After moving forward in the direction of eleven o'clock for a while, Harry stopped.
There was no path ahead, only a bar, and with modern nightlife yet to begin, the interior looked deserted through the window glass, with few people in sight.
Harry pulled out the pocket watch and glanced at it; the hour hand was spinning, and after a moment, it pointed to the Roman numeral eight, while the minute hand remained fixed in its original direction.
This was the place.
Eight o'clock.
Harry looked at the bar again; on the old signboard, the word "hoffnung" was written in German—hope.
This bar was called Hope.
On the window facing the street, a line was written in dazzling red gouache: "You can live to death."
It looked rather pretentious.
But looking at the phrase "live towards death," Harry had an inexplicable feeling that this might not be a good place.
Add to that the fact that most European countries did not ban guns.
Harry could already guess what he would encounter.
And also.
Harry looked at his own small arms and legs, then at the bar ahead, a question mark appearing on his forehead.
How was a minor supposed to get in?
He snuck a glance at the burly man at the bar entrance who seemed to be a security guard and tentatively extended a foot.
Harry took a step forward.
The security guard perked up, swiftly extending his arm with fingers together and palm raised, stopping right in front of Harry's nose.
Harry's vision was suddenly shadowed.
He paused and looked up.
The burly man grinned, seeming to want to offer a kindly smile, but Harry only saw ferocity on his face.
"Kids aren't allowed in~"
Goodness! There was even a lilting tone.
He was speaking English, and Harry understood, unable to suppress a shiver.
Harry turned and ran.
A moment later, Harry, covered from head to toe along with his suitcase in Confusion Charms, walked into the bar while coughing up blood, utterly composed.
This time, the security guard saw him as an adult, so he didn't stop him.
Harry entered the bar and chose a booth to sit in.
Given his current physical state, he probably couldn't drink alcohol, so after a moment's thought, he ordered a glass of juice.
Then he made himself as inconspicuous as possible and waited quietly for eight o'clock to arrive.
As the sun drew closer to the horizon, the deep blue night sky gradually climbed upwards, and after the streets darkened, the city completed the transition from natural light to neon.
The colorful and dazzling lights enveloped the city.
More and more patrons filled Hope Bar; some huddled together whispering, while others sat silently at the counter drinking alone.
But regardless of what they were doing, they all shared a common trait that anyone with relevant experience could recognize.
Harry certainly noticed that these people carried a cold aura of having killed and seen blood.
Hope Bar was not just a bar; it was a covert hub where various individuals gathered, and besides mercenaries, the regulars here often included assassins.
The hour hand edged closer to eight o'clock, and Harry opened his mouth to yawn.
Then he froze, his mouth still wide open.
A thick smell of blood filled his nostrils.
A hard object was pressing against his lower back, radiating heat.
Harry assessed the shape of the object—a hollow circle—making its identity quite obvious.
It was a gun.
Harry slowly closed his mouth and looked down, discreetly glancing behind him.
A young man was huddled awkwardly behind the booth, wedged into a corner—a blind spot in the entire bar.
He looked to be in a bad state, his black curls limp against his head, his blue eyes devoid of any emotion.
He lowered his voice and said, "Stay quiet. If you make a sound, I'll kill you."
Harry twitched the corner of his mouth and gestured with his hand to indicate he would be quiet, but the man still didn't lower the gun.
Harry waited a moment, then cautiously looked back; sure enough, the man had passed out.
Harry slowly pulled out the pocket watch; the hour hand pointed directly at this young man, practically glued to him.
Him?
Harry frowned at the half-dead figure: this was the one who could help him?
Harry hesitated, raising his hand, unsure whether he should help him, since it was clear at a glance that the man didn't have much longer to live.
The blood on the floor had formed a puddle.
Harry glanced down.
With such a strong smell of blood, it was only a matter of time before the desperados in the bar noticed something was wrong.
"Bang—"
A gunshot rang out.
Harry tilted his head back just in time, a bullet trailing sparks grazing past his chin and shattering the glass behind him.
Oh, so they had already noticed.
Harry began channeling his magic, ready to abandon his luck and run, when his luck woke up on its own.
Then Harry was grabbed by his own luck, the now-cold gun barrel pressing harshly against his lower back again.
Harry's expression turned cold.
What was this guy doing? Trying to use me as a human shield? Then I don't need such unstable luck.
Just as he was about to act, the Mr. Luck behind him paused and withdrew his gun.
Conti Esposito had been badly betrayed by his own brother. He had been going about his mission when suddenly he was hunted down from all sides. Caught completely off guard, he was in dire straits.
Barely managing to escape into Hope Bar despite his wounds, he found a corner to tend to his bleeding and catch his breath, but the blood loss from fleeing had been severe, and he passed out.
It was the gunshot that woke him.
His first instinct was to shove the person at hand forward to buy himself some time.
Then he got a clear look at this unwitting accomplice.
Dark hair, green eyes, and a gaze tinged with a bloody edge. Conti had no doubt that this person could and would kill him.
More importantly, Conti's eyes saw a small, thin boy.
His mind reeled: since when did Hope Bar allow minors inside?
Harry was still unaware that his Confusion Charm had failed on Conti. He was coldly assessing this Mr. Luck, whom the pocket watch had decreed was his own.
He was considering how to eliminate this guy with as little effort as possible, while Conti's mind raced.
He certainly didn't look like an ordinary child.
Who was he?
Did he know my situation?
Was his presence as a minor in Hope Bar, where minors were strictly forbidden, an accident or intentional?
But clearly, they didn't have the luxury of time to think.
Because the next bullet was already tearing through the air, heading straight for them.