In Uncle Vernon's car, Aunt Petunia and Dudley clung to each other in the back seat, while Harry sat in the front passenger seat.
Once, he'd burned with the desire to get back at Dudley, but now Dudley seemed too weak, too insignificant to bother with.
Harry gazed out the window at the London scenery.
Greater London, the City of Fog, the Proud City, the Eternal City—once the heart of the world.
Yet it felt older than he'd imagined. For some reason, Harry couldn't shake the sense that Britain was like a sun setting on the horizon.
Only the fading glow of bygone days remained, with decay lurking in every corner. But that wasn't his concern—such matters were for the government and the Queen to worry about. If the day came when the people could no longer bear it, Harry might consider raising a rebellion to make Britain great again—
Well, maybe later. That sort of thing didn't seem to fit in the modern world anymore.
Harry had lived in the ordinary modern world long enough to know that many of his thoughts were out of step with the times.
He turned his attention to the ultimate knowledge now residing in his mind—the techniques to create the Philosopher's Stone, workable in any world.
It all seemed simple enough, almost like following a recipe that even an ordinary person could manage.
But of course, it wasn't that straightforward. The same knowledge could elevate some to godhood while others could only use it to daydream.
The principles taught in Potions class weren't so different from chemistry experiments, yet Muggles could never brew a potion. Every step of potion-making required a wizard's own magic to guide the process. As Snape had always said, it was a precise art. If merely stirring a cauldron could produce a powerful potion, the world would be too easy.
The technique for crafting the Philosopher's Stone was no different—it demanded a special kind of power.
According to the system, there were three paths to creating the Stone: performing a secret ritual with immense intellect, invoking divine grace with great spiritual power, or conducting a grand ceremony with overwhelming charisma.
Harry glanced at his stat panel. Without a doubt, his highest attribute—his golden-tier charisma—made the grand ceremony to bridge the inner and outer cosmos the obvious choice.
But it also required a potent magical source as a material—the stronger, the better. Only with sufficiently powerful magic could a true miracle be achieved.
Did such a material even exist in the modern world? If not, he could try with something lesser, just to test it… but the first Philosopher's Stone he crafted held profound mystical significance. He didn't want to half-ass it.
If he could find a source of immense magical power…
At that moment, the scene before Harry's eyes began to shift.
Having experienced this before, Harry felt a faint premonition. Could it be… his desire…?
Harry lost most of his consciousness, clinging to the five points of charisma he'd honed through a year of magical training. It allowed him to retain a sliver of awareness of the external cosmos, slipping into a dreamlike state between reality and illusion.
This was the clearest crossing yet.
Several great wills seemed to be conversing as he left this world behind.
The system was propelling him forward, searching for a world that met the criteria—crossing, entering.
A suitable world, unable to resist the system's relentless coaxing, opened a corner of its infinite planes. This world was different from the ones before—it felt… more alive? Could a world itself have consciousness?
Harry's charisma wasn't enough to fully perceive such unknowable realms. His form felt too vast to enter directly, so he was funneled into a prepared vessel—a "spiritual foundation"—to manifest properly in the material world.
His projected past wasn't the usual hastily fabricated backstory of an orphaned survivor. This time, it was more—much more.
Legends of Harry spread through this partitioned parallel universe.
This world gained new, illusory ancient tales, their truth hard to discern, of a heroic warrior who drew a sword and claimed kingship, leading a human alliance against the dead.
He slew the Night King, defeated the descended God of Cold, and reclaimed the world for the living.
In the mortal realm, he unified kingdoms before the Common Era, launched expeditions across Europe and Asia, and vanished mysteriously in his prime, rumored to have ascended to godhood.
He was the first Warrior King, the prototype for Arthur himself.
He wielded the primal, barbaric "holy sword," Lightbringer, while also commanding new powers gained from conquering the darkness.
"I am the one who accomplishes all good deeds in the world; I am the culmination of all the world's evils."
His legend was the origin of a dualistic pantheon of light and darkness, revered nearly as highly as Jesus or the Enlightened One—a savior in his own right.
Of course, these weren't truly Harry's deeds in this world. They were just a backdrop.
Like the accidents in his previous two worlds, where everyone around him conveniently died, leaving him the sole survivor, these were mere constructs—initial identities crafted by the world.
But there was a difference. One was a casually woven projection; the other, a grand, fabricated legend.
Only a legend of such stature—significant yet not disruptive to the main course of human history—could support his existence.
This plane, this parallel world, this planet—it seemed unusually welcoming to outsiders.
Aliens were first-class citizens, and otherworldly beings were even higher?
The flood of knowledge was incomprehensible, and the last thing he heard was—
"…Thy body lies beneath me; my fate rests upon thy sword!"
"…In response to the Holy Grail's summons, those who heed this will and reason, answer me!"
Harry snapped out of his half-conscious state.
"Oh—oh! This time came with a ton of knowledge. Were those visions real or just hallucinations…?
What's that… the Holy Grail War? What's that about?
…The Grail will definitely boost my magic, and there'll be extra rewards… I can speak Japanese now? Wait, am I in China…? No, this is Japan…
Something's off. Am I…?"
Harry's mind was a jumbled mess. Perhaps he'd seen too much that he wasn't meant to. Even with his transformed charisma under control, he wasn't in great shape.
His memories teetered on the edge of chaos, his intellect at risk of plummeting to zero—
But he steadied himself. Those incomprehensible things? Best not to think about them. That was Harry's way.
He opened his eyes and took in the scene.
No one was there. The one who'd called out to "answer me"—where were they?
They seemed important. Someone he was supposed to protect?
He sat up from his sprawled position, surrounded by shattered rubble. He glanced at the collapsed ceiling above.
"Am I some kind of heaven-sent object? This crossing is something else. I thought I'd appear in a magical summoning circle. Are the scattered bits of info in my head fake?"
Moonlight spilled into the living room like scattered silver, where warm yellow wall lamps and crystal chandeliers should have glowed in harmony. Now, only this cold light remained, bathing the wreckage in an ethereal halo. Harry didn't mind the scene.
His gaze swept over the room. The carpet was torn, revealing intricately patterned wooden floors beneath. The house's foundation was solid, and there was a mature flow of magic—different from his own world's system, but potent.
The decor, though, was lackluster and poorly maintained. A fallen noble house, perhaps?
Harry used these trivial observations to distract himself from the crossing's visions. His headache was easing; he'd be fine.
His eyes drifted to a wall clock, striking the hour.
If he'd been summoned intentionally, the summoner must have chosen this time deliberately.
But something had clearly gone wrong—otherwise, he wouldn't have crashed through the ceiling.
Harry even suspected his headache and memory issues stemmed from a botched summoning ritual. The summoner was likely a skilled wizard of this world, probably with their own reasons for the mishap.
Harry had seen plenty of carefully laid plans fall apart at the last moment—including his own occasional blunders—so he could sympathize with such a non-combat failure.
As his headache subsided and he prepared to stand and search for more clues, rapid footsteps approached.
Someone was coming upstairs. Harry sharpened his five senses.
He could hear their heartbeat.
Thud, thud, thud.
Lightweight, coming from the basement. They'd likely meant to summon him there but failed.
A strong, steady heartbeat.
Closer now—a woman's scent…
This person was powerful. A female knight? Her movements suggested recklessness.
And she had magic. A magic-warrior hybrid—impressive.
These were deductions based on what he had. Harry missed Tyrion's sharp mind—or even Hermione's. Thinking for himself was exhausting and not always accurate.
From intuition, the faint magical link between them, and the knowledge now in his head… she was likely an ally, his comrade in this war?
Her movements were rough. A noise came from the door across the room.
The handle was broken—Harry heard it. He knew what she was about to do.
He sat up straight, exuding a faint regal aura, the rubble his makeshift throne.
Sure enough, the moment he struck his pose, the door handle proved useless, and the female knight didn't hesitate. With a decisive kick—
Bang!
The door flew inward.
A girl's silhouette emerged through the dust and smoke. Short in stature but brimming with presence.
Harry nodded approvingly. Bold and commanding—his kind of person.
Her door-busting technique felt familiar. He and Hagrid might do the same. Hagrid's door-demolition skills and Harry's own Mighty Lock-Breaking Charm were practical magic.
She was probably a magical girl, right? By Merlin, that's just how us magic folk roll.
While Harry formed a favorable impression, the girl's first instinct was to tally the damage. She scanned the collapsed ceiling, shattered furniture, and unsold knickknacks…
Stay elegant, stay elegant—she took deep breaths, barely holding back a scream. Damn it! I'm done with these formalities!
Her gaze finally landed on the overwhelmingly conspicuous… little boy?
"Hello," Harry greeted.
"…"
The girl froze, at a loss for words. What was this?
No way. Was he…?
No, please, not like this!
At least give me a grown-up warrior! "Um—" Don't say it! Let me hold on to my last shred of hope! she thought.
"Are you my—" Stay back!!! "Are you my Master?"
The girl went rigid.
Harry found the term "Master" odd. A language issue, maybe? English to Japanese and back to English?
Or perhaps it meant "master" as in mentor. If it meant "owner," he wasn't having it. For now, he'd confirm their alliance and sort out the title later. He was sure his comrade would give him face and call him "King."
But the girl didn't respond. She was completely frozen.
"What's going on… Should I say, 'Here, the oath is fulfilled'?" Harry was equally confused.
Come on, sister, you're the one who summoned me, right? Did I end up in the wrong place?
Harry saw no issue, striking a more relaxed pose and crossing his legs.
"Anyway, I'm hungry. Let's eat first.
Master, whip up a couple of dishes to fill my stomach."
Meanwhile, the girl—more accurately, a black-haired girl with twin tails—finally snapped out of her stupor, starting to accept reality.
She glanced at the wall, staring at the clock, and suddenly understood everything.
"Haha… hahaha… I get it. Of course, it falls apart at the critical moment…"
She let out a dry laugh, as if petrified, then slumped forward, drained of color.
Harry didn't get it. He just pressed, "Hurry up and cook, I'm starving. Or give me some cash, and I'll eat out… The ritual earlier messed up, I think. Besides my head being foggy, I feel weak. We need to replenish my magic soon."
"Oh, and how's your intellect? If we're fighting together, I want to focus on the battlefield—charging in, leading the charge—but I need an external brain. You look sharp enough.
And your age… high schooler, right? Be my strategist, how about it?"
To Harry, being underage was no issue. He'd trusted eleven-year-old advisors before. Some people were just born clever.
The twin-tailed girl barely registered the second half of his words. She only caught the first part.
Yes, the summoning ritual had gone wrong. The summoned Heroic Spirit didn't seem too bright either—and looked like a sixth-grader. It was all over.
Thanks to Harry's high charisma, even his brash attitude didn't offend her. She blamed herself instead. Why had this happened?
As for his attitude, Harry thought it was a quick way to bond. If she were the formal type, he wouldn't have been so casual at first. But he pegged her as the carefree sort.
The girl, Rin Tohsaka, was at the peak of self-loathing.
She'd prepared meticulously for this day, all to summon the strongest Servant—Saber!
In a typical Holy Grail War, Sabers were overwhelmingly strong, followed by Lancers and Archers—the top three classes.
Riders were decent, and Berserkers, while appealing to weaker Masters for their trade-off of sanity for power, were beneath Rin's standards.
Then came Casters and Assassins. In Rin's mind, Assassins were weak, only good for picking off Masters, useless in direct combat.
And with the top three classes' magic resistance nullifying most spells, Casters were at a disadvantage too.
"Let's confirm—ugh, what class are you?"
Rin nearly called the black-haired boy "kid" but stopped herself. For some reason, she couldn't see his stats—likely another side effect of the botched summoning.
"Oh, I guess I'm a wizard," Harry said.
"Wizard… Caster, then. Got it."
Rin's eyes lost their spark.
Then she closed them entirely.
It was all over.