefield. Though Gellert had taken a few punches, he quickly turned the tide by knocking down several soldiers. His resilience far surpassed that of ordinary men.

Seeing his comrades falling one by one to the blond youth, the bald soldier grabbed a shotgun from the ground and swung the butt of it toward Gellert's face.

Gellert didn't use magic. He dodged the blow with lightning reflexes, then delivered a crushing uppercut to the man's chin. Stars burst in the bald man's vision as he crashed heavily to the ground.

Gellert didn't hide the disgust on his face. He lunged forward, stepping directly onto the man's chest, delivering a series of three heavy punches to the man's face, each strike harder than the last.

Amid the spray of blood, the burly man's nose was brutally smashed into his face. The loud cheers from the surrounding crowd turned into horrified gasps, but Gellert didn't stop.

Even the young women he had just rescued looked on in terror.

Fadil's eyes narrowed. He flicked away his cigarette, reached for his waistband, and prepared to dismount to intervene.

At that moment, a loud shout came from the distance.

"That's enough!"

A short man wearing a navy-blue military uniform and black high-top leather boots approached quickly. He had gold stripes on his shoulder, marking him as a captain. Grabbing Gellert by the shoulder, the captain forcefully pulled him back.

Blood dripped from Gellert's fists, revealing stark white knuckles beneath. The bald man's face was a bloody mess, his teeth half knocked out.

"What's going on here? Unauthorized brawling?" the captain barked.

The bald man clutched his face, staggering to his feet while groaning in pain. "Captain Haig, he started it!"

"Never seen a woman before? Stop disgracing me!" Captain Haig shouted, kicking the bald man square in the rear.

"All of you—lock them up! Three days of detention for everyone!"

Armed soldiers quickly poured in from another direction, their stern expressions showing they were no ragtag group like the thugs harassing women earlier. They tied up all those involved in the fight, including Gellert.

The bald man, bloodied and furious, was dragged away by two soldiers. He shouted hoarsely, "You German bastard, wait until I'm out! You're dead meat!"

Gellert wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth and coolly raised his middle finger in response.

This earned him a blow to the leg with an iron rod.

"Behave!" Captain Haig snapped.

Although he scolded Gellert angrily, his gaze was fixed on the silver-haired boy seated calmly on horseback. His eyes betrayed little emotion or warmth.

Fadil also watched, unmoving atop his horse. He let the soldiers escort Gellert into the camp without interference.

The dark-haired young man next to him murmured, "That's Norbert Haig, the alchemist."

"No need to remind me, Jacob." Fadil tossed away his cigarette and turned his horse around.

"I know my peers well enough."

"So, what should we do? Should we change the plan? If he finds out about our search for the dragon eggs, it could all be exposed."

Fadil looked up at the towering peak of Mount Kilimanjaro. After a moment of thought, he replied, "No rush. Stick to the plan. Let's rest for a few days and wait for Gellert to find the clues."

The detention cell was pitch-black and reeked of filth, likely from previous occupants relieving themselves in the same space.

The only light came during meal deliveries, when a small slit opened briefly. The rest of the time, it was pure darkness.

In such an environment, Gellert didn't so much as furrow his brow. Seated cross-legged with his hands resting on his knees, he remained calm and alert in the solitude. Compared to his years at Durmstrang, this place felt almost familiar.

Though he could leave at any moment, he didn't. He had a mission to complete.

Time passed—perhaps a day, perhaps several. Finally, the cell door slammed open.

Standing in the doorway was a man in a brown military uniform and high leather boots, casually chewing on a candy and twirling a baton in his hand.

Gellert recognized him: Norbert Haig. Officially, he was a British captain stationed in Tanganyika. In reality, he was a somewhat well-known alchemist with a keen interest in biology.

"Out you come, Zorro," Haig said indifferently.

Gellert stood, walking to the door. Haig pressed a hand to Gellert's shoulder, reached for his waist, and pulled out Gellert's wand before shoving him out of the cell.

Outside, the sun blazed brightly. The golden plains stretched out, dotted with small, white wild sheep. In the distance, a group of zebras stood against a backdrop of green shrubbery.

Among this serene landscape, barbed wire fences snaked ominously, encircling domed stone bunkers of varying sizes.

From one of these bunkers, Gellert saw the bald man from their earlier fight squatting on a high ledge. His face was wrapped in bandages, and he smoked while glaring menacingly at Gellert.

A few of his comrades stood beside him, also smoking. They stepped forward rudely, flipping Gellert off.

"Hey, white rabbit, greetings from Kunkato!"

"German scum, clean your mouth!"

"I'll shove something down your throat till you puke!"

Haig didn't bother stopping their vulgar taunts. He simply led Gellert down a mountain path, asking as they walked, "You seem popular around here. How long have you been enlisted?"

"Two years," Gellert replied, keeping his gaze straight ahead.

"Two years," Gellert replied.

The captain chuckled lightly.

"Impressive."

The two walked one behind the other through the Muggle military camp, eventually reaching a mid-mountain area at an altitude of about 500 meters. Here, the noisy sounds of the camp had faded to a distant murmur, almost disappearing entirely. Overhead, a dozen birds circled the sky, their fleeting shadows cast on the ground below.

Gellert's expression grew serious. A faint sense of being watched emanated from all directions, along with the unmistakable presence of a magical force field, telling him that there was more than one wizard here.

In 1913, the clouds of war hung over the wizarding world. Factions and nations clashed, engaging in an intense arms race. Even wizards, the most secretive and advanced power in the world, were not immune to this trend.

As the two followed the mountain path, they came to a large stone archway. There, three figures dressed in rough linen robes, holding curved wands, appeared. Their bodies were painted with colorful oils, and their eyes were devoid of emotion—African shamans.

"Halt. This is forbidden ground. Do not trespass," one of them said coldly in English.

Norbert pulled out a parchment scroll and handed it over with a smile.

"I am a diplomatic envoy from the British Department of International Magical Affairs. We wish to visit the tomb of King Solomon."

The shaman with braided hair glanced at the parchment before asking, "And him?"

"He is my subordinate," Norbert replied politely.

The three shamans stepped aside, making way. "Ten minutes. Leave after ten minutes. Only the tomb is allowed."

Norbert nodded, patting Gellert on the shoulder. The two entered the stone archway, one after the other.

As soon as they stepped through, the archway shimmered like water ripples, transporting them to a clearing on the mountainside of Kilimanjaro. The area was barren save for a solitary pile of stones engraved with indecipherable text, exuding a sense of desolation.

"Why did you bring me here?" Gellert asked Norbert. "This doesn't look like a captain's office."

"I want to collaborate," Norbert interrupted him bluntly.

Gellert's heart skipped a beat, but he maintained his composure.

"What?"

"I know why you've come to Kilimanjaro. I want to work with you."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Gellert replied indifferently, sneering.

"Do you take me for a fool?" Norbert Haig smirked, pulling out a parchment. "How interesting—I 'found' this near your camp a few days ago."

At the sight of the parchment, Gellert's pupils contracted, and his gaze turned sharp and dangerous. He stepped forward, but a wand was instantly pressed against his chin.

"Relax, soldier," Norbert said mockingly, his eyes filled with amusement. "One word from me, and those shamans below will come running."

He unfurled the parchment, revealing rows of densely written African tribal script.

"Fortunately, I happen to be fluent in Swahili. Want me to translate for you?"

Gellert's expression darkened, but he stayed rooted to the spot.

"Dragons—the most magnificent and vile of creatures. Nature's favorites, the ultimate killing machines, the engines of war. Only the most extraordinary and spiritually powerful wizards can tame them.

I have laid my final companion to rest at Africa's highest peak, awaiting the day someone awakens it to lead the world into an ideal kingdom. — Agarest Waszak."

"Agarest Waszak. Do you know who that is?" Norbert asked.

"A dragon tamer," Gellert replied.

"The greatest dragon tamer in history. One of Solomon's 72 demons. At the height of his craft, over 300 fire dragons served him. In 1373, he alone could hold off an entire nation's army."

Norbert rolled up the parchment and gestured upward. "Africa's highest peak. Still going to pretend you're here for sightseeing, Grindelwald? Don't tell me you traveled all the way to Kilimanjaro for a vacation."

"And then?" Gellert sighed. "What do you want?"

"Collaboration. I can take you and your brothers to the summit of Kilimanjaro. Without me, you won't even get close. In return, I want a quarter of whatever you find."

"And if I refuse?"

"I'll inform those gravekeeping shamans about your true purpose. Say what you will, but African magic has its unique strengths," Norbert said, a sly grin on his face.

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