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Chapter 2 - Chapter 2: The Killing Intent Never Stops, the Malice Never Ceases, Blood Sacrifice to the Blood God, Skull Sacrifice to the Skull Throne

It was nearing midnight, and a dull rumble of thunder finally drowned out Dudley's snoring.

Ultimately, the thunder prevailed.

In such an environment, Harry getting up naturally wouldn't attract the attention of the Dursleys.

He frowned slightly; it had been so long—this dream of many years—and many memories were blurred.

He had thought his childhood recollections were exaggerated, but he hadn't expected… Dudley's snoring to truly be that loud.

Even in the military, few men could create such a racket.

And Dudley was still just a child.

One of Dudley's pudgy arms dangled over the edge of the sofa, a watch strapped to his chubby wrist.

These modern devices—though Harry had been away for years—remained familiar. The moment he saw them, the memories returned naturally.

If he had transmigrated after finishing middle school, perhaps he could've "invented" some weapons or devices in the other world.

But for warfare, strength alone was enough.

He didn't need tools—his muscles were impervious to blades and spears; arrows could barely scratch him.

Standing on solid ground, he was a juggernaut.

He could strangle giants with bare hands, smash dragons to death with boulders.

White Walkers had been a bit troublesome due to magic, but after defeating the Night King, Harry was confident: he didn't need Lightbringer—just a dragonglass dagger… or maybe even a dragonglass toothpick.

Still, modern conveniences improved daily life.

When he first transmigrated, living without toilet paper had been painful. Wool was a poor substitute.

He found a roll nearby and stuffed it into his pocket, rubbing it between his fingers and reminiscing about how it felt against his backside.

That reminded him—Dudley's watch showed it was nearly midnight.

When he first transmigrated, he'd been just shy of eleven. Now he was back—time seemingly unchanged.

He didn't understand how or why… and if he didn't understand it, there was no point dwelling on it.

His gaze shifted from the glowing watch to Dudley's face. Long time no see, cousin.

By the Seven Gods, just looking at him filled Harry with fury.

Old British memories came rushing back, long buried and suddenly fresh.

So he did what any rational, battle-hardened king might do: he gave Dudley's fat behind a good kick.

He held back, of course.

He didn't want to knock the excrement out of the boy—not because he was squeamish. After years in King's Landing, Harry had seen and smelled worse.

But now, after so many years, his childhood grudges felt small.

He didn't hate the Dursleys as much—he'd met monsters in Westeros who made them look like saints.

If the Dursleys were hunted by nobles and forced to flee, Harry might even save them. Maybe just to settle the score.

Bang!

Dudley's head jerked forward as the dilapidated sofa collapsed under him.

He must've hit something. He didn't even scream—just passed out peacefully.

Harry blinked. Was this kid always so weak?

Maybe he'd overestimated him.

He sensed Dudley's strength was only one or two points. That seemed about right.

Back when Harry had 20 strength and 1s across his other attributes, his control was poor. His early days on the battlefield were messy. Hell followed wherever he went.

If that version of Harry had kicked Dudley, there would've been nothing left but Dudley paste.

Now, Harry's instincts were sharper. He could sense the strength of others.

If he didn't intend to kill, they usually lived.

From the back room, he heard signs that Vernon and Petunia had woken from the noise.

Harry gave up trying to rouse Dudley and kicked down the bedroom door instead.

There they were—the two people he'd once feared and hated:

"Hey! I've got some questions. You'd better answer truthfully… or I won't be able to save you."

Harry needed to know:

Who was chasing them?

How many were coming?

What were the confiscated letters about?

Who was the real enemy behind it all?

He had watched some TV with Dudley as a child, but his knowledge of the world was limited.

After seeing White Walkers—myths made real—how could he be sure what was fact or fiction here?

Machine guns? Real.

Tanks and rocket launchers? He'd seen those in museums.

Could they harm him now? Maybe a little.

He wasn't in peak condition yet. If they had tanks or fighter jets, he'd have to retreat—for now.

And if they brought nuclear bombs like those dropped in Japan? He wouldn't survive that.

But surely, it wouldn't go that far.

Still, this world had strange monsters too—things that absorbed nukes, giants fighting kaiju…

Were they real?

Harry didn't know.

He'd lived through too much to dismiss anything.

Before transmigration, odd things happened to him: flying during schoolyard chases, hair growing back overnight, talking to snakes, making glass vanish...

Aunt Petunia always claimed science could explain it all.

The TV experts said the same.

But Harry knew better.

He had magic. That was real.

This world hid magic and supernatural truth behind polite lies.

Uncle Vernon, meanwhile, had apparently been sleeping with a cardboard box clutched tightly in his hands.

When the door burst open, he panicked and fumbled to open the box.

Seeing Harry instead of the "freaks" he feared, he relaxed.

Must've been the old door, Vernon thought. Broke from a kid's push.

He got mad.

"You little brat! What are you playing at?!"

Vernon stormed over to pin him down. Then he saw Dudley, unconscious on the broken sofa.

His anger doubled.

"Did you do this?!"

Before Harry could answer, Vernon's fist came flying.

"Fxxxxxx (damned bastard)," Harry snapped.

He'd learned the art of cursing during his time with the Night's Watch.

Back then, he had no family to insult—so he cursed freely.

Now? His morals had… regressed.

Back then he'd been a kind, helpful child. Now, he was a king forged by war.

Still, among kings like Joffrey, Harry was a god of wisdom.

He'd learned to pick pockets, trade illegally, survive.

He'd been educated, valued for his talents. That's the only reason he'd lived long enough to rise.

After becoming king, he stopped swearing in public. The court demanded manners.

But back now, in his childhood body, facing this family? Rage surged.

The fire-scar on his left hand, the black ice on his right—they pulsed.

Lightbringer burned for blood.

It urged him: Kill these three, sacrifice them to the Red God.

Like Azor Ahai forging his sword with his wife's blood.

The icy will countered: Kill them, raise their corpses, make them White Walkers.

Infuse the souls of family, guilt, betrayal—make powerful undead guardians.

The two divine powers warred inside him.

Only the faint majesty of the King's Power kept him restrained.

Still, the air thickened with killing intent.

Bloodlust, real and sharp, not poetic fluff.

Harry was more than human now. A demigod. A monster.

The room reeked of rust and death.

Vernon froze.

He stared into the abyss and trembled.

Words failed him.

His legs gave out. A wet stain appeared on his trousers.

This was no child. This was death incarnate.

If someone told Vernon this boy spent every night in Africa, slaying hundreds of soldiers with cold steel, he would believe it.

He was close… Harry had killed far more.

Yet today, Vernon would live.

Harry didn't obliterate him—just broke his arm.

"AHHHHH!"

Vernon screamed like a banshee. He wasn't the stoic type.

Dudley twitched on the sofa but didn't wake.

Harry pried open the box Vernon had been clutching—a rifle inside.

Of course.

They were being hunted.

Vernon knew—but didn't call the police.

Their pursuers must be too powerful.

Harry thought of nobles, maybe capitalists.

He remembered: in this world, law and order seemed better than in Westeros… but still, the police might not be enough.

Could the enemy really bring tanks? Nukes?

Possibly.

Before transmigration, he'd been just a child. He hadn't experienced the information age yet.

Everything was still murky—magic, power, secrets. Hidden.

Now only Petunia was awake and capable of answering.

But she was too terrified to speak.

Harry had a method.

He walked toward Dudley.

"Auntie, you wouldn't want anything to happen to your husband and son, would you?"

"I'll do anything! Please, don't…"

Petunia burst into tears, covering her mouth to muffle the sobs.

Devil… this child has become a devil!

If only they'd

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