Multiverse's Holy Right

Roy's mind trembled as if a villager from a remote mountain hamlet had suddenly arrived in a metropolis and witnessed the wonders of modernity. The sheer awe left him inexplicably yearning.

To manipulate the laws of the cosmic phases with ease, to make countless stars fall with a wave of the hand, to extinguish billions of suns in casual conversation—what breathtaking grandeur, what indomitable spirit! Merely imagining himself capable of such feats one day sent Roy into an involuntary climax of longing.

Yet Roy also knew that even Scáthach before him was far from that level. In Aleister's Silver Star system, though it was only a single realm of difference, the gap between them was as vast as an unbridgeable chasm. Perhaps, as Scáthach had said, what lay between them was the Abyss!

At the same time, Roy felt uneasy. Though both Scáthach and Aleister stood at the pinnacle of humanity, Aleister had likely already taken a step across the Abyss—or perhaps he could cross it entirely but chose not to. The thought of seeking vengeance against such an unfathomable father gave Roy a headache.

As for the 'Awakened One' Scáthach mentioned—that was none other than Shakyamuni. In Aleister's Silver Star system, he was at least a 9=2-level perfected Magic God, and it was even possible he had reached the transcendent consciousness of 10=1, the One Who Is Oneself. That he could transcend the universe was hardly surprising.

For beings of that caliber, they were far beyond Roy's current comprehension.

"Don't dwell on such gloomy thoughts, outsider... These are not things you should concern yourself with now. A primary school student should focus on arithmetic, not ponder the research topics of a university."

Unable to bear watching this brilliant individual torment himself, Scáthach offered gentle words of comfort, her tone as warm as an elder sister next door.

Roy snapped out of his thoughts and chuckled wryly. "...Hearing you use such analogies, Your Highness Scáthach, feels a bit strange to me."

A Queen of the Land of Shadows, existing beyond the world, casually dropping modern terms like 'primary school' and 'university' gave Roy an uncanny sense of unreality.

Still, he noticed the atmosphere between them had softened considerably, no longer as tense as it had been at the start. Had he gradually met Scáthach's expectations?

Just as Roy entertained this thought, Scáthach demonstrated in the very next moment what it meant to have one's face slapped—and how a woman's mood could shift faster than flipping a page.

"Don't let your mind wander with trivial thoughts when facing enemies in battle—it could prove fatal!"

Roy's sense of vigilance surged sharply. A crimson streak transformed into lightning once more came streaking toward him. Though he recognized it as Scáthach's demonic spear, his body couldn't react as swiftly as his mind.

"Ugh————"

Another pained groan escaped him as Roy felt a sharp pain in his abdomen. Looking down, he saw the red demonic spear had pierced through his kidney. The murderous intent and demonic energy radiating from the weapon sent fresh tremors through his body, his soul quivering in terror as cold sweat poured down his forehead.

At that moment, he felt extremely grateful that he was a Campione. Even if he lost a kidney, another would grow back. If he were an ordinary man, he would probably have lost his masculine vigor by now!

Roy grabbed the spear embedded in his abdomen but instantly gave up, allowing Scáthach to pull it out in a spray of blood.

He wasn't particularly strong—there was no way he could match Scáthach in raw power.

Outmatched in strength, outmatched in speed, even his mystical Authorities were likely nothing more than laughable toys before Scáthach. His face pale, Roy retreated step by step. No matter how fiercely his mind raced, he couldn't find a path to victory.

Mind's Eye could seize even a one-in-ten-thousand chance of victory—but what if there wasn't even that? What if the probability of winning was zero? Then Mind's Eye would be utterly useless.

'No… there's still one way… but…'

Roy thought of his right hand—the one that belonged solely to him yet whose power he couldn't fully control. The Hand of God, which embodied 'all miracles of Christianity' and reached the realm of omnipotence. Against Scáthach, the Queen of the Land of Shadows, who stood at the peak of humanity gazing up at the abyss but unable to cross it, Roy was certain this hand could absolutely defeat her.

However, it wasn't that his "right hand" was weak—rather, the man named Roy was too weak. He couldn't fully control the power of his right hand, and thus faced many limitations. Before the "elements of victory" were gathered, he simply couldn't wield the true strength of this hand.

But would Scáthach give him that opportunity? Roy deeply doubted it.

"I've seen your strength and courage. Now, let me witness your will! Be warned—this is the longing of a woman who has endured solitude for millennia. If you cannot satisfy me with your will, then remain here forever as a wraith! This is the Land of Shadows, the realm of the dead!"

Scáthach's words were ambiguous and even suggestive, yet her fighting spirit burned fiercely. Behind the mask that concealed half of her breathtakingly beautiful face, a fanatical delight surfaced, making Roy suspect that her true nature was that of a sadist.

But she gave him no time to dwell on it. A terrifying killing intent descended once more. The queen disregarded the space between them as her crimson spear transformed again into the fangs of a beast of slaughter.

She was truly a being who could slay gods with martial prowess alone, a monster feared and cursed by the divine. Scáthach's mastery of combat surpassed Roy's imagination. Despite wielding power capable of flattening mountains and sweeping the earth, she controlled it with such precision that not a single ripple of excess force escaped during their clash. Her twin spears moved as if engaged in a mere spar, leaving their surroundings untouched—not even a gust of wind disturbed the air.

Her control over her body and strength had reached perfection.

Roy dared not let his focus waver, pouring all his attention into evading Scáthach's strikes. He couldn't even perceive the trajectory of her spear—only his body's instinct and will kept him moving. As his concentration stretched to its limits, his mind grew weary, then numb, like a puppet losing its soul, unable to distinguish self from other, or even the colors of the world.

Yet even so, he couldn't fully evade Scáthach's demonic spears. Like a queen reigning supreme, she toyed with her captive, wielding her lances like a whip. She could have pierced his skull in an instant, yet she refused—choosing instead to stab holes through his body or carve deep, bone-revealing gashes with her blades.

With her intimate knowledge of human anatomy and countless lives taken, Scáthach struck Roy 217 times—yet not a single blow landed on a vital point. She inflicted pain without taking his life.

Gradually, Roy's sensitivity to pain dulled until he barely reacted at all. His numb mind mocked itself—what a masochist he was, learning to understand pain, to feel it, even to savor it.

"Hah… hah… hah…"

Unaware of how much time had passed, Scáthach finally lowered her spear. Her face wasn't flushed, nor was she out of breath. The bewitching and alluring figure stood not far ahead of Roy, holding her demonic spear. Roy, on the other hand, was breathing heavily, his skin not a single inch intact, riddled with bloody holes that nearly turned him into a sieve. The excessive blood loss made his head spin—he wasn't a Campione adept in physical prowess, and the fact that he could still stand despite such injuries was a testament to his sheer willpower.

"Enough... just kill me already... stop dragging this out!" Roy's hoarse voice was laced with anger. He was grateful Scáthach hadn't pierced his vocal cords, at least allowing him to speak.

To Roy, Scáthach's actions felt like sheer humiliation. She could have killed him with a single strike, yet she chose not to, toying with him as if he were a plaything. This was unbearable for someone as proud as Roy.

Though he knew this likely wasn't Scáthach's intention—that she truly harbored killing intent and battle spirit, which should have been a sign of respect—Roy couldn't shake the feeling that this woman was mocking him.

So—

"To hell with this!!"

Roy, who rarely swore, let out a curse. By now, Scáthach had driven him to the brink of madness, the humiliation twisting his expression into something ferocious.

Slowly, a golden dragon's claw emerged from Roy's right shoulder. This "right hand" seemed capable of enveloping the cosmos, blotting out the sky. As this third arm extended, endless mysteries swirled upon it, cycling through resplendent hues.

The Holy Right was aimed at Scáthach!!

At this point, who cared about the conditions for victory? He would unleash his ultimate move first. If he died, what use would any grand technique be?

***

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