The Darkhold was safely secured. Agatha Harkness remained out of sight. The crusade continued in its quiet, measured rhythm.

Life moved on.

And nowhere was that more evident than in his children.

The Hayes family visited Asgard regularly now. Once or twice a month, sometimes more when the schedules aligned.

Elena’s training with Lady Sif had quickly become the defining thread of her young life. Arthur had handed that responsibility over completely, stepping back to let the Asgardian warrior mold his daughter’s raw potential. Sif had not only agreed, but she had formally accepted Elena as her personal apprentice.

Sif taught her the absolute foundations. Perfect balance. Total environmental awareness. Reading an opponent’s body before they moved. How to fall without breaking. How to breathe under pressure.

Elena was far too young and physically weak for actual combat training according to brutal Asgardian standards, but she absorbed the martial theory with a hunger that Sif confessed she hadn’t seen in centuries of training recruits.

Sif had stopped calling her “little one” and started calling her “student.” The day it happened, Elena came home and didn’t stop grinning for a week. Arthur had never seen her so proud. Not even the time she levitated the kitchen table and nearly gave Eileen a heart attack.

Tristan was still too young for any training. But Tristan loved the Asgard visits. He loved the honeycakes and the sparring rings and the warriors who treated him like a small visiting prince. He loved sitting on the gallery bench with Volstagg, watching recruits train.

Above all, he loved Frigga’s lysars. Each visit, the Queen would conjure a new one, and Tristan would sit with the golden light-stag in his lap, perfectly content, asking questions about Asgardian wildlife that Frigga answered with genuine delight.

Tristan was patient. Intensely observant. Vast in his magical potential and entirely unaware of it. Arthur and Eileen watched him grow and simply let him be a child. There would be time enough for the rest of the universe later.

Wanda had become a familiar face in Asgard after graduating. She had politely but firmly rejected all corporate and academic job offers on Earth and decided to study magic at its source. The Asgardian royal enchanters had accepted her into their quiet, disciplined circles with open arms, fascinated by the raw chaos humming beneath her skin.

Pietro followed along because Pietro always followed Wanda. He trained with the warriors, doing the absolute best any human could do against beings with centuries of combat experience. He lost every time, but he never gave up. His stated goal was to train until he was strong enough to convince Arthur to give him a permanent physical enhancement. Chi, Extremis, super-soldier serum – Pietro didn’t care what it was, as long as it finally allowed him to beat Fandral in a race.

Eileen and Frigga’s friendship had become one of the quieter miracles of Arthur’s life. They saw each other on most family visits. Tea in the Eternal Gardens. Walks through the lower city. The easy, unhurried conversation of two women who had found in each other something genuinely rare. Someone who understood what it meant to love a man whose responsibilities extended past the boundaries of the world you shared.

Arthur never asked what they talked about. Some things between friends were private. But Eileen always came home from those visits lighter. More like the woman he had met in a Scottish clearing years ago, feeding berries to a phoenix she couldn’t identify.

That was more than enough for him.

Asgard had become a second home. But Arthur’s first home in this world, the one he had been actively reshaping since the day he arrived, was not standing still either.

—

Ollivander had delivered.

After ten months of obsessive research, supplemented by fragmentary records from the Department of Mysteries, the old wandmaker had cracked the staff.

His first prototypes had been crude. Barely functional. But Garrick Ollivander was not a man who accepted crude work. By late 2011, he had produced fully functional, masterpiece staffs for Harry, Sirius, Amelia, and four senior Aurors she trusted implicitly.

Harry’s was his finest work. Ash wood with a core of braided phoenix feather and Thestral hair. Ollivander called the combination “theoretically inadvisable and practically magnificent.” The first time Harry channelled a combat spell through it, he put a Reductor Curse through a stone wall three feet thick. He stood there staring at the hole for a long time.

Sirius’s staff was blackthorn with a dragon heartstring core that hummed with barely contained energy. Sirius being Sirius, the first thing he did was test it against the ancient wards on Black Castle. He blew out two windows and set a tapestry on fire. Amelia made him pay for the repairs from his private Gringotts vault.

The staffs changed everything overnight. The deep, existential fear that had gripped Harry and Sirius since that movie night at Black Castle began to loosen slightly. Not disappear entirely. But loosen. There was something tangible to build on now.

Arthur trained them himself. Monthly, grueling sessions at a heavily warded training ground where nothing short of a massive earthquake would escape containment. It was Harry, Sirius, Amelia, and some of their close Auror team against Arthur.

The sessions were completely one-sided, because Arthur was Arthur. Even with staffs, even working in perfect coordination, the absolute best wizards in Britain couldn’t touch him.

But everyone improved rapidly. They became stronger, faster, and more adaptable.

Harry was the undeniable standout. His staff work was natural, instinctive, almost frightening in how quickly it developed from raw power to refined control. He could chain five heavy combat spells in under two seconds, each one powerful enough to level a large room. Arthur watched him duel three seasoned Aurors simultaneously and hold his own with ease.

He thought: Give him another year and he’ll be the most dangerous wizard alive.

After me, of course.

—

The ICW was a much harder sell.

Amelia had taken Arthur’s selected Pensieve memories to the international body months ago. The reaction had been entirely predictable. Shock, denial, loud arguments, and a handful of stubborn delegates who simply refused to believe what they were seeing. “Muggle fabrication,” one French delegate had called it. “Illusion magic designed to frighten us into compliance with British policy.”

Amelia came to Arthur after the third failed session, frustrated and exhausted.

“They won’t listen. They’ve seen the memories. They’ve seen the missiles and the metal suits. And they still think wizards are infinitely superior.”

“Seeing isn’t believing for people whose entire worldview depends on not believing,” Arthur said. “They need to feel it.”

“What do you suggest?”

Arthur smiled. “A live demonstration.”

It took a month to arrange. Arthur called in favors.

Tony was the first call and the easiest.

“You want me to fight wizards?” Tony’s voice crackled with undisguised glee. “Wizards with wands and robes and everything?”

“Yes. And you will be fighting their absolute best.”

“Even better. Do I get to keep the hats? When do we start?”

“I will let you know.”

Ariadne was the second call. She brought twelve of her absolute best Black Widows. It looked like she had reached some sort of private cooperation with Tony, because six of them were equipped with sleek, streamlined Iron Man-style tactical suits.

The ICW agreed to send their finest. Fifteen Hit Wizards from six nations. The best combat casters the international magical community could assemble.

The battle took place in a warded arena in the Swiss Alps. Neutral ground. Observation galleries for the ICW delegates. Every major magical government sent representatives, and so did the Muggle agencies Aurora coordinated with.

It began exactly the way the wizards expected. Close quarters. Spells flying rapidly.

The Hit Wizards were good. In the opening minutes they pressed the advantage hard. Ariadne’s Widows were fast and skilled but shields and staff-enhanced stunners kept them at bay. Tony in his primary suit drew most of the fire, deflecting spells off his armour, returning repulsor blasts that the wizards shielded against with effort but managed.

The ICW delegates watched from the galleries, nodding to each other in smug satisfaction. This was exactly what they’d expected. Magic held the line against technology.

Then one of the Widows took a heavy Stunner to the chest and went down hard.

Ariadne’s hand signal was small. Barely visible. But every Muggle on the field saw it.

They retreated.

Not in panic. In perfect, practiced coordination. The Widows fell back in pairs, covering each other, moving toward the tree line at the field’s edge. Tony provided aerial cover, drawing the wizards’ attention upward while the ground team melted into the terrain.

The wizards, flushed with perceived victory, pursued. They crossed the open ground and followed blindly into the trees, where visibility dropped to near zero and the distinct advantage of long-range spellwork evaporated instantly.

That was exactly when Tony deployed the Iron Legion.

Six heavy, unmanned suits dropped from high altitude, landing heavily in a perfect tactical ring around the wizards’ position in the woods. There were no pilots to confuse with magic. No fear to exploit with terror tactics. Just cold machines with advanced targeting systems and heavy repulsor arrays.

The suits opened fire from range. Not to kill. Concussive blasts. Flashbangs. Sonic disruptors that scrambled concentration and made spellcasting nearly impossible. The wizards threw up shields but the barrage came from six directions simultaneously. Sustained and relentless. Every shield they raised was hammered from the other five positions.

Meanwhile Ariadne’s Widows had circled behind. Enhanced speed. Enhanced strength. Moving through the trees like ghosts. The wizards, focused entirely on the mechanical assault in front of them, didn’t see them coming until it was too late.

The Widows hit the flank with stun grenades and close-quarters takedowns. Non-lethal but decisive. In twenty seconds, eight of the fifteen Hit Wizards were down.

The remaining seven rallied. They were professionals and professionals adapted. Defensive circle, shields overlapping, systematic counter-attacks against the suits. Two Legion units went down to well-placed Bombardment Hexes. A third was disabled by a clever Transfiguration that turned its legs to glass.

But it didn’t matter. They were entirely outmaneuvered, and they had lost.

Tony’s voice crackled loudly over the field’s PA system. “Just so everyone in the cheap seats is clear, those were the cheap suits. I have much better ones at home.”

Arthur, watching from the observation gallery beside Amelia, said nothing. He didn’t need to. The expressions on the ICW delegates’ faces said everything.

They had sent their best. Fifteen elite Hit Wizards from six nations. And a team of Muggles had dismantled their formation in under three minutes.

Not because the wizards were weak. They were clearly superior individually in terms of raw output. But they had fought the way wizards always fought. Individual, honorable duels. Shield and strike. Stand your ground and attempt to overpower the enemy with force.

The Muggles had fought the way modern militaries fought. Coordinated tactics. Strategic withdrawal. Combined arms. Flanking manoeuvres. Sustained fire from platforms that didn’t need to eat or sleep or worry about dying.

After the demonstration the arguments in the ICW sessions stopped. Not because every delegate suddenly agreed. But because the ones who disagreed no longer had the confidence to say so out loud.

Amelia got to work. Meetings that went nowhere. Negotiations that collapsed. Frameworks drafted, rejected, redrafted, rejected again.

But she kept pushing. That was Amelia Bones. She would keep pushing that boulder for as long as it took, and Arthur respected her for it, even if he doubted she would succeed.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep