It was nearing midnight, and a dull rumble of thunder finally drowned out Dudley's snoring.
In the end, the thunder won.
In this kind of environment, Harry's movements as he got up naturally wouldn't draw the attention of the Dursley family.
Harry frowned slightly. It had been so long, years in a single dream, and many things had faded from memory. He'd thought his recollections of childhood were exaggerated, but he hadn't expected... Dudley's snoring to actually be this impressive!
Even in the army, people who could make this much noise were rare.
And Dudley was still just a kid.
At that moment, one of Dudley's arms was dangling off the edge of the sofa, his chubby wrist sporting a watch.
These modern gadgets were things Harry had been familiar with since childhood, and even after so long in another world without them, picking them up again brought back the memories almost without a hitch.
Come to think of it, if he'd finished middle school before crossing over, maybe he could've "invented" some useful weapons or convenient devices and everyday items in that other world...
But for fighting wars, raw strength was enough—Harry didn't need external tools.
His muscles were indestructible, impervious to blades and guns, unscathed by arrows.
Standing on the ground, his power flowed endlessly; he could slaughter an army of a hundred thousand single-handedly.
With brute force alone, he could strangle a giant to death.
Picking up a massive boulder, he could smash a dragon to pieces.
The White Walkers were a bit trickier with their magic, but after defeating the Night King, the great King of Strength was certain: killing the Night King didn't require Lightbringer—just a dragonglass dagger... no, even a dragonglass toothpick would suffice.
But setting aside warfare, many modern inventions could improve quality of life. Right after crossing over, Harry really struggled without toilet paper—it wasn't until he had enough money for wool that things got better.
He found some toilet paper nearby and stuffed it into his pocket, gently rubbing it with his fingertip while reminiscing, imagining the feel of it against his skin.
How did it compare to wool or high-quality fabric? As he pondered, his gaze shifted back to Dudley's watch.
The luminous dial told Harry that in ten more minutes, it would be midnight.
He remembered clearly: right after crossing over, he was just about to turn eleven, which meant there really hadn't been any time gap before he returned to the starting point...
Crossing between two worlds without time changing—truly wondrous. Harry couldn't wrap his head around it at all.
If he couldn't figure it out, he wouldn't bother thinking about it.
His eyes moved from the watch to Dudley's chubby face. It had been years, cousin!
By the Seven, seeing this guy made Harry angry, stirring up long-buried memories of his British past.
So, without doing anything else, he aimed a solid kick right at Dudley's damned fat ass—
Of course, he controlled his strength, not enough to kick the crap out of little Dudley.
It wasn't about the mess—in King's Landing, he'd gotten used to that. It was that, while Harry remembered this family hadn't treated him well and wouldn't see them as good relatives, after so many years in the world of A Song of Ice and Fire, he'd seen far worse bastards—some little boys' experiences, heh.
So his own childhood grudges didn't seem like much anymore, which was why he didn't go too hard.
For the sake of having lived in the Dursley house all these years and eaten their food for a decade, if this family really ended up being hunted down by some great lord and forced to hide on an island just to survive, he'd probably step in to save their hides, calling it even.
"Bang!"
After the kick, Dudley's head jerked forward, looking just like a damned fat pig.
The rickety old sofa couldn't take the strain and collapsed outright. Dudley must have hit something—he didn't even let out a scream, just passed out cold, sleeping peacefully.
Harry hadn't expected the kid to have such low tolerance; seemed like he'd miscalculated and used a bit too much force.
Yeah, though he could sense Dudley's strength was only one or two points, his childhood impressions of Dudley's brute force had stuck with him, so Harry had overestimated him a bit.
It was fine now—in the past, when his strength was at 20 but his other attributes were just one or two, his control was even worse. On the battlefield, he was incredibly bloody and cruel, turning everywhere he went into hell on earth. People saw him as a god or a demon.
If it had been that version of Harry making a move, Dudley would've been reduced to Dudley paste by now.
The current Harry, at least when he didn't intend to kill, could rely on his body's instincts and intuition to gauge the opponent's level, so they usually wouldn't die.
Hearing Vernon and Petunia in the house seeming to wake up from the sofa's commotion, Harry gave up on waking Dudley and kicked down the bedroom door instead, coming face-to-face with those two figures he'd hated and feared as a child:
"Hey! There are some things I need to ask you. Answer honestly, or I won't be able to save you."
Harry needed to figure out who exactly was chasing them, how many pursuers were coming, what those confiscated letters were about, and who the enemy behind it all was.
In this world, as a kid, he'd watched some TV with Dudley, but he didn't know much.
After years in another world, where even the White Walkers—considered mere myths by the locals—had turned out to be real, he couldn't tell what was story and what was truth anymore.
If he remembered right, things like rat-a-tat-tat machine guns were definitely real; kids at primary school had bragged about knowing how to shoot.
That stuff, Harry was confident he could handle. His strength was immense, at the peak of human limits, tempered by ice and fire—impervious to blades and bullets. Ordinary steel and iron couldn't touch him!
Rockets and tanks were probably real too; he'd seen actual ones in museums.
Those, Harry figured, might make him break a sweat, but he could flip them over. In his normal state, he was still human, but when he got serious, his power was boundless—enough to punch a war machine flying with one fist.
But he'd just crossed back, and he wasn't in top form; he might need to find a way to recover to his peak.
If he ran into them head-on tonight, he'd probably take some minor injuries.
If the people Vernon had pissed off came with tanks or even fighter jets and battleships, better to avoid their edge for now... though probably not; more likely just guys with guns.
Those bombs that exploded in Japan—the Fat Man and Little Boy—those were real too, right?
From what he'd seen explained on TV, with his 20 points of strength...
...he probably couldn't withstand that.
If the enemy used that kind of weapon to wipe out the Dursleys, he could just give up and run.
Then think about avenging Vernon and Petunia later.
Come to think of it, this world also had monsters that could absorb nukes and giants that defeated them... were those real?
Harry maintained a certain level of skepticism, but after crossing over and seeing dragons, White Walkers, and Lightbringer—all dismissed as legends...
Even before crossing, weird things had happened to Harry: flying when chased at school, his hair growing back overnight after Petunia cut it short, understanding the Brazilian boa constrictor, making the glass vanish to release the snake...
As a kid, Petunia always said there were scientific explanations, perfectly normal, don't think about that nonsense—just like the experts on TV.
Others without magic might believe it, but Harry, having experienced it, only bought it because he was just a child, easily fooled by his aunt.
Now, as an adult, even though his intelligence had always stayed at 1 point, unchanged.
Looking back, it wasn't just Petunia—in Britain, whenever something obviously abnormal happened, like half a street exploding out of nowhere, the government always covered it up with excuses like gas leaks.
The adult Harry, upon his return, immediately used his profound wisdom to realize: everyone was hiding some truth!
This world definitely had magic too—his own magic was proof!
Vernon seemed to have always been on guard against someone; even in sleep, he stayed vigilant, clutching a long cardboard box.
Seeing the door burst open, he fumbled frantically to tear open the box but couldn't manage it right away, sweating in panic.
When he realized it was Harry who'd "opened" the door, not the freaks he'd imagined, he let out a sigh of relief.
The door must have been too old, so it fell when the kid pushed it hard—that was the reason he came up with.
Then he looked furious, feeling offended:
"You little brat, what the hell are you up to now!"
With that, he stood up, storming over to Harry, intent on pinning him down first.
That's when Vernon spotted Dudley sprawled on the wrecked sofa, looking like he'd passed out—must be another quality issue, but someone had to take the blame. His anger boiled over as he snarled at Harry: "You did this?"
Without waiting for a reply, his hand balled into a fist and swung, his mouth spewing filth.
"Fxxxxxx (you damned mongrel bastard)" Harry shot back a curse of his own.
Cursing relatives was actually a losing game—it could easily backfire on yourself.
In the other world, Harry had no such concerns, since he had no relatives there—gave him an edge in trash-talking.
He'd grown up in the North, hanging with the "charmingly" crude men of the Night's Watch at the Wall, without any noble status. In that environment, expecting him to have high manners was unrealistic.
Harry had a clear self-awareness on this: his strength had grown immensely compared to his pre-crossing weakness and shortcomings.
But in terms of character, compared to his pre-crossing kindness—where he'd inwardly complain but still try to help others—it had regressed massively.
In the world of A Song of Ice and Fire, though, someone like him—who'd killed countless enemies on the battlefield—came off as relatively normal. Among the kings, especially compared to someone like Emperor Joffrey, he was downright wise and heroic, standing out from the crowd.
Before gaining power and rising up, Harry had even learned various skills from thieves and shady merchants.
All he could say was, the Wall had a lot of "talent."
If not for his primary school education, which set him apart from ordinary kids and gave him some value, he might not have survived to adulthood.
But after becoming king, Harry rarely cursed anymore—of course, by then no one dared curse him to his face, and there were always people nagging him about etiquette, telling him not to spew filth all the time, at least not in public.
Now, back in his childhood body, he had no such restraints, and facing this family really ignited his fury.
The flame scar on his left hand and the black ice on his right sent impulses surging.
One side was Lightbringer, fanatically urging him to kill this family's only blood relatives within three generations, wipe out his own kin, and sacrifice them to the Red God.
Just like the legendary hero Azor Ahai, who sacrificed his wife to forge the original hero's red sword.
The other side conveyed a hazy, icy will, seeming to suggest he kill them and keep the relatives' corpses to turn into White Walkers.
Infusing dark souls into bodies bearing concepts like heroic childhood, family, misfortune, kin, and so on would yield better results—sure to create the strongest White Walker guards.
For a moment, Harry unconsciously emanated a thread of icy killing intent and the murderous aura from slaying tens of thousands on the battlefield, filling the air with the tang of rust.
For an ordinary mortal hero, "blood aura" might just be rhetorical exaggeration.
But for Harry, the "King of Strength," whose physical power was utterly abnormal, evolved to monstrous levels—with measurable values in stamina, magic, and divine power, essentially advancing toward demigod heroism—blood aura and murderous qi were absolutely real descriptors.
The Red God's scorching blood aura and the Cold God's frigid death qi intertwined, clashed, and merged, all within Harry alone.
Only the kingly power atop his head sent a trace of majesty, allowing Harry to maintain self-control through his own will, refraining from those mad acts... probably due to some lingering effects from just suppressing the dual gods' powers.
Naturally, when Harry released such an astonishing ominous presence, Vernon—who was about to swing his fist—calmed down.
Brave Vernon was staring straight into indescribable terror, his mortal will put to the test.
He didn't dare move, wanting to say something but too scared to open his mouth.
His legs trembled, and before he knew it, a suspicious wet stain appeared between Vernon's legs.
At that moment, what he wanted to say wasn't curses—he wanted to make peace.
He felt like he was going to die, maybe... no, definitely going to die.
Why?
This kid was just a ten-year-old child, right? He couldn't do anything, right?
Why did it feel like facing an ultimate killer from the battlefield, or death itself?
If someone told Vernon right now that this child was an ordinary, unremarkable student on the surface but secretly teleported to war-torn Africa every day, slaughtering hundreds of savage warriors with cold weapons firsthand, Vernon would believe it.
Well, Vernon's intuition wasn't entirely wrong—Harry had killed a lot of people, and with his newly added divine power, he did resemble a god of death. Vernon would one day face death's judgment, but not today.
After adding divine power, Harry could control light and darkness. Instead of punching the offending Vernon into a bloody pulp with one fist, he merely twisted and snapped his right arm.
"Aaaahhhh!!!!"
Vernon clearly wasn't some tough guy who could take a broken bone without flinching; he clutched his arm and screamed like mad.
Hearing his dad's agonized cries, Dudley—who'd been sleeping so peacefully—might have sensed something through their blood connection. He furrowed his brow over on the sofa but still didn't wake up.
Harry first walked over to Vernon, who was still screaming, and opened the cardboard box he'd been clutching. Inside was a rifle.
Harry thought to himself: They have weapons—yep, definitely being chased... and knowing ahead of time without calling the police, the enemies are probably great lords or powerful people in this world... what are they called, capitalists?
He remembered this world's law and order was pretty good, compared to the other world... the enemies might have massive influence—gold cloaks, no, British police couldn't handle it. Maybe they really could bring tanks, or even nukes?
Before crossing, Harry was just a ten-year-old primary school kid, without the internet information explosion, and he'd sensed that the adults and society in this world were collectively hiding a lot.
Including concealing the existence of magic and extraordinary abilities.
The whole modern world was shrouded in fog to him. His 1 point of intelligence, which he thought was sufficient, really wasn't great at discerning this world's specifics and how it operated.
Better to ask directly.
Right now, the only one still conscious who could provide intel was Petunia.
She was terrified, unable to say a word.
But Harry had a way to make her talk.
He walked over to Dudley, preparing to deliver a rousing pre-battle speech that would surely make his aunt submit at his feet.
"Aunt, you wouldn't want anything to happen to your husband and son, would you?"
"I'll do anything you say, please... don't, don't..."
Seeing Harry approach Dudley and utter those threatening words, Petunia covered her mouth without sobbing aloud, but tears streamed uncontrollably down her face.
Demon—this child had become a demon!
If only they'd known, they should've treated him better. They were wrong, they shouldn't have—
"??"
Why was she saying that? Harry had just started speaking, explaining that everyone was in danger now and it was best to be honest and share the intel.
He'd been planning to appeal to emotion and reason to persuade her.
After all, they were the ones being chased—he hadn't provoked any enemies. And if it were his enemies, Vernon would've run long ago without saving Harry. Most likely, it was Vernon's own foes.
If they aimed to wipe out the entire Dursley family, the aunt's husband and son would be the primary and secondary targets.
He hadn't expected this reaction before he even finished. After slaying the Night King, his charisma had just risen to a world-shaking 5 points! And he hadn't even used it!
No king in history probably had as many buffs as him: his special status as an otherworlder, or perhaps his inherent uniqueness like his magic, giving him a base 2 points in charisma. Then chosen by the gods, Guardian of the Realm, Savior, with such vast territories, such mighty war achievements, so many titles of accomplishment and glory...
Maybe his aunt hadn't understood the situation, or perhaps the charisma had already taken effect. Either way, now was the time to ask—she'd probably tell the truth.
--