In the days that followed, Harry worked tirelessly, not just to strengthen the school's defenses but also to gather intelligence. Rumors swirled of fighters across Malian City disappearing in the night, their abductions shrouded in mystery. Meanwhile, the gangs in the city, once relatively subdued, were becoming more aggressive, their actions hinting at a larger, more coordinated effort.
As he stood in the training hall one evening, watching the younger students sparring with determination
Harry's expression was a mask of skepticism as he sat alone, his thoughts heavy with the implications of the Black Council's recent actions.
'They're reckless,' he mused, his fingers drumming lightly against the table. 'At this rate, it wouldn't surprise me if they came banging on our doors outright.'
He frowned. Avoidance didn't seem like a viable strategy, not against a force like the Black Council. They weren't the kind to retreat after a show of strength; if anything, their aggression would escalate. Extremists like them didn't back down, they doubled down.
The sheer complexity of the situation gnawed at him. For all his strength and cunning, Harry felt ill-suited for navigating the tangled web of politics and conspiracies that the Black Council seemed to thrive on.
"This world is too damn complicated," he muttered under his breath. A wry smile tugged at his lips. "Not exactly a place for a simple man like me."
He sighed and stood, his movements purposeful as he headed toward his room. The moment he opened the door, a potent, almost suffocating smell assaulted his senses, a pungent mix of metallic tang and acrid bitterness. It was the unmistakable stench of potions and blood.
---
Anyone else walking into Harry's room would have frozen in terror at the sight that greeted them. The air was thick with the smell of alchemical ingredients and the iron bite of blood. Strewn across the floor were several corpses, their lifeless eyes staring into the void. They weren't the only occupants of the room.
In one corner, bound tightly with ropes and chains, were a group of living men. Each one radiated a distinct aura of strength, their well-trained bodies marking them as fighters. Their hands and feet were shackled, and gags muffled their voices, reducing their protests to faint, desperate sounds.
Their eyes followed Harry as he entered, a mix of fear and pleading visible in their expressions. Some struggled against their bonds, but most had already accepted their fate, their faces pale with resignation.
Harry's gaze swept over them, and a faint smile played on his lips. "It seems like you've settled in here," he said casually, his voice calm but with an unmistakable edge of menace. "Though I must ask you all for a favor."
He leaned closer, meeting the panicked eyes of one of the captives. His smile widened, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Please don't look at me like that," he continued, a mockery of concern lacing his tone. "It always makes me feel like… I'm the bad guy."
The bound fighters flinched, their expressions a mix of fear and disbelief. To them, Harry's nonchalance was more terrifying than outright cruelty.
---
The truth was that Harry had played no small part in the chaos gripping Malian City. Ever since he discovered the Black Council's large-scale abductions, he had decided to take advantage of the situation. 'If they're going to spread chaos, why not join the party?' he had reasoned.
Disguised in a black robe and mask, one indistinguishable from the attire of the Black Council's operatives; Harry had begun his own campaign of abductions. Fighters across the city vanished into the night, their disappearances blending seamlessly with the Black Council's activities. Any suspicions inevitably pointed toward the shadowy organization, leaving Harry free to operate without fear of reprisal.
By now, nearly half the turmoil attributed to the Black Council's recent actions had been Harry's doing.
'It's a perfect cover,' he thought as he walked deeper into the room. 'Even if someone catches wind of this, the blame will fall squarely on them.'
Of course, there was a reason for all this. The fighters he captured weren't just victims of random opportunity, they were tools for something far greater. Fighters were unique; their bodies, honed through years of training, pulsed with vitality and strength far surpassing that of ordinary humans. And for Harry's purposes, they were the perfect sacrifices.
---
At the center of the room stood a stone table carved with intricate runes. The symbols seemed to pulse faintly, as if alive, their glow muted but ominous. Harry approached it, his movements deliberate. He reached for a small knife on the table, its blade razor-sharp and glinting faintly in the dim light.
Without hesitation, he drew the blade across his forearm. The cut was precise, and blood welled up immediately, dripping onto the stone table. As the first drop hit the surface, the runes flared to life, their glow intensifying into a brilliant, otherworldly light. The room seemed to hum with energy, the air vibrating with a power that felt both ancient and dangerous.
Harry's expression didn't waver as he watched the ritual begin. The fighters bound in the corner thrashed against their restraints, their muffled cries growing frantic as the glow from the runes illuminated their faces.
"Relax," Harry said without looking at them, his voice almost soothing. "You're serving a higher purpose."
He placed his hand on the table, feeling the energy coursing through it. This was the ritual of life; a forbidden practice that required sacrifice to unlock its power. The greater the vitality of the offering, the stronger the result. And fighters, with their unparalleled physical prowess, were the ultimate sacrifices.
The runes pulsed faster now, the energy growing wild and chaotic. The room seemed to shrink, the walls pressing inward as the power concentrated. Harry stood still, his calm demeanor unshaken despite the immense pressure.
"This world is messy," he muttered to himself, his voice low but firm. "And if I want to survive it, I'll need every advantage I can get."
His gaze flicked toward the captives, who had stopped struggling and now stared at him in wide-eyed horror. Harry didn't flinch. To him, this was a necessary step, one more sacrifice on his path to strength.
With a final flash of light, the ritual intensified, and the room was filled with a deep, resonant hum. Harry's smirk widened, the glow of the runes reflecting in his sharp eyes.
"Let's see how far this power can take me," he whispered, his voice heavy with ambition.
The light from the stone table enveloped the room, its brilliance almost blinding. The ethereal glow seemed like something divine at first glance, but the truth was far from heavenly. Beneath the dazzling spectacle, a gruesome transformation was taking place.
Opposite the stone table, the bodies of several fighters, once strong and vibrant, were withering. Their muscles collapsed inward, their flesh shrank to papery thinness, and their bones crumbled into fine powder. Within moments, the essence of their existence was erased entirely, leaving behind nothing but faint traces of their once formidable forms.
Harry stood over the scene, his expression calm but tinged with satisfaction. The surge of vitality flowing into his body was intoxicating, a rush of warmth and energy that coursed through his veins and awakened every cell. For a moment, he simply basked in it, his eyes closing briefly as if savoring the sensation.
"Fighters truly are the ideal sacrifices," he murmured, his voice low but filled with conviction. His gaze swept over the remaining captives, their faces pale with terror, and a faint smile curved his lips. "Let's not waste any more time."
Without hesitation, Harry grabbed one of the surviving fighters and dragged him toward the glowing stone table. The man struggled against his bonds, his muffled protests growing frantic, but it was futile. Harry's strength was far beyond anything he could resist.
As the ceremony resumed, the air in the room grew heavier, charged with a dark, crackling energy. The runes on the table flared brighter, and the captive let out a piercing scream as his life force was drained away. The sound was unearthly, a raw expression of agony that seemed to pierce through the walls.
Fortunately, the room was well-insulated, a deliberate design choice Harry had made to ensure his work remained private. No one outside the room would hear the screams, no matter how loud or prolonged.
Harry's face remained impassive as he watched the ritual unfold. The screams, the sight of the fighters' bodies collapsing into nothingness, none of it fazed him. His focus was entirely on the energy being transferred to him, the surge of power that brought him closer to his goals.
The fighters he had chosen were no innocents. Every one of them had blood on their hands, men whose crimes had stained their reputations beyond redemption. Murderers, thieves, and worse, these were the ones Harry targeted. Not out of mercy or a sense of justice, but because they were convenient, expendable, and far less likely to be missed.
"If you're going to sacrifice someone," Harry said to himself, almost as if justifying his actions, "it might as well be scum."
When the final captive let out his last, desperate scream and fell silent, the ritual came to an end. The room, once filled with the hum of energy and cries of anguish, grew eerily quiet. Harry stepped back from the table, his breathing steady as he assessed his work.
There were no more sacrifices left.
He turned his attention inward, focusing on the power now coursing through his body. It was immense, far greater than anything he had felt before. His muscles seemed to hum with vitality, his senses sharper, his movements lighter yet more forceful.
"This is it…" he whispered, flexing his fingers as if testing his newfound strength. "The Great Knight."
In the Dawn World, the Great Knight was a legendary rank, a step above the ordinary Knight; a level of mastery that separated the elite from the exceptional. In this world, it was equivalent to the master level of fighters, the pinnacle of martial prowess in this world.
Harry could feel it now. The gap between himself and that level was shrinking. His potential, carefully cultivated through years of training and further amplified by the ritual, was nearing its peak.
But he knew this would only take him so far. 'To go beyond… to truly ascend,' he thought, 'I need more than just raw effort.'
He had already obtained a master-level training method from the ancient inheritance site, a technique capable of pushing him beyond his current limits. Yet, as he reflected on his progress, a realization settled over him.
"My body… it's nearing its limit," he admitted quietly, his expression grim. His natural potential, even with the aid of the ritual, was finite. To reach the next level, he would need something more.
"External assistance…" he muttered, the weight of the truth sinking in. It wasn't just about training harder or sacrificing more. It was about finding the right resources, artifacts, or opportunities to break through the invisible barrier holding him back.
His eyes narrowed as determination filled him. "If the world won't give me what I need, I'll take it myself."
He turned back to the stone table, the glow from the runes fading but still faintly visible. His next steps were clear. He needed more power, more sacrifices, and perhaps most importantly, the courage to face whatever stood in his way. The path to mastery wasn't just a climb, it was a fight.
And Harry had no intention of losing.