Waking up after a fight with a god was... jarring. It wasn't just the searing physical pain that laced every muscle and bone, but a deep, spiritual exhaustion, a reverberation of having wrestled with a piece of divinity, a cosmic echo in his very soul.
Harry groaned softly as he stirred, his eyelids heavy, gritty with sleep and residual magic, before forcing them open. The opulent ceiling of the penthouse suite came slowly into view, its intricate design and pristine white plaster a stark, almost absurd, contrast to the apocalyptic landscape still burned into his mind's eye.
His limbs were screamingly sore, every muscle protesting, twitching with phantom pains, his head still throbbed with a dull, persistent ache that echoed like distant thunder, and his ribs felt as if they'd been used as a punching bag by a literal mountain.
'Because they were' he thought with a dry, almost cynical chuckle that tasted faintly of blood and triumph. Cú Chulainn had certainly left his mark, a brutal, undeniable testament to their clash.
He dragged himself from the ridiculously soft bed, each movement stiff and agonizing, his body a symphony of aches, and shuffled into the expansive, marble-clad bathroom. He peeled off the blood-stained, bandage-wrapped remnants of his clothes, wincing slightly as the adhesive pulled at his rapidly healing skin, revealing patches of raw, angry flesh beneath.
The massive tub, he noticed, was already filled, someone had the foresight to prepare it, perhaps Evelyn's meticulous staff. He didn't care about the logistics, the sight of the steaming, inviting water was pure bliss, a promise of temporary oblivion. He slid in, hissing softly as the welcoming warmth greeted his battered body, the heat seeping into his aching muscles, easing the tension from his protesting limbs.
Sinking deeper into the soothing soak, letting the water lap around his neck, Harry exhaled, a long, drawn-out sigh of profound relief, his head tilted back against the cool porcelain. The silence of the bathroom, broken only by the gentle lapping of the water, was a sanctuary.
"Damn," he muttered to the silent bathroom, the word tinged with awe and a touch of disbelief at the magnitude of what he had just survived. "That was something else entirely. A true battle for the ages."
He closed his eyes, letting the memories of the battle flow freely through his mind, as a vivid, thrilling replay, a meticulously detailed recording etched into his very being. Every flash of emerald lightning from Gáe Bulg, every shattered boulder, every impossible clash of divine power against divine power, every instinctual dodge and desperate counter-attack echoed in his mind with perfect clarity.
That had been brutal, utterly raw, and thrilling beyond anything he had ever experienced in either of his lives. He had almost died, pushed to the absolute brink of his existence, his very soul on the verge of fracturing.
And he couldn't stop smiling. A wide, unhinged grin spread across his face, the corners of his eyes crinkling, a touch of that Campione madness, that exhilaration of defying death, settling deeper within him.
'Gods' he thought, his own inner voice tinged with a self-aware madness, 'I am truly crazy. But this… this is precisely what I had signed up for, perhaps unknowingly, but inevitably. Not the muted, sanitized versions of magic from the books or the constrained world of wizards. Not the simplified, linear narratives of the movies, where the hero always won cleanly.'
This wasn't fiction anymore, this was real— he had long since accepted it but it was like after every epic thing he had to remind himself— unadulterated power and conflict, a glorious, terrifying dance on the edge of death, and it was magnificent in its terror and glory.
No power-scaling debate or fanfic theory could truly prepare someone for an actual Heretic God, a living legend, a being of pure myth, trying to tear your throat out with divine ferocity and a cursed spear.
"Anime didn't do them justice…" he laughed again, a genuine, delighted sound that filled the quiet bathroom, rubbing his eyes with his wet hands, washing away the last vestiges of exhaustion.
He'd underestimated them, truly. Even having read some of the light novels he hadn't truly grasped just how powerful and relentlessly terrifying Heretic Gods were in combat.
He had gotten lucky with Fenrir and Njorun had nearly killed him but fighting her had been different from the last battle.
Still.
Their raw might, their conceptual abilities, and their sheer unyielding will were on an entirely different level, far beyond what any human, even the most powerful wizard, could comprehend.
But he also hadn't known how utterly fun it would be, how exhilarating it was to be pushed to his limits and beyond, to truly test the boundaries of his own rapidly growing power, to feel the fundamental forces of the world bend to his will.
He had managed to pull off some truly wild, almost impossible moves, moments of pure improvisation and desperate genius, like something out of a Naruto and Type-Moon epic, bending reality and causality to his desperate needs and bring forth his imagination.
He wondered what else he could do, how far he could push his power, how many more impossibilities he could achieve. And not to mention, what new authority he had gained from his latest battle, the ultimate prize for a Godslayer.
Harry raised his hand from the warm water, droplets beading on his skin, glistening like scattered diamonds, and focused his intent. He allowed the new power bubbling within him to coalesce, guiding it with his will.
Light twisted in the air above his palm, coalescing, condensing into a tangible form, shimmering into existence.
A weapon manifested in his palm, shimmering with an ethereal glow, humming with latent power.
Gáe Bulg.
But it wasn't the same blood-red, malevolent spear that had pierced him, nor the pitch black one Cú Chulainn had wielded in its seal state.
His was a pure, luminous white and gleaming gold spear, elegant and ancient in its design, yet vibrating with a vibrant, living energy. Intricate carvings traced its entire length—not just abstract runes, but distinct, recognizable images, a snarling wolf, a woman with flame on her hand, and a man show holding a spear.
These were more than mere decoration, his version was strikingly different, a reflection of his own essence and the unique blend of divine powers he had slain. They were symbols of his power, the very essence of Fenrir, Njörun, and now Cú Chulainn, branded into the myth of the spear, his Authority manifesting itself in its truest, most personalized form, bearing his mark.
He felt its resonance echo through him, an understanding that flowed directly into his mind, teaching him more than simply how to wield a spear. This weapon wasn't just for throwing, nor was it merely a physical implement, it was a concept, made manifest, embodying the very nature of causality and fate.
It granted him an understanding of cause and effect as something that could be inverted, manipulated, twisted, its inherent logic reordered.
RESONANCE – A conceptual understanding of causality inversion. This Authority grants Harry the profound insight to perceive and manipulate the fundamental relationship between cause and effect. It allows him to understand how an action can lead to a specific outcome, and more critically, how that outcome can be forced to manifest, thereby creating its own preceding action.
With time and proper mastery, Harry could extend this profound understanding into his other magical abilities or even other weapons, turning actions into precursors of their consequences, determining the effect before the cause, making an outcome inevitable simply by willing it.
He could already feel the immense potential brewing inside him, a new dimension to his power, a new layer of control over reality. With this… he could eventually tear through more than physical shields or even conceptual defenses.
With proper mastery he could sever fate itself, bend destiny to his will, or perhaps even undo events, truly rewriting the narrative of the world around him. This was the power of a true god, not just of physical might, but of conceptual dominion.
Thou he knew like all powers that he shouldn't expect it to work on everyone, they are some bullshit beings out there.
Smiling, a genuine, dark curve of his lips, satisfied with his new acquisition, he dismissed the spear with a thought, letting it dissolve back into golden light and sink deeper into the water, its purpose understood for now.
"Later," he whispered to himself, his voice imbued with a newfound anticipation, a hint of dark delight. "Tests come later. Now… I enjoy this soak. I've earned it, and a king should enjoy his spoils."
An hour later, clean and clothed in a fresh set of the comfortable, casual wear provided by the Association—soft, dark fabrics that blended comfort with a subtle, expensive quality—Harry lounged on the plush couch in the living area of his penthouse suite. A plate of perfectly cooked room service food rested on his lap—a juicy, medium-rare steak, perfectly roasted vegetables, and a generous portion of treacle tart, his favorite.
The massive hotel TV, seamlessly integrated into the wall, played the local news, its soft murmuring an odd, almost surreal backdrop to his internal reflections, a faint echo of the world he had just violently reshaped.
"…authorities still investigating the sudden, localized seismic event that destroyed large portions of northern Scotland. Initial reports blame a freak natural disaster, a series of unprecedented geological shifts, though details remain unclear due to the sheer scale of the devastation and the unusual energy readings from the affected zone. Residents are urged to avoid the area as clean-up crews assess the unprecedented damage…"
Harry snorted a brief, cynical puff of air, spearing a piece of steak.
"Natural disaster, huh?" he muttered, the irony heavy in his voice.
Well, he guessed both he and the god were natural disasters.
He shook his head, a genuine, if brief, flicker of pity for the mundanes. A god could descend and wipe out entire cities, reshaping landscapes with a single, casual blow, twisting mountains into craters, and the world would simply call it an earthquake or an unprecedented storm, twisting the facts to fit their limited understanding, desperate to maintain their fragile sense of order.
They had no idea how fragile their world really was, how easily their perceived reality could be torn apart by forces beyond their comprehension, by the very beings he now fought. Their ignorance was both a shield, protecting them from terrifying truths, and a weakness, leaving them utterly helpless.
Still… he frowned slightly as the news anchor mentioned the death toll—hundreds. Civilians. People who hadn't made it out in time, caught in the divine crossfire, obliterated in the wake of the clash.
There was a flicker of guilt. Brief. Fleeting. A ghost of the old Harry, perhaps Jacob's somewhat little empathy too, stirring within him, a pang of remorse for the innocent lives lost.
But then… it passed. Swiftly, efficiently, like a shadow moving across a sunlit field, leaving no lasting trace. He stared at the screen blankly for a moment, his expression unreadable, then sighed and reached for another bite of steak, the rich flavor grounding him back to the present.
If it were the old Harry, the burdened Boy-Who-Lived, perpetually weighed down by responsibility and sacrifice, he'd be crushed under the unbearable weight of guilt, convinced it was his fault, his responsibility to have saved every single soul.
He would have felt the crushing burden of their deaths as a personal failure. But that version of him was gone, shed like an old skin.
He hadn't killed those people—he'd merely fought a battle in their vicinity, a necessary evil to prevent a far greater catastrophe. He'd stopped something far, far worse from unleashing its full, unrestrained fury on a wider scale, potentially wiping out entire regions.
He didn't know them. He didn't owe them anything, certainly not his emotional turmoil. And if that made him cruel? If that made him cold, a 'tyrant king' in the eyes of some, detached from the suffering of the masses?
So be it. He was a Campione, a Godslayer. His priorities had shifted. He would never become Voldemort, never inflict malicious cruelty for its own sake, never revel in suffering.
But he was no Dumbledore either, no self-sacrificing martyr burdened by the world's sorrows, always putting others first. He was himself, redefined, reshaped by power and conflict, pragmatic and self-serving feelings of Jacob. His new morality was simple: what wasn't his problem, wasn't his problem.
A soft, discreet knock came at the door, followed by a quiet click as it opened. Evelyn entered, as composed and impeccably dressed as ever, a fresh clipboard in hand and his tie, unusually, slightly loosened, a subtle sign of a long, stressful day spent managing the fallout of divine battle.
"Afternoon, Your Majesty," Evelyn greeted, his voice respectful, almost deferential, yet still carrying that underlying managerial tone he couldn't quite shed.
Harry smirked a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "You make it sound so formal, Evelyn. Just Harry will do."
"It is formal, Your Majesty," Evelyn replied, his gaze sweeping over the destroyed landscape on the TV screen, the stark imagery of the crater serving as a grim backdrop to their conversation.
"You've reshaped the topography of a nation and managed to secure a new Authority. That warrants a certain level of formality, and perhaps a raise for my cleanup crews," he muttered the last part quietly but Harry still heard it and let out a small snort.
They both looked at the screen as it replayed footage of the immense crater, the shattered mountains, and the pulverized town. Evelyn exhaled slowly, a weary sound, running a hand over his tired face.
"The death count reached just over three hundred," he stated, his voice flat, devoid of overt emotion, reading from his clipboard with practiced detachment. "Most were evacuated thanks to our efforts and swift action, but not all. The speed of the god's descent was faster than anticipated in that particular area, catching some off guard."
Harry didn't look away from the screen, his expression unreadable, his gaze fixed on the digital image of destruction. "Tragic," he stated, the single word devoid of any true emotional resonance, a polite, almost detached acknowledgment, a simple statement of fact rather than a display of sympathy.
Evelyn glanced sideways at him, clearly studying his face for any flicker of emotion—guilt, remorse, sorrow, anything that might betray the human boy beneath the divine power. But Harry simply took another bite of his meal, chewed slowly, and said nothing, his focus seemingly on his food. Evelyn, a man who had seen many powerful individuals, found nothing but serene indifference.
After a long, uncomfortable pause, Evelyn continued.
Clearing his throat, shifting slightly, breaking the tension. "There's another situation that has developed. In Italy. It's… significant."
Harry perked up immediately, his eyes sharpening, a flicker of genuine interest, a new challenge perhaps, a new opportunity. "Oh? A new god descending?"
"Not precisely a descent," Evelyn corrected, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. "A new Campione has awakened."
Harry paused, chewing slowly, his mind racing through the implications, processing the new information. "Oh a new god slayer."
That quick, he hadn't even been a campione for more than 4 months and another had appeared. Before that, he turned and asked Evelyn about how people were taken the news of Harry Potter being a campione.
He doesn't believe that his fight didn't draw attention for people not to see and recognize him.
Evelyn shook his head, that faint smile widening. "Actually, no. The Italian awakening happened first. It was a massive, publicly acknowledged event, causing immense devastation across Central Italy. It pulled all international attention, all the world's magical organizations, every media outlet, to Florence and its aftermath. It was a maelstrom of divine power. By the time they fully realized what happened here in Scotland—by the time the tremors settled and the mundane cover-up was initiated—it was too late. All eyes were on Italy. Your... 'discreet' battle was completely overshadowed, almost unnoticed."
Harry blinked, then threw his head back and laughed, a genuine, booming sound that echoed through the suite, filled with pure, unadulterated amusement. 'I swear I still have some of that protagonist aura left! This is just ridiculous, but I'll take it. What incredible luck!' He couldn't believe his fortune.
Just when he thought he would have to deal with fools and annoying people baam, Mc Luck strikes.
He waved a hand, dismissing the lingering questions and the minor details. "So, who's the lucky bastard who drew the world's attention this time? A new Campione in Italy, huh? Can't be…"
As a thought entered his mind he shifted his gaze to Evelyn.
Evelyn hesitated, a strange tension entering the air, his composure momentarily faltering. He felt something shift—a subtle pressure, perhaps, as Harry's green eyes sharpened like blades, piercing, demanding an answer. It wasn't just curiosity, it was a king's gaze, expecting immediate obedience, a quiet command.
"His name," Evelyn said carefully, choosing his words with precision, sensing the significance of the moment, "is Godou Kusanagi. He defeated Verethragna, the Persian god of victory, in Sardinia."
Harry hummed, a low, thoughtful sound, leaning back against the couch, the name echoing in his mind, triggering a flood of information from Jacob's memories. Godou Kusanagi.
Of course. Godou was still here. In this world. The original Campione protagonist from the light novels, the archetypal hero who fought and slew gods, was here, active, and had just claimed his first god, just as in the original story.
So the world wasn't just a simple Harry Potter crossover with him as the singular focal point. It was a true fusion with both its protagonists.
"Guess that makes him my little brother then," Harry muttered, a faint, wry smile touching his lips.
Evelyn nodded slowly. Campiones were after all known as the children of Pandora so in a sense they were all siblings.
Harry waved him off, already turning his attention back to his meal. "Thanks for the update, Evelyn. Get the plane ready. I'm going back to Britain tonight."
Why go back, his friends and well the books in the castle too.
Evelyn nodded, stood, gave a curt bow, and left without another word, closing the door softly behind him, leaving Harry once again in the opulent silence.
When the door clicked shut, His expression became thoughtful.
He stared at the wall in silence, processing the implications of the Godou Kusanagi reveal. He'd assumed he was the main variable here, the primary deviation from the "original" timelines of both stories.
That this world was built around him, around Harry Potter. But it wasn't just Harry Potter with divine powers now—it was Campione's world too, with all its key players still in place.
'So much for being the sole center of the story' he thought, a touch of wry amusement returning, a grim, satisfied smirk.
Still…
This was good. It was, in a strange way, a relief. It meant he didn't have to carry the full weight of being the "hero" burden himself. Godou was in Italy right now, eventually heading back to Japan. He would draw the attention, and fight the bulk of the gods. It wasn't Harry's direct problem. That want to end the world and stuff.
If Godou was to play hero? Fine. Let him. Harry wasn't here to save the world. He was here to enjoy it, to live freely, to explore the vastness of his power and the mysteries of magic, unburdened by responsibilities he hadn't chosen.
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