Multiverse's Holy Right

"Ugh—————"

Roy doubled over, retching violently, but what came from his mouth wasn't vomit—it was splatters of fresh blood.

He knew he'd truly let himself get carried away this time.

Two bloody holes gaped in Roy's abdomen, looking as though both kidneys had been cleanly removed—like those urban legends where someone wakes up in an ice-filled bathtub to find their organs harvested, leaving only sutures behind.

For an ordinary person, losing both kidneys would mean certain death. But for a Campione like Roy, this wasn't a fatal wound. In fact, he'd grown quite accustomed to missing an organ or two. During his years of brutal training with Scáthach, his internal organs had rarely remained intact. Whether this was tragic or not remained debatable.

"Teacher, you're absolutely ruthless," Roy groaned, clutching his side as he knelt on one knee. Though his tone carried complaint about his pitiful state, he didn't actually blame Scáthach—only his own carelessness and momentary lapse in judgment.

His mind involuntarily replayed the recent events, the memory still stirring excitement within him.

Though Roy hadn't obtained Scáthach's body, he had been granted the privilege of her lotus feet.

He even mused that had Scáthach been his high school teacher, using such... motivational techniques, he might have gotten into Tsinghua or Peking University with ease.

Of course, the alternative outcome might have been this inexperienced youth being utterly consumed by the mature older woman, left withered before his time.

But such supreme pleasure came at a steep price. Just as Roy reached his masculine nirvana, glimpsing the Western Paradise, Scáthach suddenly summoned her twin demonic spears—piercing both kidneys with surgical precision, sending him plummeting from heaven straight into hell.

"Your teacher was simply imparting a lesson," Scáthach remarked calmly, sitting nearby with both blood-red spears planted beside her. She picked up fragments of Roy's torn clothing, bending one leg to casually wipe her instep. "No matter the circumstance, you must never let your guard down completely. That moment represents both a man's greatest vulnerability and his most unguarded state."

The Queen of the Land of Shadows had a faint blush on her face, indicating her unsettled emotions. Seeing this, Roy felt a quiet joy in his heart—it seemed this was another hidden side of Scáthach. Though her words were bold, carrying the Celtic spirit, she also possessed the capacity for shyness. Her heart was not as cold as steel but held a certain softness.

"But Master, why are you so skilled?!"

Roy's voice carried a tinge of bitterness. That had been an incredibly difficult maneuver, yet Scáthach had executed it with unparalleled finesse, almost as masterfully as her spear techniques. The implications behind this were rather thought-provoking.

By now, Scáthach had regained her composure. Rising to her feet, runes shimmered around her as she changed back into her form-fitting purple outfit. Noticing Roy's expression, she chuckled lightly. "...Don't overthink it. This is merely the Wisdom of Dún Scáith."

Her words eased Roy's mood somewhat, though he still couldn't help but mutter, "...Just what kind of nonsense did the Abyss teach you, Master?"

"When you one day stand at the edge of the Abyss, you'll understand the knowledge it imparts..."

Scáthach encouraged him, then added with a mischievous, almost girlish tone, "...But seeing that jealous look on your face, Roy, makes all my efforts worthwhile. Take this to heart—it's your master's final lesson, a battle scenario unlike any before. And for this test... I'm giving you a failing grade!"

With that, Scáthach turned her back to Roy, walking forward slowly with her demonic spear held upside-down in both hands.

Primordial runes flickered across Roy's body as the wound on his abdomen began to heal.

"Once you leave the Land of Shadows, the runes I've placed on you will fade. So don't let yourself be misled in future battles—don't assume your body has some innate regenerative ability. Your current recovery is due to my runes, not your own strength."

"...Try to avoid sustaining injuries like this in combat. While they won't kill you, they'll drastically reduce your fighting capability—a dangerous thing in life-or-death struggles. Until your body has been truly tempered, minimize unnecessary wounds."

Scáthach spoke like a parent seeing their child off on a long journey, or a teacher watching a student enter an exam hall—her words were filled with nagging, motherly concern.

Roy didn't find her lecturing tiresome. On the contrary, it filled him with nostalgia.

For Roy, having a mentor like Scáthach, who treated him with such familial warmth, brought only peace and comfort to his heart.

"I understand, Master..."

As the wound on his abdomen fully healed, Roy stood up from the ground, ready to follow Scáthach.

Yet she suddenly raised her spear, stopping him in his tracks. "...Don't come any closer, Roy. It's time to part ways. I've never been fond of overly sentimental farewells. Normally, I wouldn't care about separation, but... perhaps I've been alone in this Land of Shadows for far too long. Now that hope has finally appeared, it's left me feeling... unsettled."

Scáthach halted, then flicked her right hand—her crimson demonic spear flew through the air and embedded itself in the ground before Roy.

"Though you may not need it, take it with you nonetheless. Consider it a parting gift from your mentor."

The Queen of the Land of Shadows paused, then slowly turned to reveal an exquisitely beautiful profile, offering Roy a radiant, tender smile as she said, "...I hope one day you'll use it to pierce through me, my disciple Roy Crowley!"

Roy gazed deeply at her, tightening his grip on the crimson demonic spear before him. With a sigh, he responded, "...Understood, Master! The next time we meet, I swear I'll pierce you with this spear—and fulfill your true wish!"

"Excellent. If you can accomplish that, then all my efforts in teaching you won't have been in vain! If you're interested in this decaying body of mine, then face me honorably in the Celtic way. When you pierce me with that spear, this body shall be yours!"

Just like a teacher motivating a student with the promise of a reward for good grades, Scáthach made herself the prize, sealing this pact with her disciple.

A gateway between worlds abruptly manifested behind Roy. He knew this was Aisha's Authority at work, influenced by the mystery concealed in his right hand, finally initiating his journey home.

He could refuse—could choose to remain in the Land of Shadows—but he also knew that if he did, Scáthach's spear would shatter his skull like a watermelon the very next instant.

Because staying would be the coward's choice. In the Land of Shadows, Roy could never reach Scáthach's level, let alone surpass her. Only by using the "ship" in his right hand to traverse infinite worlds could he ascend to greater heights.

No words were needed. No farewells, no sorrow. Scáthach would remain here in the Land of Shadows—she could go nowhere, could never escape. The initiative to meet again lay in Roy's hands. And so, without hesitation, he turned and strode into the interworld rift, spear in hand, never looking back.

"The winds of the Land of Shadows... finally carry warmth."

Only after Roy's figure vanished did Scáthach slowly make her way to a nearby rock, seating herself gently upon it. She leaned back against her spears, gazing up at the oppressive storm clouds overhead—where, between the gaps, faint light seemed to spill through.

"My body... has warmth now too."

Scáthach pressed a hand to her heart, murmuring softly.

Then, like a statue, she sat motionless—just as she had for millennia past. But this time, blood flowed through her veins. This time, her skin held a faint warmth. No longer was she a withered husk awaiting the world's end; now, she waited with purpose, with hope.

That hope might take a decade, a century, even a millennium to arrive. But so long as she held it in her heart, the wait would be worth it.

"Roy Crowley..."

As if afraid she might forget the name, she whispered her disciple's name once more—the most precious, most perfect treasure she had ever sculpted in her long life.

***

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