Actually, for Harry, whose physical strength and durability had reached monstrous levels, ordinary weapons weren't as useful as his fists in most situations.
Common steel and iron would shatter with one use, unless additionally wrapped with stamina and magical power.
But Harry carried the soul of Lightbringer—equivalent to having bound powerful equipment. It would be strange not to use it.
He just needed a good sword as a vessel, preferably a destined blade.
Lightbringer was invisible flame and tangible prophecy.
Light as nothing yet heavier than the Wall—ordinary weapons could hardly bear its weight.
So he needed to find the best possible weapon in the current world as a vessel; otherwise, an ordinary longsword would crack instantly.
Harry was already bound; now with the Great Other's dark power providing balance and the kingly power above suppressing and integrating everything, allowing such simple operation—he could even make the sword soul enter and exit vessels at will.
Normal operation would require blood sacrifice of the Dursley family, using their hearts as offerings to forge Lightbringer's dedicated divine power vessel.
Without blood sacrifice, even simplified operation would place great burden on the vessel.
He didn't hide from Hagrid that once at Hogwarts, he definitely planned to seek Gryffindor's renowned sword—sword quality was one aspect, while reputation in the magical world provided another enhancement.
Now he just wanted to buy a sword as backup, also to hone swordsmanship during the pre-term holidays.
The sword skills recorded on his skill panel weren't like others'; they wouldn't deteriorate without practice.
System annotations used an unfamiliar script that roughly translated to: "Once proven, forever proven, never retreating."
Even translated to English, it remained awkward. Harry decided to research what the original script was—he wanted to learn it.
The translation was difficult to understand, but Harry roughly grasped it meant proficiency would only increase, never decrease.
These combat skills would continuously improve through constant, repetitive practice. Harry enjoyed this endlessly—practicing more naturally led to understanding more applications, certainly becoming a combat master, and even reaching divine domains.
With such conditions, who could resist honing their skills?
Having a fierce tiger in the heart while appreciating delicate roses, blooming in slaughter like dawn flowers.
Wild dancing in broad movements, subtle restraint in fine details, tempering flesh, savoring technique.
Anyway, after so many years in the other world, Harry was addicted to swords.
Hagrid shook his head. "Modern wizards stopped using swords for combat long ago. No demand means no shops."
He thought for a moment. "Maybe Knockturn Alley would have some... no, forget what I just said."
"Anyway, even if there were swords, you couldn't bring them into Hogwarts. There are regulations about what students can bring to school. Besides the legendary sword that only a true Gryffindor can find, Hogwarts probably has no swords students can carry."
When mentioning Knockturn Alley, he looked guilty, as if saying something inappropriate, glancing at Harry with regret.
Harry was first confused, then reflective. 'Harry, oh Harry, have I become such a scheming person? What's happened to me?'
Then he realized—wait, he hadn't been fishing for information!
Hagrid had volunteered the information.
"Never mind, Hagrid. Let's go to Knockturn Alley. There are swords there, right? If you won't guide me, I'll go myself later."
So two hours later, Harry held an additional sword.
This was the most magically powerful dark magic ritual sword Harry found on the black market, which he named [Voodoo].
Playing with it carefully in his hands, it seemed to carry a trace of Charisma and even Divine Power—definitely less than 1 point, but flickering.
That red priest feeling—he'd never seen complete 1-point Divine Power, but skilled priests like Melisandre carried this aura that Harry could sense when very close.
The shopkeeper claimed it was an African antique, a tribal treasure, which inspired Harry's naming.
If he knew the corresponding deity's name, he should have called it "Touch of that god."
Maybe the shopkeeper was just bragging—possibly some more obscure small tribal primitive ritual item.
The sword carried a wild, primitive, bloody aura—it definitely had killed many people.
The craftsmanship appeared poor, but that didn't matter. Even the finest ordinary steel wouldn't surpass magical steel for him.
Magic was quite idealistic.
At critical moments it should qualify to bear Lightbringer.
Then even normally unkillable beings, Harry could attempt forceful execution.
Seemingly unsolvable dark mazes, Harry could cleave open paths.
Inescapable fate predicaments, Harry could forcefully break through.
Divine power was even more idealistic.
The shopkeeper lacked Harry's perception, treating this as scrap metal, initially pricing it normally. Harry buying it felt like treasure hunting.
The other party tried raising prices on the spot but didn't dare make a sound after Harry glared at him.
Harry also noticed this street differed from Diagon Alley—very poor atmosphere, many people obviously rogues, probably dark wizards.
After robbing Gringotts and recruiting subordinates, the next step could be leading teams to occupy Knockturn Alley—probably sufficient for the school term.
Future development and construction, raising subordinates to farm corresponding system achievements—perfect.
Not having territory was truly uncomfortable; many system functions were unusable.
With a temporary weapon acquired, he still needed to buy a wand. As Hagrid said, swords couldn't enter school, and Harry couldn't use swords as wands to learn magic.
Hogwarts wands were monopolized by one shop.
This shop was small and shabby, with peeling gold lettering on the door reading: Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
In the dusty window, a single wand lay on a faded purple cushion.
When Harry and Hagrid entered, tinkling bells sounded from somewhere in the back.
The shop was tiny, containing nothing but a single spindly chair.
Thousands of narrow boxes were stacked nearly to the ceiling.
"Good afternoon."
An old man appeared so suddenly and silently that even Hagrid shifted uncomfortably, but Harry remained perfectly still. His wide, pale eyes gleamed like moons through the gloom of the shop, and Harry studied him with the calm assessment of someone who had faced far more dangerous beings than eccentric shopkeepers.
"Ah yes," said the man, and his voice was soft but strangely penetrating. "Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon, Harry Potter." His pale eyes seemed to bore into Harry's very soul, but Harry met that unblinking stare with the steady gaze of someone accustomed to power. "You have your mother's eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work."
Mr. Ollivander moved closer to Harry, but Harry didn't step back. He'd faced the Night King's icy stare and the burning gaze of dragons - these pale eyes were merely curious, not threatening.
"Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it—it's really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course."
"Hello." Harry responded while examining the displayed wands, maintaining his composure despite the wandmaker's intense scrutiny.
Honestly, different from his imagination.
He'd expected larger wands—the medieval wizard type, like Merlin on television.
At minimum Hagrid's umbrella size, usable as a walking stick when idle, capable of knocking brains out.
Not bragging, but Harry had some skill with polearms too.
Turned out Hagrid's was super-sized, matching his build? Normal wands were this small?
Fine, small and cute too.
Not bragging, Harry also had some skill with one-handed weapons—short swords and daggers.
Enhanced with his power, still capable of puncturing brains.
Modest understanding, all modest understanding.
The old man didn't notice Harry's internal complaints, marveling at his extraordinary charisma, practically like a natural-born king, while introducing himself: "I knew I'd see you soon, Harry Potter..."