The days before their return to England passed in a strange, quiet haze.
Harry spent little time with the Dursleys. After their last conversation, Vernon barely spoke, Petunia kept her distance, and Dudley seemed to avoid him whenever Harry was near. That suited him just fine. There was nothing left to say.
Instead, he used the time to adjust to his new reality.
He walked through Reykjavik's streets at night, letting the cold wind bite at his skin, yet never truly feeling the chill. He watched the flickering lights of the city, sensing the currents of magic that ran beneath the surface of the world. Every step felt heavier, more deliberate as if the very ground acknowledged his presence.
He was free. For the first time in his life as Harry Potter, he felt free.
And yet, for all the power at his fingertips, he still felt the weight of something greater looming over him.
It was like his insides were blending around together. He could feel his body tense. If he hadn't watched Campione in his past life he would have wondered what this feeling was.
But he knew already.
Danger was close.
A Heretic God was coming.
Sigurd had provided details, it seemed that Fenrir was not the only hectic god that was in the area so to speak. This one had come out of nowhere rather suddenly.
The association's Miko had used divination to get a better understanding of the situation and try to see which hectic gods had decended.
That said they would be prepared to assist—if Harry allowed it. He hadn't answered them yet. He wasn't sure he wanted to.
Part of him wanted to handle this on his own. To test himself.
Another part of him, the one that still carried echoes of Jacob's memories, reminded him that pride had undone many Campiones before him.
He needed to be smart. He needed to be ready.
Night, as he stood at the edge of a frozen shoreline, he felt the presence before he saw it.
"Enjoying the cold, Your Majesty?"
Harry turned his head slightly. Sigurd stood a few feet away, hands tucked into his coat, his expression unreadable. The older man hadn't sought him out since their first meeting, rather sending other, likely giving Harry space to decide what to do with the knowledge he had been given and watching him maybe comparing him to his campione brothers and sisteers.
Harry exhaled, watching the mist curl in the air. "It doesn't bother me."
Sigurd nodded as if that was expected. "Of course it doesn't. A Campione is beyond mortal limitations." He paused. "Yet, you linger here. Contemplating."
Harry didn't respond immediately. The waves crashed against the shore, slow and steady. Finally, he said, "I know what's coming."
Sigurd stepped closer. "You do."
They stood in silence for a moment before the older man spoke again. "And do you intend to face it alone?"
Harry turned to fully look at him. "Shouldn't I?"
Sigurd's expression didn't change. "You could. And perhaps you would win. But you must understand, Your Majesty, that a Campione is not merely a warrior. You are a king. And kings do not stand alone."
Harry studied him, reading between the lines. "You're saying I should accept the Mage Association's support."
"I am saying you should wield the resources at your disposal," Sigurd corrected. "You are the seventh Campione to exist in this age. The world already fears what you may become. But if you seek to survive, you must learn what it means to rule."
Harry's fingers twitched. Rule. It was such an unfamiliar concept.
He was no leader.At least Jacob wasn't. Harry had led Dumbledore's Army, or rather he would have led but now...
But it was not something he could just wake up and do. It wasn't something a person can decide they would just start doing, But he had to, to become a leader, a Monarch.
And whether he liked it or not, the world would treat him as such.
Harry accepted the offer.
For the next few days, Sigurd introduced him to the ways in which a magician wielded their power. Harry learned that his Authorities were not mere spells but manifestations of his will upon the world. They weren't a suggestion to the world but a command..
They practiced in the trainning ground the association had, where Harry was free to unleash his abilities without restraint. Sigurd watched with careful eyes, taking notes on how Harry's abilities manifested.
Harry started with his Authority of the Devourer. He allowed Sigurd to cast spells at him—low-level at first, then more advanced ones. Without even thinking, Harry reached out with his will, and the magic simply… ceased to exist. There was no delay, no reflection. The spell simply ceased to be. Absorbed into his being.
"Terrifying," Sigurd muttered after witnessing a particularly complex curse vanish mid-flight. "To deny magic itself. Even for a Campione, that is a rare ability. Campiones have an immunity to magic but yours is not just that. Fascinating."
Harry wasn't sure how to respond to that. It felt natural to him as if the ability had always been there, waiting to be used.
Next came the Authority of the Fenririan Rend. This, Harry found, was more instinctual. The moment he focused on destruction, his hands burned with unseen force. He slashed at whatever it was that stood in his way and ripped it to shreds, tore it apart, sometimes even leaving gashes in space that shimmered before vanishing.
Sigurd took several steps back at that display. "Gods above…" he murmured. "What power, This Authority is certainly something."
Harry felt a thrill at that. This was what it meant to be a Campione. To command the world, not simply exist within it.
The last was the Authority of the Unyielding Will. Unlike the others, this one wasn't as obvious. There was no grand display of destruction, no magic bending to his whims. But when Sigurd tested his reflexes, Harry moved faster than thought, dodging every attack with precision. When Sigurd tried to bind him with magic, Harry simply willed it away.
"It is as if you refuse to be harmed," Sigurd said, watching him with awe. "Your sheer willpower reshapes reality itself."
Harry didn't have the words to describe it, but he knew Sigurd was right. This power wasn't about overwhelming strength—it was about the refusal to fall.
After their final session, they sat by a fire, warming themselves against the frigid air.
"The Heretic God," Harry said finally. "How much longer do you think before they decide to show themself?"
Sigurd's expression turned grave. "I'm not sure my king, Hectic gods don't really follow a schedule."
Harry inhaled deeply, then exhaled. His decision had already been made. There was no point in hesitating.
He turned back toward the city. "Then let's make use of the time we have."
Sigurd smiled faintly. "As you command, Your Majesty."
As Harry walked away from the training ground, he felt something settle in his chest. A certainty he had never known before.
Battle thrills. Excitement.
————————————————————If you want to read ahead and access 5 advanced chapters, check the patreon
Link:patreon/Phantomking785