With a blinding flash of lightning, one of the aircraft's propellers shattered. Boom! A burst of fire flickered against the ink-black night sky before dissolving into thick, rolling smoke.
Inside the military aircraft, red warning lights flashed frantically. The plane jolted violently before tilting sharply. Miller's face turned pale with shock as he grabbed hold of Hoffa.
"Parachute! Jump!!"
A desperate voice shouted.
Three pilots dressed as soldiers scrambled out of the cockpit, frantically searching through the cargo hold. The aircraft was still flying at high speed, but it was evident that it had lost control. It swayed erratically from side to side as if trying to shake them off. Crates of artillery shells broke free from their restraints, spilling golden shells that clattered and tumbled chaotically around the cabin.
The pilots found their parachutes and scrambled toward the edge of the cargo bay, desperately pounding on the emergency hatch release.
Hoffa clutched Miller's shoulders and shouted at them, "Hey! Where are you going?"
The pilots turned their heads in shock, finally noticing the young boy and girl clinging to each other in a corner of the aircraft. They had no idea how these two had ended up on a military cargo plane transporting ammunition, nor did they care to find out. The storm was terrifying, and the aircraft had become nothing more than a flying metal coffin. Every extra second spent onboard meant another step closer to death.
The cargo bay doors slowly opened. The sudden pressure difference created a violent gust of wind. Miller screamed and clung tightly to Hoffa's waist as Hoffa was nearly sucked out of the plane.
The three pilots didn't hesitate—they leaped into the storm. But the winds were far too powerful. One of the pilots was immediately caught in the howling gusts, flung upward, and slammed into the aircraft's tail rotor. He didn't even have time to scream before he was reduced to a mist of blood and flesh. The other two pilots vanished into the storm, tumbling uncontrollably. In such extreme turbulence, even deploying a parachute meant little chance of survival.
Hoffa gasped at the sight, his grip tightening around a handhold inside the cabin. With his other arm, he held onto Miller, securing them both within the aircraft.
The torrential rain drenched Hoffa's body in an instant. The plane continued to lurch violently, sending artillery shells flying in all directions.
A few tumbling crates hurtled toward Miller at terrifying speed. Hoffa, still holding onto Miller with one arm, shouted, "Shield! Miller!!"
Miller clung to Hoffa's waist with one hand and raised the other to cast a protective shield. The incoming crates smashed against the barrier, ricocheting away with thunderous crashes. Through the rain and shimmering shield, Miller looked up and cursed, "Are you still not transforming?! What the hell are you waiting for!?"
It wasn't that Hoffa didn't want to transform into a Thunderbird—at this moment, it was his only option. But he still had enough rationality left to know that the Pacific Ocean was vast. He didn't have nearly enough magical power to carry Miller across the entire ocean as a Thunderbird. At the very least, he needed a place to land.
His gaze fell on the wooden platform bolted to the cabin floor—a sturdy base designed for securing ammunition crates.
"Grab onto the wooden platform. Then we go," Hoffa shouted into Miller's ear.
Miller glanced at the platform. Heavy ammunition crates were still piled on top of it. Though some were rolling out of the plane, they wouldn't all be cleared out in time, and there was no way to drag the platform free.
"Diffindo!"
Miller pointed a finger.
Instantly, all the ropes securing the crates snapped.
The crates tumbled wildly as the plane continued its erratic descent.
"Wingardium Leviosa!"
With another flick of Miller's wand, the floating charm took effect. The ammunition crates lifted into the air, drifting chaotically inside the cabin like asteroids in space—if anything, they looked even more dangerous now.
At least the platform was free. Hoffa, gripping Miller with one hand and a cabin handhold with the other, struggled forward through the tilting plane. Miller clung to Hoffa with one arm, using the shield like an umbrella to deflect the airborne shells.
Finally, Hoffa reached the platform. He released his grip, seized the wooden base, and turned toward the cargo bay doors.
Following the pressure flow, Hoffa practically flew out of the aircraft, clutching the wooden platform. The storm raged around him, the howling wind and screams almost deafening. In the pitch-black storm clouds, his body rapidly expanded until he transformed into a massive creature over ten meters long.
Huge as he was, he still seemed insignificant in the face of the storm. Fortunately, as a Thunderbird, Hoffa quickly adapted to his surroundings. Clutching the wooden platform in one talon and Miller in the other, he beat his wings fiercely, surging forward through the torrential rain.
Suddenly, the violent storm seemed to pause.
Hoffa hesitated for a split second.
A deafening explosion echoed in the distance.
The abandoned aircraft crashed into the ocean head-on.
A chain of massive explosions followed—first the aircraft itself, then the ammunition inside detonating in sequence. One blast after another tore through the darkness, the blinding firelight piercing the storm's gloom.
Illuminated by the flames, Miller and Hoffa finally saw their surroundings clearly.
They were inside the eye of the storm.
All around them, colossal black tornadoes swirled like towering walls, connecting the sky and the ocean, churning the waves and air with a monstrous, growling breath.
It was massive—far too massive!
This planet was alive.
The sheer, almost godlike power of the storm made Miller tremble. He clutched Hoffa's talon as if that were the only thing keeping him safe.
Hoffa didn't feel any better. The storm was far larger than he had expected. He had only just reached the eye—if he wanted to escape, he still had halfway to go.
Against this colossal, nearly thousand-kilometer-wide monstrosity, he wasn't sure if he could make it. But there was no turning back. The longer he stayed, the more his magic would drain.
With a thunderous cry, he pulled Miller into his feathers, then dove headfirst into the swirling black walls of the storm.
The Thunderbird's speed rivaled that of any Muggle aircraft. The storm barely hindered him—if anything, it made him fly even faster. But the further he flew, the more uneasy he felt.
Something was wrong.
His psychic field told him he was still far from the storm's outer edge—very far.
At first, the winds weren't so fierce. But as he neared the edge, they grew stronger.
Ten minutes passed—he was still inside.
Twenty minutes—still inside.
By then, Hoffa's magical reserves were running dangerously low.
Another ten minutes, and his magic was completely depleted.
And they had only just reached the storm's outermost edge—the most violent region.
Hoffa could no longer maintain his Thunderbird form. He plummeted toward the ocean below.
With a deafening crash, he hit the sea, still clutching Miller and the wooden platform.
The Pacific's raging black waters, whipped into madness by the storm, greeted them with towering waves. The instant he fell in, a massive fifteen-meter-high wave crashed down on him, nearly knocking him senseless.
The wooden platform was sent flying upright. Hoffa saw stars as the impact dazed him.
Before he could recover, another wave came—this time from the side. It struck with such force that both he and Miller were hurled into the air.
"Hoffa!!" Miller screamed, "My—"
He didn't get to finish. A mouthful of seawater choked him silent.
Hoffa, exhausted and drenched, lost his grip.
Miller slipped from his grasp and vanished into the stormy sea.
Hoffa was utterly shocked! His mind buzzed! His heart skipped a beat!
It had been a long time since he had felt this panicked. Arguments were one thing, noise was another, but if something happened to Miller right in front of him, he didn't know how he would handle it.
"Miller!!" he shouted.
His voice was completely drowned out by the storm and crashing waves.
Miller must not die! Hoffa thought in horror. Absolutely not!!
No, this can't happen. What I feared can't become reality.
Hoffa cleared all distracting thoughts from his mind.
Taking a deep breath, he plunged into the churning seawater. Closing his eyes, he focused all his energy on his senses. Finally, he detected movement beneath the turbulent surface—deep in the dark abyss, someone was tumbling downward.
Hoffa kicked forcefully, swimming toward the figure.
The surging seawater made his movements sluggish. At this moment, he cursed that his Animagus form wasn't a whale. The immense water pressure and the endless abyss sent chills down his spine, filling him with overwhelming fear. He swam for nearly ten minutes before he barely managed to get close.
Miller was floating in the water with a bubble over his head, waving his arms frantically. Seeing that Miller had used the Bubble-Head Charm to protect himself, Hoffa breathed a sigh of relief. He swam to Miller's side and stopped. Miller reached out to him, and Hoffa embraced him in the water, kicking his legs to swim back up.
With a loud splash, Hoffa and Miller surfaced amidst the towering waves. The storm was still raging, and the wind howled violently. Miller touched Hoffa's face and cast the Bubble-Head Charm on him, preventing him from choking on seawater.
Hoffa said nothing. He simply held onto Miller, staring at the towering walls of water surrounding them. In this vast ocean, they were so insignificant. Miller clung tightly to Hoffa's waist, his eyes shut, teeth clenched.
The two of them trembled as they drifted with the waves, rising and falling.
It was unclear how much time passed before the storm finally moved away from this part of the ocean, continuing on its path elsewhere.
As the sea calmed slightly, the exhausted Hoffa grabbed Miller and swam toward the floating wooden raft. The raft had been swept far away. Just as Hoffa climbed onto it, his vision darkened, and he passed out.
No idea how long had passed.
Hoffa slowly regained consciousness from extreme exhaustion.
In a daze, he felt someone touching his face, his head resting on something soft.
Slowly opening his eyes, he saw a gentle face—short hair, worried eyes, and a familiar expression.
"Hoffa," she called softly.
"Miranda."
Hoffa responded in a gentle voice.
"I'm here, Hoffa. I'm here. Are you okay?"
The girl stroked his face gently.
"Hmm..."
Still groggy, Hoffa turned his head and saw the ocean beside him, the girl's lap, and her waist. Memories slowly flooded back—
The plane, the hurricane, the waves... and, of course, Miller.
As his vision cleared, Hoffa suddenly remembered his mission. He immediately sat up on the raft, but as soon as he did, dizziness struck, and he collapsed at the edge, vomiting a large mouthful of salty seawater.
Miller had been about to scold him, but seeing his condition, he could only pat Hoffa's back instead.
Hoffa vomited for a long time, emptying everything in his stomach before he finally felt slightly better.
When he looked again, the blurry figure of Miranda had disappeared, replaced by Miller's sharp, displeased expression.
Pale-faced and panting, Hoffa asked, "How long was I out?"
"An entire day," Miller replied.
A whole day. Hoffa grew anxious.
Who knew how much the news had spread in New York?
Who knew how Sylby had reacted?
Of course, Miller didn't care about any of that. He complained, "I told you not to rush, but you insisted. Now look at us! What are we supposed to do now?"
Hoffa looked at the endless ocean surrounding them, his pale lips murmuring, "Water… fresh water… without it, we won't last long."
"You'd be dead already if not for me," Miller muttered disdainfully.
Then, kneeling on the raft, he cupped his hands and cast, "Aguamenti."
A stream of fresh water quickly gathered in his palms. Without hesitation, Hoffa buried his face in Miller's hands, gulping it down. After drinking a dozen mouthfuls, he finally wiped his lips and exhaled deeply.
Miller wiped his wet hands on Hoffa's clothes and said, "Water is taken care of, but we have no food. How long do you think you can last?"
"Ten days, maybe," Hoffa replied.
"Ten days, huh? Hah! I told you to wait a couple of days, but you wouldn't listen. Now look at us! We're like Robinson Crusoe!" Miller grumbled.
Hoffa looked down at the wooden raft beneath him and chuckled bitterly.
"And you're laughing? Seriously? We don't even know where we are! Water everywhere! At least Robinson had an island and supplies. We have nothing but this stupid raft! We're dead!"
Miller scolded, crossing his arms and sulking.
"There's no other way," Hoffa said, glancing at the sun to determine their direction. "I'll have to turn into a Thunderbird and fly out of here."
"Oh, sure! You go ahead and cross the Pacific. The Ministry of Magic should give you a Merlin Medal for that—
The first Animagus to ever fly across the Pacific Ocean!" Miller sneered, arms crossed.
"If I can't make it in one go, we'll take turns flying. That's what the raft is for. You hold onto it while I fly, and when I'm exhausted, I'll rest on it before going again," Hoffa explained.
"You really are a birdbrain. Even geese don't carry rafts with them," Miller mocked.
"Enough talking. Let me rest first," Hoffa said.
He sat cross-legged on the wooden raft, closing his eyes to meditate and restore his magic.
(End of Chapter)
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