Harry Potter: Magic and Guns

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Ninety-six participants were divided into four groups. After three rounds of elimination matches, the top three scorers from each group would compete for the final championship. In the event of a tie, rankings would be determined by the total score awarded by the panel of judges during the duels. Each referee present was a true master, having once held the title of dueling champion. If not for the need to bring Harry to compete, Professor Flitwick might have been among them as well.

Since dueling tournaments were relatively short, the youth division's matches lasted only three days, serving as a warm-up for the world dueling championship. After all, in the magical world, spellcasters under twenty-five were still considered incredibly young.

Even Professor Flitwick had been twenty-eight when he competed. After completing his education, he traveled and studied across the world before finally honing his talent into undeniable power.

Time was crucial for every spellcaster. Talent was the most important factor in forging one's magical path, but experience could not be overlooked. Voldemort, who once wreaked havoc across England, was already in his fifties when he displayed his full strength. After graduating from Hogwarts, he spent nearly thirty years sharpening his skills before his extraordinary talent transformed into terrifying power.

"The duel about to begin features Contestant No. 1, Mr. Harry Potter from Hogwarts School of Magical Warfare, against Contestant No. 45, Mr. Strong Terkras from Ilvermorny School of Magical Tactics."

"Duelists, prepare yourselves."

The two competitors on the dueling platform exchanged slight nods and bowed to each other. The referee in black robes stepped back several paces, exiting the stage. The duelists turned their backs to each other, synchronized in their movements. They walked to their designated starting marks on the red carpet, then came to a halt.

A loud bang rang out.

Both fighters, already on high alert, spun around in an instant!

"He shouldn't die from that… right?" 

The echo of the starting gun hadn't even faded when Harry, who should have been on the left side of the platform, was now standing on the far right. Thirty meters ahead of him, a man lay on the carpet, his spine bent at an unnatural 180-degree angle, his body twitching slightly.

Apparition followed by a side kick. Even after holding back, the sheer impact—at least five tons of blunt force—shattered the unfortunate man's spine before he could cast a protective spell. Harry had no idea how many pieces the bones had broken into, but a total fracture was inevitable.

Professor Flitwick had told him he was too slow, but after stepping onto the platform, Harry realized—his opponent was even slower.

"Match over," the black-robed referee announced, utterly unfazed, as if such scenes were commonplace. There wasn't the slightest trace of surprise in his expression.

Once the match was officially called, professional medics stepped onto the stage and carried the injured contestant away. The referee glanced at Harry and said, "He'll survive, don't worry. This is your first tournament, isn't it? Your team's coach…" He flicked a glance at Professor Flitwick. "Did he not tell you that the contestant number plates are alchemic artifacts? At worst, he'll be seriously injured. He'll recover in five minutes."

"Maybe the professor…" Harry shrugged. "Maybe he just has too much faith in me."

"Well, get ready for the next match. The other duels have ended, so you'll have about ten minutes to rest and adjust."

With that, the referee gave Harry a nod and walked off in another direction.

"This is kind of boring." 

Harry leaned back, resting his hands behind his head, and strolled toward the rest area. He plopped down beside Fleur and spoke to Professor Flitwick.

"Well, this is the rookie division," Flitwick said, waving dismissively. "The Magical Congress of the United States is still young. If it weren't for their sheer numbers, Mayapan would have long since pushed past the Rockies and driven them out of North America. But alas, Mayapan is too conservative, and their wizard population is too small."

"Ilvermorny is just a knockoff of Hogwarts. Strangely enough, it was founded by a pair of Muggle spouses. I'm not sure if that was meant to promote their so-called harmony between wizards and Muggles, but either way, Ilvermorny isn't exactly a top-tier magical school."

"The wizarding ranks of the Magical Congress are made up of immigrants. They've taken in more wandering sorcerers than any other nation. Meanwhile, the native Mayans and Aztecs left behind a trove of hidden magical artifacts. To put it bluntly, the Magical Congress is the largest grave-robbing syndicate in the world."

"And when they've finally looted all those ancient treasures…" Flitwick sneered. "I'd recommend building a massive wizarding prison right there—just to keep those tomb raiders from running amok and polluting the world with their nonsense."

Although Harry didn't know the exact reason, Professor Flitwick seemed to hold a strong bias—or rather, a profound understanding—of both the Magical Congress and Ilvermorny. Coincidentally, Harry, having been to North America himself, shared a similar impression.

A country where tensions between wizards and Muggles were sharper than anywhere else in the world—where did they get the confidence to preach about freedom and democracy, let alone claim harmony between Muggles and wizards?

"You should take a look at this, Harry."

Professor Flitwick spread his long, slender fingers. Ravenclaws were particularly adept at constructing magical holographic projections, and in the glowing screen hovering over his palm, the image of two duelists appeared.

"This is the plant person I was telling you about." The professor pointed at one of the duelists, who appeared to be a mixed-blood Latino wizard. "I don't know much about magical plants, especially the kind they cultivate specifically for combat, but the effects are fairly easy to analyze."

As the referee's gun emitted a flash of red sparks, the match officially began.

Harry focused his gaze on the so-called plant person. At the sound of the gunshot, the man didn't turn around. Instead, he gripped what appeared to be a bioweapon—its surface looked as if it had been infected by some kind of virus. With a firm squeeze, a grayish-brown plant-like shell rapidly expanded from the weapon, encasing his entire body in a cocoon.

The incoming spells ricocheted off the wooden shell upon contact. Though its surface looked rough, it somehow deflected magic with precision.

"A defense similar to a deflection shield," Flitwick commented. "It's likely an ability of the magical plant attached to his body. To counter something like this, large-scale explosive attacks work well."

"But look closely at the ground—see those subtle ripples spreading outward?" He gestured at the faint disturbances barely visible beneath the combatant's feet. "This guy is fungalizing the arena. Don't be fooled by his bark armor—he's not a pure plant-based combatant. He's likely using parasitic fungi and spores. You'll want to be extra careful against someone like him. Bubble-Head Charm is a solid defense; trust me, you don't want mushrooms growing in your lungs."

"He's in my group?" Harry raised an eyebrow. He had no desire to experience the sensation of fungi growing inside his respiratory system. Just thinking about it sent a shiver down his spine—getting parasitized by something like that had to be even more agonizing than a Cruciatus Curse.

"No, he's in Group Three—contestant number eleven. You'll definitely face him in the finals."

"Alright then," Flitwick said, clapping his hands together. "Drink some water and get ready for your next match. I'll keep an eye on the interesting opponents for you, but remember—no one is going to show their full strength during the elimination rounds."

"If they do reveal everything, then they probably aren't worth worrying about," Harry said with a shrug.

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" Flitwick chuckled. "But back in my day, I once encountered someone who went full throttle from start to finish—wiping out everyone in his path."

"Wait, you mean Big Ivan?"

"Mhm~" Flitwick hummed, smirking.

(End of Chapter)