For Harry, whose physical strength and resilience had reached monstrous levels, ordinary weapons were generally less effective than his own fists.
Mundane steel and iron shattered upon use unless he reinforced them with his strength and magic.
However, Harry carried the soul of the Lightbringer within him, akin to being bound to a powerful piece of equipment. It would be odd not to use it.
The only requirement was a worthy sword to serve as its vessel—ideally, a blade of destiny.
The Lightbringer was an intangible flame, a tangible prophecy.
It was as weightless as air yet heavier than the Wall itself. Ordinary weapons could scarcely bear its burden.
Thus, he needed to find the finest weapon available in this world to serve as its vessel. Otherwise, an ordinary longsword would crack in an instant.
Having bonded with the Lightbringer, and with the dark power of the Cold Gods balancing it, topped with the unifying force of the King's Authority, Harry could wield it with ease, even allowing the sword's soul to flow in and out of its vessel.
Under normal circumstances, he would have needed to perform a blood sacrifice—perhaps using the hearts of the entire Dursley family as offerings—to forge a divine vessel worthy of the Lightbringer.
Without a blood sacrifice, even simplified operations would place immense strain on the vessel.
Not hiding his intentions from Hagrid, Harry declared that once he arrived at Hogwarts, he would seek out Gryffindor's legendary sword. Its quality was one factor, but its renown in the magical world was an additional boon.
For now, he would purchase a temporary sword to use as a backup, allowing him to hone his swordsmanship during the holidays before school began.
The swordsmanship skills etched into his skill panel were unlike those of others; they wouldn't rust from lack of practice.
A system note, written in characters resembling Japanese, read: "Once mastered, forever mastered, never to regress."
Translated into English, it was still awkward. Harry decided he'd later investigate what language those characters were from and learn it himself.
The translation was hard to parse, but Harry roughly understood it to mean his proficiency would never diminish—only improve.
As long as he kept practicing, relentlessly and repeatedly, his skills would continue to advance. Harry reveled in this, knowing that with enough practice, he could uncover new techniques, becoming a master of combat and perhaps even reaching the divine realm.
With such potential, who could resist honing their craft?
A tiger in the heart, sniffing roses delicately, blooming amidst slaughter like a flower at dawn.
Dancing wildly in motion, halting with precision, tempering the body, savoring the art.
After so many years in this other world, Harry had developed an unshakable addiction to the sword.
Hagrid shook his head. "Wizards these days don't fight with swords anymore. No demand, no market."
He paused, then added, "Maybe in Knockturn Alley you'd find something… No, forget I said that."
When he mentioned Knockturn Alley, guilt flashed across his face, as if he'd let slip something he shouldn't have. He looked at Harry with regret.
Harry was momentarily puzzled, then introspective. Harry, oh Harry, have I become so cunning? What's happened to me?
Then it hit him—no, he hadn't tricked Hagrid into revealing anything!
Hagrid had spilled it himself.
"Never mind, Hagrid. Let's go to Knockturn Alley. They've got swords there, right? If you don't show me the way, I'll just go myself later."
Two hours later, Harry held a sword in his hands.
It was the most magically potent dark ritual sword he'd found in the black market, which he named Voodoo.
As he examined it closely, he sensed a faint trace of charm—less than a single point, but present nonetheless—perhaps even a hint of divine power.
It reminded him of the aura of a Red Priest, like Melisandre. He'd never encountered a full point of divine power, but he could sense this trace when close to powerful priests.
The shopkeeper claimed it was an ancient African relic, a treasure of the Voodoo faith, which inspired Harry to name the sword.
Had he known the name of the corresponding deity, he might have called it "Touch of [Deity's Name]."
Or perhaps the shopkeeper was exaggerating, and it was merely an artifact from some obscure, primitive tribal ritual.
The sword carried a primal, bloodthirsty aura, having undoubtedly claimed many lives.
Its craftsmanship felt crude, but that didn't matter. Even the finest mundane steel couldn't compare to magical steel in his hands.
Magic, after all, was a matter of will.
In critical moments, this sword might just be capable of bearing the Lightbringer.
With it, Harry could attempt to slay even seemingly unkillable beings.
An unsolvable maze of darkness? Harry could carve a path forward.
An inescapable trap of fate? Harry could force his way through.
Divine power, even more a matter of will.
The shopkeeper, unaware of Harry's keen perception, had treated the sword as junk, pricing it cheaply. Harry felt the thrill of a bargain.
The man tried to raise the price on the spot, but a single glare from Harry silenced him.
Harry also noticed that Knockturn Alley was a stark contrast to Diagon Alley. The atmosphere was grim, and many of its denizens were clearly rogues—dark wizards, no doubt.
After robbing Gringotts and recruiting some followers, his next step could be to take over Knockturn Alley. It would suffice for his needs during the school year.
With some development, he could build a base, gather followers, and unlock corresponding achievements in the system. Perfect.
Without a territory, many of the system's functions were inaccessible, which was frustrating.
With a temporary weapon secured, he still needed a wand. As Hagrid had said, swords weren't allowed at Hogwarts, and Harry couldn't exactly use a sword to cast spells.
Hogwarts' wand market was monopolized by a single shop.
The store was small and shabby, with a peeling gold sign above the door that read: Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 BC.
In the dusty window, a single wand rested on a faded purple cushion.
As Harry and Hagrid entered, a tinkling bell rang from somewhere in the back.
The shop was tiny, containing nothing but a single bench. Thousands of narrow boxes were stacked nearly to the ceiling.
"Good afternoon," an old man said, standing before them.
"Hello," Harry replied, sizing up the displayed wands.
Truth be told, they weren't what he'd expected.
He'd imagined grander wands, like those wielded by medieval sorcerers—Merlin's kind, seen on TV. At the very least, something like Hagrid's umbrella, which could double as a staff or a club to bash heads.
Not to boast, but Harry was fairly skilled with pole weapons.
But Hagrid's oversized wand was apparently tailored to his giant frame. Were all wands this small?
Fine, small wands were kind of cute.
Not to boast, but Harry was also skilled with one-handed weapons—short swords, daggers, you name it.
With a bit of strength, he could still pierce skulls.
He was, as they say, moderately proficient.
The old man, oblivious to Harry's inner commentary, marveled at his extraordinary charisma—almost like that of a born king—and began, "I knew I'd be seeing you soon, Harry Potter…"
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