For Harry, whose strength and endurance bordered on the monstrous, ordinary weapons were often less effective than his own fists.
Steel and iron, no matter how finely crafted, would shatter after a few strikes unless he reinforced them with qi or magic.
But within him burned the soul of Lightbringer — a sword of divine origin. It was his bound companion, and not using it would have been absurd. What he needed was a proper vessel — a sword worthy to hold it, preferably one that was fated to him.
Lightbringer was not merely a blade. It was an invisible flame, a living prophecy.
It could be as light as air or as heavy as the Great Wall itself. Ordinary metal could not bear its power for long; only the finest weapon in this world might endure it. Anything lesser would crack the moment he channelled Lightbringer's essence into it.
Harry had already bound the sword-soul, and with the Dark Power of the Frost God to counterbalance it — along with the King's Power above his crown to stabilise both — he could now command it freely, driving the sword-soul in and out of its vessel with relative ease.
Under normal circumstances, the proper ritual would have required a blood sacrifice — a cruel act of offering hearts and souls to forge a divine vessel capable of holding Lightbringer's might.
If he were to follow that path, the Dursleys might already have become unwilling martyrs.
But Harry had no interest in such barbarity. Without a sacrifice, the burden on any physical vessel would indeed be great, yet he preferred the strain to needless slaughter.
He didn't hide any of this from Hagrid. "Once I reach Hogwarts," he said, "I intend to find the Sword of Gryffindor. Its quality and reputation make it the best possible container."
Until then, he decided to buy a temporary sword — something to train with during the holidays before term began.
The swordsmanship skills etched into his system panel were unique. Unlike ordinary skills that dulled over time, his would never fade.
The inscription beneath the skill list was written in strange, Eastern-looking characters, resembling Japanese. The translation read awkwardly:
"One realization, eternal realization — never to regress."
It sounded odd in English, but Harry understood the essence of it: once mastered, the skill would never decay.
No matter how long he paused, his blade would remain sharp. Each repetition, each motion, would only refine him further.
And so, with tireless resolve, he continued to hone his art.
He moved like a beast with a poet's soul — a tiger in the heart, sniffing a rose. Every cut, every stance, every still moment between movements was a meditation in itself.
After so many years across other worlds, Harry had grown addicted to the rhythm of swordsmanship — the harmony of danger and beauty, of death and grace.
Hagrid, however, had little patience for such talk.
"Wizards nowadays don't fight with swords anymore," he said, shaking his head. "No demand means no supply."
He paused, scratching his beard. "Well, maybe Knockturn Alley might have some… No, forget I said that."
Harry caught the hesitation immediately.
"Anyway," Hagrid continued, flustered, "you couldn't bring a sword into Hogwarts even if you bought one. School rules. Aside from the legendary Sword of Gryffindor — and that only appears for the true heir — there aren't any swords allowed for students."
Hagrid's tone was firm, but his guilty expression betrayed him.
Harry frowned, half amused, half reflective. Have I really become so manipulative? he wondered. Did I trick him into saying that?
No — Hagrid had revealed it himself.
"Never mind that," Harry said lightly. "Let's go to Knockturn Alley. There are swords there, right? If you won't take me, I'll just go later on my own."
Two hours later, Harry stood in a dimly lit shop deep within the twisting alleys of the black market.
In his hand gleamed a dark, slender blade — a black magic ritual sword, potent and sinister.
He named it Voodoo.
As he held it, he felt a faint pulse — not quite a full point of divine power, but something close. It reminded him of the aura he'd once sensed from the priests of the Red God — faint, flickering, but unmistakably sacred.
The shopkeeper claimed the sword had come from Africa, a relic of ancient voodoo rites. Hence the name.
If Harry had known the name of the deity it served, he might have called it Touch of [That God] — but ignorance forced simplicity.
Of course, the seller might well have been lying. The blade could have come from any number of obscure tribes with dark, bloody rituals.
Still, the aura was real — primal, brutal, and raw. The weapon had clearly been used for killing, soaked in violence and sacrifice.
Its craftsmanship was crude, its balance imperfect, but Harry didn't care. For him, craftsmanship mattered less than potential. Ordinary steel, no matter how refined, could never match magical metal once imbued with will and power.
Magic, after all, was subjective.
And divine power — even more so.
If Voodoo could hold Lightbringer's essence, then even beings normally beyond harm might be slain.
In labyrinths where no exit existed, he could carve one. In fated deaths, he could defy destiny itself.
The shopkeeper, blind to the weapon's true worth, had priced it cheaply. Harry felt that rare thrill of discovery — the rush of a treasure found by instinct.
When the man tried to raise the price mid-sale, Harry silenced him with a single cold glare. The protest died in his throat.
Outside, Knockturn Alley was thick with shadows and the stench of rot and greed.
The people here were not merchants but predators — thugs, dark wizards, and outcasts. The alley was alive with whispered trades and unseen crimes.
Harry's eyes gleamed.
"After I rob Gringotts," he mused, "and gather followers, this could be my next step — seizing control of Knockturn Alley."
It would serve as his base of operations during his school years, a perfect training ground for subordinates and a way to unlock new system achievements.
Power required territory. Without it, too many of his system functions lay dormant.
For now, though, he was content with the sword in his hand. He still needed to buy a wand.
As Hagrid had said, Hogwarts allowed no swords, and a sword could never replace a wand in learning magic.
Their next stop was the famous Ollivanders — Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
The shop was narrow and dusty, the golden lettering on the sign so faded it was barely legible.
In the front window, a single wand lay on a faded purple cushion, forlorn and dignified.
As Harry and Hagrid stepped inside, a small bell tinkled.
The space was cramped, with towers of narrow boxes stacked to the ceiling. A single long bench ran along one wall.
"Good afternoon," came a quiet voice.
An old man had appeared before them, his silvery eyes glinting like moonlight.
"Hello," Harry replied, glancing curiously at the wands.
To be honest, they weren't what he'd imagined.
He had pictured grand, ornate staves — the kind wielded by legendary mages like Merlin. Perhaps something the size of Hagrid's umbrella, heavy enough to double as a club in a pinch.
But these were small — barely longer than his forearm.
Still, he could appreciate the craftsmanship.
"Small is cute," he muttered with a grin.
He wasn't bragging, but he was comfortable with both long and short weapons — swords, daggers, polearms. With a touch of qi reinforcement, even a toothpick could become deadly in his hands.
Slightly proficient — at everything.
The old man didn't notice his internal amusement. Instead, his gaze lingered on Harry with an expression of awe, almost reverence.
When he finally spoke, his voice trembled slightly with recognition.
"I knew I would be seeing you soon, Harry Potter…"