Harry Potter: Magic and Guns

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"A man of seven feet in stature," Harry murmured as he stepped into the hall, his gaze sweeping across the room. "Should be wielding a three-foot blade of green steel." 

What would one expect to find in a swordsmith's hall? Surely, rows upon rows of gleaming, razor-sharp blades, right? 

Yet, as Harry stood in the ancient, classically designed hall, he realized he couldn't spot a single fully completed sword. 

There were certainly weapons—enough to call this place the world's largest cold weapon museum without exaggeration. Among the tens of thousands of arms on display, swords were the most abundant, though there were also many strange and obscure weapons Harry couldn't even name. The swords varied greatly: some were long, others short; some thick and heavy, others light and elegant. Some exuded a raw, unpolished craftsmanship, while others embodied the pinnacle of refined artistry. No matter the style, one could find it here. 

Yet, regardless of the type, whether mounted on display racks or carefully stored within glass cases, every single one of them was incomplete. 

The most finished of them all was a dull-edged sword—one that had never been sharpened. The glint that shone from its surface was merely the cold reflection of metal, not the chilling gleam of a keen blade. 

Like a dragon missing the final dot to bring its painted eyes to life, these weapons lacked that crucial finishing touch. Without it, their essence remained scattered and lifeless—mere scraps of metal with no true presence. 

The spacious hall showed no sign of attendants. Behind the main counter sat a burly old man with a pipe in his mouth, alternating between puffs of smoke, swigs of liquor, and bites of dried meat. He was listening to a tune playing from a radio, his relaxed and content demeanor making him an enviable sight. 

"We don't sell decorative pieces here," the old man remarked, barely sparing them a glance. "If you want ornaments, head over to Pusu Street. The swords there are much better looking than anything we have here." 

He eyed the two foreigners who had just stepped inside. Before Harry could even get closer, the old man waved them off. 

"You're free to look around, but I'm telling you now—these aren't for display. I'm not selling them to you." 

He then shot Zhang Shanfeng a glance. The moment he spotted the silver badge on Zhang's chest, he recognized him as a tour guide. If these foreigners didn't understand his words, the guide would have to translate. Foreigners weren't necessarily friends, but since they were guests traveling here, it was still proper to make sure they understood. 

"Aw, come on, sir. What's the reason behind that?" 

Harry, naturally sociable, stepped forward with an easy smile. With a flick of his wrist, two bottles of liquor appeared on the counter, as if by magic. 

"Mornings call for a strong drink to wake up, don't they? Thirty-year-old whiskey—care to give it a taste?" 

"You've got some tricks up your sleeve, kid." 

The old man chuckled, then reached out and gave Harry's muscular arm a firm squeeze. 

"Huh, not bad. You've built up quite a frame for someone your age. Your training methods are a bit crude, but at least you put in the effort." 

"Still, you've got some spirit, but no means no. The swords here aren't meant to be decorations or playthings. You wouldn't be able to use them anyway. You're better off buying a few pretty ones from outside to take home." 

He gave the whiskey bottles a small push back toward Harry. "I appreciate the gesture, but I'll have to pass." 

"You won't sell them… because I can't use them?" Harry finally grasped the old man's meaning. 

"That's right. You'd be better off buying a kitchen knife—at least that'd be useful for chopping vegetables and meat. These swords? They'd be nothing more than decorations in your hands." 

"Then, sir, would you mind taking a moment to enlighten me?" 

Without missing a beat, Harry pulled out an oil-paper-wrapped package about the size of a human head. It was, of course, a specialty of the Forbidden Forest centaurs—authentic centaur-style braised meat. 

With a simple flick of his finger, he cast a cutting spell, slicing the meat into even, thin pieces. Instantly, an incredibly rich, mouthwatering aroma filled the air. 

"Well, well. Kid, you sure know how to eat."

The old man, now thoroughly amused, stood up, grabbed the oil-paper package along with the two bottles of liquor Harry had brought, and led them into a side room adjacent to the counter. This space seemed to be a lounge meant for entertaining guests. He gestured for them to sit wherever they pleased. 

"Alright then, let's talk." 

"Much appreciated, sir. Let me start with a toast!" 

Harry pulled out a massive two-pound mug, then—without hesitation—produced a half-human-sized barrel of liquor. Drinking straight from the bottle was too crude; a refined person always used a cup. Of course, the fact that this single cup held more than an entire bottle's worth didn't make it any less elegant. 

The old man, momentarily stunned by Harry's sheer drinking prowess—far beyond that of any ordinary drunkard—couldn't help but take a sip from the barrel himself. 

It was a fifty-five-degree Dragon's Blood Whiskey. The intense heat made his brows furrow slightly. Unlike traditional baijiu, Dragon's Blood Whiskey was all about that sharp, overwhelming burn—like having a fire-breathing dragon unleash a jet of flames right into your mouth. Normally, it needed to be tempered with ice and a slice of lemon to be drinkable. The only people who drank it straight were Hagrid and, apparently, Harry. 

"You've got sincerity, I'll give you that. But this isn't some big secret. You're still in school, aren't you?" 

The old man glanced at Harry, sizing him up. He looked to be around fifteen or sixteen—definitely still a student. 

"Yeah. I'll be in my third year next year—Hogwarts School of Magic and Warfare." 

"England, huh?" The old man stroked his beard and nodded, only to suddenly freeze. "Wait—you're only thirteen? What the hell have you been eating to grow this fast... Ah, forget it." 

Having seen all sorts of strange things in his time, the old man quickly dismissed it. Maybe it was due to some mixed-blood lineage or something. There were plenty of bizarre cases in the world—nothing too surprising. 

"If you asked your—what's it called again—ah, your Charms professor, you'd know why things are the way they are." 

He picked up a slice of the braised meat, savoring its rich flavor. The centaurs' culinary skills were exceptional; the intense aroma instantly overwhelmed his senses, leaving him completely immersed in its taste. 

"Let me ask you something—what do you think is the most obvious difference between your magic and ours?" 

Harry furrowed his brows in deep thought. 

Truth be told, he had never seriously studied the magic of the Taishi Heavenly Empire. He might have encountered it in Chadrow, but during the first wave of real combat, he hadn't seen a single spell from their side. And in the second wave—well, he had mowed through enemies so fast that it didn't matter where they were from. A single Avada Kedavra Laser Cannon wiped them all out, leaving no survivors to explain where they had come from. 

The only instance he had seen Taishi Heavenly Empire's magic was when Dumbledore demonstrated an ancient spell from that region—one that had already been phased out by modern casting systems. 

"Should I call you slow, or just completely oblivious?" The old man sighed, shaking his head. "The most obvious difference is staring you right in the face." 

"You're an English wizard. You speak English. We, on the other hand, use Mandarin Chinese." 

He glanced at Harry knowingly. "You speak both, don't you? Why don't you try translating one of your spells into Chinese and casting it?" 

"Go on, try it." The old man popped another piece of meat into his mouth. "Say it out loud." 

(End of Chapter)