By the time the day's exhausting classes were over, Harry was more than ready to leave Hogwarts behind. He felt a profound, almost physical need to escape the suffocating walls, and demands of school life.
He'd told Ron and Hermione earlier that he needed time alone.
"If you guys are looking for me I'll be out of view for a while," he'd said casually, trying to sound nonchalant as they walked through a crowded corridor, he made sure to make it sound like he was just going to be laying low for a bit,
"just know I'm taking a break from, the Ministry, Umbridge's atrocious pink, even Snape's greasy hair. I just need to clear my head, maybe find a quiet corner of the castle to study." They accepted the excuse with concern and murmured goodbyes, though Hermione's eyes held a hint of worry that he was retreating into himself again.
He felt a small, familiar stab of guilt lying to them, despite everything they were his friends, after all, but he buried it beneath.
Once alone, as twilight deepened outside the castle windows, casting long, spectral shadows across the grounds, Harry slipped into an empty classroom on the third floor. He drew the heavy oak door shut with a soft click, the sound muffled by ancient enchantments, ensuring their privacy. Then, he called softly, "Dobby."
With a crack of sound, like a tiny whip snapping in the quiet air, the ever-enthusiastic house-elf appeared, eyes wide and ears flapping, practically vibrating with excitement. He looked ready to take on a dragon if Harry so commanded.
"Harry Potter, sir!" Dobby beamed, bowing so low his nose almost touched the dusty floor, his devotion absolute. "Dobby is here! How can Dobby serve the great Master Harry Potter, the kindest wizard Dobby knows? Is Master Harry Potter needing a sock? Or perhaps to fight evil wizards?"
"I'll be out of Hogwarts for a while, Dobby," Harry explained, keeping his voice low and clear.
"A few days, perhaps. If anyone asks—Professor Dumbledore, or even my friends—you should just inform them that I'm somewhere in the castle, perhaps relaxing in a quiet room, or engaged in private training, Just don't say I've left the grounds. It's important no one knows." He knew Dobby's loyalty was absolute, and his magical abilities, coupled with his invisibility, made him the perfect, unwitting cover.
Dobby nodded eagerly, his large green eyes alight with understanding and fierce loyalty. "Yes, Harry Potter, sir! Dobby will make sure no one bothers Master Harry Potter! Dobby will protect Master Harry Potter's privacy with all of Dobby's might!"
Harry nodded his thanks, a genuine smile touching his lips. "Good. Thank you, Dobby. You're the best." He then activated the Marauder's Map, its enchanted parchment unfurling to reveal every hidden passage. He pinpointed the nearest secret passage leading outside the castle grounds, ensuring his route was completely unobserved.
From there, It was direct to Homestead, Then, London. From there, he headed directly to where he had told Evelyn they were to pick him up.
A Mage Association driver, a stoic man in a dark suit with an unnervingly blank expression, waited for him beside a sleek, black limousine. The car ride to the private airport was smooth and pleasantly silent, the hum of the luxury vehicle a stark contrast to the earlier chaos. London's evening lights shimmered in the distance like scattered jewels across a dark velvet cloth as Harry watched the world pass by through the tinted, sound-proofed window, allowing himself a rare moment of serene detachment.
Once aboard the private jet, a luxurious vehicle equipped with every comfort imaginable—plush reclining seats, a small, well-stocked bar, and advanced magical shielding—he allowed himself a moment of pure, unadulterated peace.
He reclined in the plush leather seat, feeling the subtle vibrations of the aircraft as it taxied. The gentle hum of the engines became a soothing lullaby, a comforting drone against the vast silence of the night sky. He dozed off, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up to him, but leaving his mind clear and sharp for what lay ahead. Sleep came easily, deep and dreamless, a brief respite from the ever-present weight of his new reality.
He arrived in Scotland in the dead of night, stepping out onto the tarmac under thick, low-hanging clouds and a cool, crisp air that carried the distinct scent of pine, damp earth, and the faint, underlying tang of ancient magic.
The Association had spared no expense, setting him up in a modern, luxurious penthouse hotel suite with panoramic views of the rugged, mist-shrouded highlands, a dramatic, imposing backdrop for the impending divine battle.
It was beautiful. Quiet. The silence of the highlands was wonderful, broken only by the whisper of the wind, a stark contrast to the bustling, noisy world he had left behind.
He spent the following day roaming. He took a walk through the surrounding landscape, blending in with the sparse tourists who frequented the scenic routes, pretending for just a while longer that he was simply another teenager on a weekend trip, enjoying the Scottish landscape.
He hiked along winding trails, breathed in the fresh, invigorating air, observed the ancient, weathered mountains and the desolate moors. As he walked, he subtly felt the latent magic in the earth, the deep, ancient currents of the land, sensing the subtle shifts in the magical currents that spoke of something stirring, something immense gathering far off in the wilderness, the faint, disquieting hum of a divine presence drawing closer. He mentally charted the terrain, searching for suitable battlegrounds, places where a clash of divine powers would cause minimal collateral damage.
By nightfall, he returned to the opulent, quiet solitude of the hotel, his mind sharpened, his body rested. And by Sunday afternoon—precisely within Evelyn's predicted 24-48 hour window, the storm arrived, not as a metaphor, but as a literal seismic shift in reality.
The first sign was the earth trembling violently beneath his feet, a low, guttural growl that vibrated through the very bedrock of the Highlands, rattling the windows of his penthouse suite. It wasn't a natural earthquake, it was a surge of immense, divine power, manifesting onto the mortal plane. The very air around him grew heavy, crackling with uncontrolled magical energy, bending light and sound into unsettling distortions.
To the mundanes, this was just a natural event but he could see it, feel it.
The world seemed to blend into itself, the atmosphere stilled, and he could already see the damn god. As he moved through the streets of the now rapidly evacuating city.
The Heretic God had descended. And honestly, he had forgotten just how human they could look when they chose to manifest in the mortal world. This one was no monstrous beast like Fenrir, nor an ethereal goddess like Njörun. If it wasn't for his senses and him being a campione he would never have guessed this being was a heretic god.
It looked unmistakably like a man, a young man, strikingly beautiful and powerfully built, radiating an ethereal, almost divine presence that commanded instant, terrified attention. He possessed soft, youthful features with a touch of androgyny, almost feminine in their delicate perfection, yet paradoxically combined with the hard-muscled physique of a seasoned warrior, every curve of his body speaking of lethal grace. Long, flowing purple hair cascaded behind him like mist, shimmering with an otherworldly light, catching the dull light of the Scottish sky, creating an almost hypnotic spectacle.
His body was partially armored in a skin-tight, rune-inscribed material that seemed to ripple like liquid shadow, flowing like a second skin. Resting casually on his shoulder was a glowing spear that set his primal senses on high alert.
He was walking slowly through the town, utterly unconcerned by the devastation he wrought, a grin of pure, exhilarating madness stretched across his face as he effortlessly destroyed everything around him with casual gestures, stones crumbling into dust, the ground erupting with each step. The air shimmered around him, charged with his immense power.
The god had sensed him immediately as Harry too set his gaze upon it, their eyes locking across the desolate landscape, a silent challenge passing between them. The god's grin widened with an even greater, more unsettling madness as it didn't even bother to entertain him with talk, with a challenge or declaration of intent. It just launched itself at him at light speed, a blur of purple and steel, breaking the very ground it had been standing on, leaving a jagged furrow in its wake, rocketing across the distance in an instant.
Harry reacted instantly, his Campione instincts kicking in, overriding thought, his body moving before his mind could fully register the threat. With a roar that echoed across the town, Gleipnir's Fang, his black dagger, appeared in his hands, summoned directly from his hammerspace.
He brought it up in a defensive block, catching the incoming spear strike that was aimed directly for his skull with a resounding crack of divine steel. Sparks flew in a blinding shower as the two immense, conflicting forces collided, and the ground beneath them shattered like glass, sending fissures radiating outwards for hundreds of yards, scattering dust and debris into the air.
The god laughed, a wild, joyous sound that held no humor, only the pure, unadulterated thrill of battle, the ecstatic rush of finding a worthy opponent.
"You are Campione," he said in old English, his voice a deep, resonant baritone, ancient and powerful, carrying over the wind. "A slayer of gods, indeed. I've never killed one of your kind before. To find one who stands against me, to fight a Campione, to kill a Campione and prove myself, this is the glory I seek! This is the highest honor!" His eyes blazed with a terrifying, unadulterated excitement, a warrior's fever.
Harry's response was a cold sneer, his own eyes glowing with a feral glint that mirrored the god's madness. "You won't start today, god. You'll be just another footnote in my ascendance, another power for me to claim."
The battle resumed with blinding speed and earth-shattering force. They blurred through the ruins of the town, a whirlwind of motion, trading blow after blow, a relentless dance of death. Spears and Dagger, instinct and rage, clashed in a dizzying display of power, each impact radiating immense energy.
Each shockwave from their collisions demolished walls, crushed streets, and sent debris flying like shrapnel, carving new craters wherever they moved. The very air shrieked under the immense pressure, twisting and distorting, and the earth groaned with every impact, unable to withstand the divine might.
Harry was holding his own, but barely. This was a warrior, through and through, a master of combat, whose every movement was honed by centuries of brutal, perfected battle, a lifetime dedicated to martial prowess. And Harry, for all his burgeoning strength and raw power, was being outclassed in pure skill, in the finesse and brutal efficiency of a truly legendary combatant.
He was reacting, enduring, but not dominating. That was something he needed to work on, something he desperately needed to master if he survived this fight. He would need experience.
He needed to survive.
He needed to adapt.
He needed to learn, and quickly, to turn the tide against a truly formidable opponent.
Eventually, they broke apart after a particularly explosive exchange, both jumping back, creating a temporary lull in the storm. The god grinned, his purple hair swaying in the supernatural winds, his eyes alight with a terrifying satisfaction at the challenge.
"What is your name, slayer?" he asked, his voice ringing with challenge, acknowledging Harry's strength and resilience. "You fight with the fury of a beast, yet you are human. You must be someone great, to stand against Cú Chulainn!"
Harry straightened, ignoring the thin line of blood trickling down his chin from a superficial cut. His voice was cold, unwavering, asserting his new identity with absolute confidence. "My name is Harry Potter. Seventh Campione."
He pointed the gleaming black dagger, Gleipnir's Fang, directly at the god. He had been trying to last long enough, trying to run through the mental list of gods close to Scotland that could have any myths that would tell him who this guy was. He had gone through Celtic, Norse, and even some forgotten Pictish deities, searching for a clue, hoping for a hint. It wasn't until the Heretic God, with a flourish of pure arrogance, informed him of his true identity that Harry had nearly punched himself in the face, a sudden, blinding flash of realization hitting him.
"Then you shall know mine," the god said, his grin widening, a predatory gleam in his eyes. He spun his spear once, the weapon humming with anticipation, almost vibrating with barely contained power. "I am Cú Chulainn—the Hound of Ulster, son of Lugh, the Light of Ireland. And I refuse to die!"
Harry's blood ran cold. Cú Chulainn. The name hit him like a physical blow, sending a chill down his spine that had nothing to do with the cool Scottish air. How could I have missed it? He thought, a mix of self-reproach and grim acceptance.
He should've known. The spear. The incredible, raw combat prowess. The sheer arrogance, the boundless confidence with his spear as they fought. The proximity to Ireland, the very heartland of Celtic mythology.
"Shit," Harry whispered, a genuine expletive escaping his lips, a mixture of exasperation and profound respect for the legend before him.
He had been going through the names of gods but he had forgotten that legends could be immortalized and become heretic gods too.
This was not going to be as easy as he thought. His body tensed and power started leaking from him.
Then, slowly, a wide, feral smile stretched across his face, his eyes brightening with a terrifying, almost manic glee that mirrored Cú Chulainn's own battle-lust. His initial shock faded, replaced by an overwhelming sense of exhilaration. "Good. I was getting bored, Cú Chulainn. This is much better. This is a fight worthy of Myself"
He sheathed his dagger, Gleipnir's Fang, He wouldn't defeat this warrior with mere steel. His dagger may have ichor on it that made it tougher but it was clear that continuious use against a heretic gods weapond would just be useless.
He took a deep breath "By the gnashing teeth of the chained wolf, by the fury that breaks all bonds, I rend All, I cut through the impossible!" he roared, his voice deepening, echoing with a primal, animalistic power that was not entirely his own.
And activated his Authority of the Fenririan Rend.
His hands glowed white, a blinding, ethereal light emanating from his palms, and sharp, obsidian claws formed over his fingers, shimmering with energy, each one a blade capable of severing not just flesh, but all that's in its way, of reality itself.
He launched forward, faster than before, a blur, a shadow infused with divine power, aiming a series of precise, devastating slashes at the warrior god, his movements fueled by raw power and newfound focus, a whirlwind of destructive intent.
Cú Chulainn met him with equal speed and precise deflections, his legendary spear dancing in arcs of bluish silver flame, a whirlwind of defense against Harry's furious assault. The sound of their clash was like tearing metal, a high-pitched shriek of clashing power, each deflection sending blinding sparks flying into the air.
Harry's instincts, those of a Campione, allowed him to predict and react with preternatural speed, kept him alive. He dodged by fractions of an inch, countered with flurries of claw strikes that aimed for his throat, using his combat sense more than refined technique. He was a natural fighter, but Cú Chulainn was a master, a deity forged in the fires of endless battle.
The student of the Queen of the shadow land, Scathach. That to be honest was a fan out moment.
Still, it wasn't enough. Cú Chulainn was simply too skilled, too experienced, too fluid in his movements. Harry could land blows, but not decisive ones. He tanked what he knew was not fatal but didn't care about everything else.
He needed more.
He needed to unleash something truly devastating, something that could overcome perfected martial artistry, something that would break through Cú Chulainn's legendary defense.
Suddenly, the god, sensing the shift in Harry's power, jumped back, creating a significant distance between them. His spear lit with the red flames, glowing with an ominous, sickly light, its tip radiating a localized spatial distortion, humming with a terrifying power that made the air itself ripple.
This was Gáe Bulg, his cursed spear, capable of always striking true.
And he threw it.
The sky cracked with the sheer force of the throw, a literal fissure appearing in the air where the spear tore through. The weapon, a projectile of raw divine energy, screamed through the air, an emerald streak of death, aimed directly at Harry, its trajectory impossible to evade conventionally.
Harry barely dodged, twisting his body at the last possible second, relying purely on his sharpened instincts and Unyielding Authority. The legendary weapon grazed his side, burning a searing line of pain across his ribs, but missing anything vital. The sheer concussive force of the missed blow leveled the entire mountain behind him, turning it into a cloud of pulverized rock and shrapnel, a monument to the spear's devastating power. The ground vibrated violently under the impact, a seismic shockwave.
Smoke and lightning danced across the ruins, obscuring the landscape, a chaotic backdrop to their divine duel.
Harry stood, breath ragged, a thin line of fresh blood oozing from his grazed side, the divine fire of the spear still burning faintly on his skin, and whispered a raw, almost giddy admission, "Okay… this might be a problem. A very, very interesting problem."
But his eyes were bright, blazing with an exhilarating, terrifying joy that surpassed any pain or dread.
He was alive.
And this was what he lived for. This was the thrill of being a Campione, a dance with death against a true legend, a test that pushed him to the very edge of his capabilities and beyond. This was glory.
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