The devastation was unspeakable. The Scottish Highlands, once a pristine landscape of rolling hills and ancient stone, lay scarred and broken, transformed into a raw, apocalyptic battlefield. Harry and the Heretic God, Cú Chulainn, were tearing through everything in their path with the force of two colliding celestial bodies—stone crumbled into fine dust, steel twisted into abstract art, and the very sky above seemed to crack under the strain of their unleashed power, spitting lightning and unnatural phenomena.
Fields were flattened into scorched plains, entire sections of the abandoned town shattered into unrecognizable fragments, and the air warped with concussive pressure and thunderous impacts that made the distant mountains tremble. Their clash was nothing short of a divine maelstrom, a localized apocalypse unfolding with terrifying speed and destructive force.
Harry knew it, a cold, undeniable truth that settled deep in his core, he was fundamentally outmatched in pure martial skill. Cú Chulainn fought like a true god of war, a deity born and bred on the battlefield.
His spear was a terrifying extension of his will, a weapon that moved with a fluid, instinctual grace that Harry could only hope to approximate. But Harry—Harry had imagination, a potent legacy from his past life, now terrifyingly amplified by his Campione nature.
His Authority from Njörun, the Oneirothrone, allowed him to conjure tactics that should've been impossible for any conventional fighter, to weave constructs from pure thought and imbue them with tangible force, blurring the lines of reality.
Weapons and barriers forged of shimmering dreamstuff and reinforced with his potent magic gave him a fighting chance, allowing him to adapt and survive against a superior warrior, to parry blows that would otherwise overwhelm him. But even that couldn't close the profound skill gap forever.
Their bodies, despite their divine resilience, showed the brutal, cumulative toll of the prolonged, high-stakes battle—fresh blood mixed with shimmering ichor, deep, seared burns, and the sickening creak of bones protesting unnatural impacts. Their clothes were torn to shreds, their skin marred by countless glancing blows, yet their wills remained unbroken, fueled by a primal drive for victory.
Another devastating clash, a flurry of spear and claw, sent Harry flying with bone-jarring force directly into the side of a crumbling building. The impact reverberated through his entire bones.
He crumpled into a newly formed crater, coughing up a mouthful of thick, coppery blood, his vision blurring at the edges, a grey haze threatening to claim him. He was barely staying conscious, the pain a searing, insistent fire.
That blow had been truly devastating, battering his insides as if they had been put through a cosmic blender, leaving him gasping for air. He struggled a little, pushing himself up on shaking limbs that felt like jelly, before slowly, agonizingly, standing to his feet once more, refusing to fall.
"You're fun, Campione," the Heretic God said, his voice a low, guttural growl that was both a bloody grin and a joyous laugh, laced with madness and terrifying delight as he approached Harry in a confident, unhurried stride, his eyes glowing with an almost maniacal light, his face smeared with his own shimmering ichor.
He stopped a good distance from Harry, radiating an aura. "I've manifested many times throughout history, fought countless mortals. Come and Go. Never met one of your kind. But you... you make me want to stay. You give me a challenge I've sought for ages. I've manifested multiple times in the past, seeking a true fight, and every time was a disappointment—nothing but lowly humans who didn't have a shred of strength, honor, or the sheer audacity to face me beyond a single blow. But You, you have proven to be something else entirely, a true warrior spirit. I am having the most exquisite fun. I will be saddened after I kill you, for such a worthy opponent is rare, but you have shown me what a Campione is truly capable of, and for that, I thank you. Perhaps I will even search for the others, your brethren, after I am done here with you, to see if they can offer even a fraction of the entertainment you have provided."
As he was talking, his body had started to glow with an ominous, building red light, the blood that covered his body slowly turning into a crimson mist that seemed to be re-entering his form, swirling and intensifying his power, preparing for a devastating act.
Meanwhile, at Hogwarts, far from the apocalyptic battle in the Scottish Highlands…
Hermione sat huddled in the Gryffindor common room, her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs, a knot of worry tightening in her stomach, making her feel nauseous. It had been two full days since anyone saw Harry. Umbridge, predictably, was furious, her shrill demands for his whereabouts echoing through the staff corridors, her thinly veiled accusations of insubordination escalating into threats of immediate expulsion. Professor McGonagall, though outwardly stern, had launched a full-scale inquiry, mobilizing every available teacher and prefect to search every hidden passage and forgotten nook of the castle.
"I told you, Ron," Hermione whispered, her voice tight with anxiety. "He's not in the castle, I'm sure of that. I've even tried a basic tracking charm—nothing."
"But he said he'd just need some space," Ron mumbled, his own face creased with concern. "He wouldn't just leave without a word, not really. Not for two days." His voice trailed off, fear creeping into his tone.
"He lied," Hermione said quietly, a grim realization settling over her, heavy as lead. "And I think... I think he left Hogwarts. Completely. He's gone." Her mind raced through possibilities, each one more terrifying than the last, fueled by the unsettling knowledge of Voldemort's return. She had personally checked every secret passage, every hidden room they knew about, Dobby himself had been evasive, his usual cheerful demeanor replaced by firm refusal to elaborate on Harry's whereabouts.
It had become painfully apparent that nobody had seen him after Umbridge had come screeching into the Great Hall, complaining that he hadn't shown up for detention. Ms. McGonagall had called for her and Ron, demanding answers, but they had genuinely none to give.
After a tense interrogation, she had reluctantly let them go, though her eyes were filled with deep, unspoken worry. Now, all the teachers were searching for him, and Hermione was getting increasingly worried about what would happen when they found him, or if they found him, and what state he would be in. The thought of Harry, alone and exposed outside the castle's wards, facing unknown dangers, was a cold, constant dread.
Was he still angry at them, was that why he didn't tell them what he was doing. Guilt was eating her up again.
Back in Scotland, Harry gasped for breath, his side bleeding freely, the spear wound a burning agony, his ribs screaming in protest with every shallow gasp. Cú Chulainn, utterly consumed by battle frenzy, was now glowing with a terrifying, pulsing crimson aura, his very form radiating raw, destructive power.
Then came the spike of power, a raw, uncontrollable surge of divine might—Ríastrad, The Hound's Berserker Fury. The god's body turned radiant and terrible, muscles bulging and tearing, blood steaming off his skin and armor liquefying into living mist, swirling around him like a malevolent storm of raw, crimson energy. He roared, wild and unhinged, a sound of pure, unadulterated rage that ripped through the air, vibrating through Harry's very bones, and Harry felt his knees tremble, his own body protesting the overwhelming assault.
The entire area around them seemed to drown in the god's berserk fury, the very atmosphere suffocating, thick with oppressive power, choking the life out of everything. Harry's magic faltered, his control slipping, his Authorities flickering, and he struggled desperately to hold on to reason, to prevent the contagious madness, the overwhelming bloodlust, from consuming him.
The god lunged a crimson blur, his spear striking again, this time impaling Harry through the right side, just below the ribs. The Campione was raised high on the spear like a shish kebab, his agonizing cries swallowed by the wind, and flung away like a ragdoll, crashing into the ground with a sickening thud, creating a giant crater in the pulverized earth.
He coughed out more blood, bile burning in his throat, rolling out of the way just as a meteor-like strike from Cú Chulainn's fist, now swollen with inhuman power, landed precisely where he had been moments before, pulverizing the ground into a deep, smoking pit.
Harry looked to see his opponent, it seemed that whatever authority this bastard had used, whatever aspect of his divine rage, had increased his power by a larger margin, pushing him into a truly monstrous state, a terrifying, unstoppable force.
Cú Chulainn let out a deafening roar, a sound of pure, unbridled bloodlust, and it seemed he had completely lost his reasoning, consumed entirely by the berserk state. He raised his arms, crossing them over his head as a blow from Cú Chulainn's transformed body, a hammer-like impact, hit and rattled his very bones, the power far greater than when they started their battle.
He turned and was immediately hit by the spear again, a swift, brutal strike, sending him flying once more. He flipped in mid-air, landing on his feet before staggering back, barely maintaining balance, his vision swimming.
Worst of all were the side effects of whatever Cú Chulainn had done, his own magic was no longer having effects on the god, deflected or simply ignored, and the rage… Harry was starting to feel it, a simmering, insidious fury trying to take root in his own mind.
At first, he thought it was just his own anger, but it seemed that that Berserker rage was affecting its environment, a divine miasma, causing anyone within its range to succumb to primal instinct, lose themselves to madness, and abandon all reason. He had to finish this now, before he too, was consumed.
He charged back into the fight, his obsidian claws, glowing with cold, white light, cutting through the larger rocks Cú Chulainn had thrown his way, effortlessly bisecting them.
But immediately, as Harry cut through them, Cú Chulainn appeared in front of him, his spear thrusting with terrifying speed and precision. Harry twisted but was too slow, the spear stabbed through his right side, reopening the wound, deepening it as the god raised him like a shish kebab and flung him away.
Again. Okay, the first time wasn't funny and this second time didn't make it funny now either.
His body, a broken, battered mess. He was bleeding profusely and hurting, pain beyond anything he had ever felt before, searing through his very essence, burning through his divine resilience.
Then he heard the god's voice again, distorted by rage and triumph, yet clear. "You really are something else, Harry Potter! To have survived me in Ríastrad, The Hound's Berserk Fury, for that long, it's not a state I like to use, and it takes a toll on my form, but it was needed if I was to defeat you. You are truly my equal in will, Campione! So rejoice! You have truly pushed me to my limits!" He approached Harry, his crimson aura boiling, his eyes burning with infernal light, a predator closing in for the kill.
Harry used Oneirothrone. He didn't pay attention to what the bastard was saying, his mind was already in hyperdrive, focusing solely on survival, on finding an opening, a desperate, final gambit. He used it to create, or rather, recreate, a move he had seen before, an image from Jacob's memories that suddenly flared with desperate inspiration, a counter-measure to absolute power.
With their battle and the sheer power unleashed, the environment had been drastically affected, the sky had darkened dramatically, bruised purple and ominous, churning with unnatural energy, and it had started raining, a chilling, supernatural downpour of dark water.
He immediately got the idea, even if it was going to take a lot of power, every last drop he had. He took the gamble and called upon his Authority of Oneirothrone with everything he had, pushing past the pain, channeling the very chaos of the battle.
The sky twisted, not just metaphorically, but literally. Bolts of lightning bent and formed, coalescing into what could only be described as a titanic, shimmering dragon of pure electricity, roaring with silent, primal energy, its scales of crackling power, its eyes blazing.
Before the god could finish taking in the monstrous sight, a moment of fleeting awe and surprise on his face, Harry brought down the dragon on Cú Chulainn, a devastating, all-consuming strike that obliterated everything in its path.
As the dragon descended, he used whatever little power left in him, the barest minimum required for survival, to avoid getting caught up in the blast himself by forming a shield using Oneirothrone, a shimmering, multi-layered barrier of pure conceptual defense.
He didn't know if it would work, it was a desperate, application of his Authority, but he took the chance anyway. The shield was not physical, it worked by turning all that hit it into illusions, deflecting and dissipating the raw energy into harmless phantom echoes, a defense of non-existence.
Luckily it worked, well somewhat. A lot of the blast still made it through but not enough to kill him.
The blast cleared the entire city, vaporizing the remaining ruins and turning the landscape into a vast, smoking crater of pulverized rock and scorched earth, extending for miles.
After the earth-shattering impact settled, the ground still vibrating, Harry dropped the shield, the ethereal light fading from his hands. He dropped to the ground, breathing heavily, his body trembling, every muscle screaming in protest, every nerve on fire, ready to finally relax and collapse, victory seemingly assured.
But then he heard a noise. A low chuckle. And his senses flared with sudden, cold dread, a terrifying spike of residual divine presence.
'No way in hell, how the hell did this bastard survive?!' he thought, his eyes snapping open, his body tensing despite the agony, refusing to yield. He pushed himself up, wobbling, and watched the god emerge from the center of the devastation, bleeding from everywhere, damaged but laughing, his grin wider than ever, a true demon, impossibly resilient.
"You are what I have been looking for, Campione," Cú Chulainn roared, his voice filled with savage joy, defying logic and death itself. "The challenge that I searched for! I, who once fought with no equal, who sought to never die and rest, but rather seek to fight forever, to meet those who can match me! You are deserving of my full power, Harry Potter!"
As he spoke, yelling at Harry with manic joy, his spear, once black, started to glow, surrounded by a blood-red liquid aura that pulsed with malevolent power, thrumming with absolute lethality. He took a familiar stance, rearing his arm back, runes glowing ominously on the spear, and Harry knew just what was about to come. The ultimate attack.
As the rogue god yelled out a deafening shout, "Gáe Bulg!" he threw the spear. It hurled at Harry with unstoppable momentum, a crimson streak of death, twisting through the air with an impossible trajectory, bending space and time to its will.
Gáe Bulg, a divine construct, the cursed spear of Cú Chulainn, was not merely a projectile. When thrown, it cannot miss its target. Upon striking, it does not simply wound externally, the cursed spear reverses the nature of causality, the very meaning of "cause and effect" in the order of things, to make it so the cause of the "lance being thrust" comes from the effect of the "opponent's heart being pierced" by it.
It determines the opponent's fate simply through its use, an always fatal move that pierces the heart with one thrust, an unavoidable strike directly to the heart. In the myths, it was given to Cú Chulainn by Scáthach in the Land of Shadows, a gift of absolute death.
Harry knew that all too well from his myth and past life knowledge, that's why he didn't even bother trying to dodge. There was no dodging, no outrunning causality.
Instead, he pulled what little divine power he had left into using Oneirothrone to call upon a copy of the only thing he had ever seen blocking this cursed spear, a conceptual barrier from Jacob's memories, Rho Aias, the Sevenfold Flower Shield.
It was the first thing that came to mind when he saw the spear coming, a desperate, final gamble, and he hoped he could pull an Archer here, relying on pure conceptual defense.
The power was incredible as the spear struck the shimmering, seven-layered Rho Aias shield and immediately broke through four layers with a deafening crack, each layer dissipating with a flash of light, pushing Harry back through the pulverized ground, digging a trench with his feet.
He struggled desperately to maintain the other layers, pouring every last atom of his divine energy and magic into them, but even he knew that they wouldn't hold against the spear of reversed causality.
As each layer broke, leaving only the last one, he pushed everything he had, every last drop of his will and magic, his entire being focused on survival, and yelled out to the world just as the last layer broke and the ensuing explosion vaporized the area around him, a blinding, all-consuming flash of light and sound.
When the smoke cleared, Cú Chulainn recalled his spear, its tip still glowing, and walked forward into the silent, cratered landscape, confident in his victory.
"You are indeed something else, Harry Potter," he said, his voice laced with grudging respect, a hint of awe, as he looked at the limp form of Harry on the ground, seemingly laying on his back, utterly defeated, his body barely recognizable amidst the debris.
"You deflected. You used the last instant before being pierced to redirect it, to avoid piercing your heart. Brilliant, a true stroke of genius. But futile." He brought the spear down, intending to stab the downed Harry, to finally finish the fight, to collect his ultimate trophy.
Just as he smiled in triumph, the figure of Harry on the ground faded like mist, dissolving into nothingness, an illusion, a last-ditch trick of the Oneirothrone.
Cú Chulainn's eyes widened in surprise, a shout of "WHAT?!" escaping his lips, his triumphant expression replaced by shock and confusion, before chains, black and green, ethereal, shimmering with power, burst out from the very earth beneath him, binding him instantly, locking his limbs in a vise-like grip.
Harry appeared in front of him, claws extended, and without hesitation, stabbed the god in the chest, pushing past the chains. The god roared in pain, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony, pulling against the chains, shattering them with a surge of his immense power before grabbing Harry's arm in a desperate counter-move.
Harry used his other arm to launch another attack, a devastating uppercut, and Cú Chulainn grabbed that one too, his grip like iron. Now, both were at a stalemate, locked in a brutal embrace, each hand occupied, a deadlock of divine power, a desperate, final struggle.
Two Divine beings. Locked in a final struggle for victory and for survival.
So Harry did the only thing left, the most primal, most savage act. He opened his mouth, his eyes burning with a determination, feral light, mirroring the wolf's hunger. And lunged forward, biting into Cú Chulainn's neck with a terrifying, primal force, tearing flesh and divine muscle free with a savage, guttural roar that echoed across the ruins, tasting the bitter tang of ichor.
Authority of the Fenririan Rend. The ability to cut anything in his way. But there weren't just his claw but also his fangs as well and he showed them to the rouge god.
The Heretic God howled a sound of pure agony and shock, dropping his grip as Harry's teeth, empowered by his authority ripped a large piece from his neck.
And Harry lunged again, not giving him a second to recover, fueled by adrenaline and the desperate urge for victory.
Claws extended, glowing with lethal power.
One hand plunged into the god's throat, tearing it open, severing his ability to speak or breathe.
The other plunged into his heart, twisting and ripping, extinguishing the divine spark within.
Cú Chulainn, The Hound of Ulster—the greatest warrior of Ireland, son of Lugh, fell to the earth with a final, choked gasp, his divine light fading into the gathering darkness, his formidable power vanishing like smoke.
Dead.
Harry staggered back, chest rising and falling in jagged, painful gasps, his body screaming in protest, every muscle trembling from exhaustion and the sheer power he had just wielded. He was covered in blood, ichor, and the dust of the pulverized earth, but he stood.
Then he laughed.
Once. Twice. A raw, guttural sound of triumph and desperate relief, a primal roar of victory.
Before he, too, collapsed, falling onto the pulverized earth, his strength utterly spent, his consciousness fading.
Eyes rolling back.
Victory his.
But only barely.
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