The summons came at dawn—a scrap of enchanted parchment bursting into flames above Harry's palm, its embers forming three stark words:
"THEY COME AT DUSK."
Harry crushed the ashes in his fist. He'd expected this. The presence he had been sensing had gotten closer during the day.
Sigurd arrived within the hour, his usual composure frayed at the edges. "The Association's seers have confirmed it," he said, voice tight. "The Heretic God's presence is like a tidal wave crashing toward shore. Our Miko collapsed after her divination—she couldn't stop screaming about 'the sun swallowing the sky'."
Harry flexed his fingers, feeling the dormant power of his Authorities stir in response. "Where?"
"Reykjavík. Tonight." Sigurd hesitated. "They're requesting your presence at the safe house. Not an order," he added quickly, "a plea."
Harry almost laughed. The mighty Mage Association, pleading. But he could understand, In the anime, Campiones were described as unreasonable and unruly. They take what they want and don't really give a damn.
It was said the the destruction of pompei, that alone should give a tiny measure of destruction his fellow siblings and he can unleash.
"When do we leave".
When he stepped into their warded hall an hour later, the air tasted of fear. Mages in ceremonial robes stood like statues between the flickering braziers, their eyes darting to him and then away. At the room's center, a pale-faced girl in shrine maiden garb clutched a shattered mirror, her lips still trembling with the aftershocks of prophecy.
"L-Lord Campione." She managed a bow, though her knees threatened to buckle.
Behind her, An elder mage.
"I am Alaric von Ostberg," the elder mage introduced himself. "Grand Magus of the Northern European Branch. I speak for the Mage Association in this part of the world."
Harry's eyes narrowed. This was the man truly in charge. The one Sigurd ultimately answered too.
"I heard You've come to make me an offer," Harry said. Sigurd had told him the head had wanted to talk to him.
Alaric's lips curled slightly. "An understanding, rather. You are a Campione, a god slayer, a tyrant among mortals. The world bends to your will, whether you desire it or not. But even tyrants must navigate the world they rule."
Harry leaned against the wall, unconcerned with propriety. "And you're offering guidance?"
"In a manner of speaking." Alaric steepled his fingers. "We have long operated under the rule of secrecy, maintaining a balance between the supernatural and the mundane. Your presence disrupts that balance. You have the potential to remake the world—or destroy it."
The murmurs around hushed. The air grew heavier.
Harry remained unfazed. "And what do you expect from me?"
Alaric's gaze sharpened. "Nothing. Unlike some governments and magical councils, we do not seek to command or control a Campione. We serve."
The words hung in the air, and Harry saw the flickers of displeasure in some of the gathered mages. Not all of them agreed. But they would abide by it, whether they liked it or not.
Alaric was right. A Campione was above them all.
Harry exhaled. "Then we won't have problems. I have no intention of disrupting your operations unless you make yourselves my enemy."
Alaric smiled, as if satisfied. "Then the Mage Association stands with you."
Before anything more could be said, a soft voice interrupted, The girl that greeted him. The Miko if he was right.
"The time has come...She whispered of sunken halls and drowned sons, of gold swallowed by waves and the sky bleeding daylight…"
Grand Magus Alaric von Ostberg exhaled sharply through his nose. "We've reinforced the city's wards but against a Heretic God—"
"Wards won't matter." Harry interrupted, watching the Miko's mirror shards tremble on the floor. They reflected not the ceiling, but a sky twisting and shifting like flowing water, dark mist everywhere.
His hand moved to wrap around Gleipnir's Fang that was by his side as a heavy feel pressed upon the area.
A slow grin spread across his face.
"Good."
It began with winds.
Heavy Winds that seem to rip everything in its path.
Then came the mist of darkness that seemed to put the city to sleep.
He could see some of the mages of the association dropping to the ground, not dead but passed out from the effects.
The sky above Reykjavik suddenly blazed as if the sun itself had descended upon the city. A pillar of golden light erupted in the distance, the power so intense that even distances away, Harry could feel it against his skin.
Mages scrambled, shouting incantations and reinforcing wards. People in the streets fell to their knees, some in awe, others in terror.
People dying from just the intense power crushing them before they even knew what was happening.
Harry felt it before he saw it. His Authorities stirred awake, resonating with the approaching presence. The air itself seemed to vibrate with anticipation.
Then—a voice.
"MORTAL."
The word rolled across the frozen bay like thunder, shaking windows and sending seabirds scattering. Every head turned toward the sound.
A figure emerged from the sea, walking upon the frozen waves as if they were solid ground. Tall and regal, she was clad in armor that seemed forged from sunlight and sea foam. Golden hair cascaded down her back like liquid fire, and her eyes burned with the intensity of a midsummer sun.
Njörun had arrived.
She raised her spear—a weapon that hummed with barely-contained power—and pointed it directly at Harry, who stood at the harbor's edge.
"YOU WHO HAVE STOLEN DIVINITY FROM THE WOLF," she declared, her voice making the very air tremble. "I AM NJÖRUN, SHE WHO COMMANDS THE FIORD'S FURY. COME, LITTLE KING. LET US SEE IF YOUR STOLEN POWER CAN WITHSTAND THE SEA'S JUDGMENT."
The frozen waves shattered behind her as she stepped onto land, water exploding upward in a glittering spray that instantly vaporized into steam. The docks beneath her feet blackened and cracked from the heat radiating off her form.
Harry felt every eye in the city turn to him—mages seemed to hold their breath. He rolled his shoulders, feeling His power coil through his muscles.
"Took you long enough," he said, loud enough for only her to hear. But the grin on his face spoke volumes.
Njörun's answering smile was all teeth. "OH, CHILD. YOU'LL WISH I'D TAKEN LONGER."
Harry's heart thundered in his chest, but not from fear. No—this was something else. Anticipation. Excitement.
He stepped forward, every movement resonating with the power that now defined him.
The world itself seemed to hush as Harry Potter, the Seventh Campione, met the gaze of a god.
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