Roy's heart trembled.
It felt as though a man from some isolated mountain village had suddenly stepped into a gleaming metropolis, his first sight of the modern world stunning him into awe. That overwhelming grandeur ignited a yearning within him.
To wield the cosmic phase-laws as if they were mere toys, to wave one's hand and cause the fall of a thousand stars, to laugh and extinguish the light of billions of suns, what staggering majesty! What boundless pride and freedom! Just imagining that he might one day reach such heights made Roy shudder in quiet ecstasy.
And yet, Roy also knew, even Scáthach, standing before him now, was still far from that realm. In the Silver Star system developed by Aleister Crowley, this might only be a difference in grade, but in truth, it was a gap as vast as a heavenly abyss.
Perhaps, just as Scáthach had said, that gap itself was the Abyss.
At the same time, Roy felt deeply uneasy.
Though both Scáthach and Aleister stood at the apex of human potential, Aleister might have already placed one foot beyond the Abyss. Perhaps he could even cross it fully, but simply chose not to. To think he had to seek revenge on a father that unfathomable... Roy's head throbbed with pain.
As for the Enlightened One Scáthach spoke of, that was none other than Śākyamuni. In Aleister's system, he would at the very least be a perfected Magic God at the level of 9=2, and perhaps had already ascended to the transcendent awareness of 10=1—the Ipsissimus, "He Who Is His Own Self." For one such as him to transcend the cosmos... was hardly surprising.
A being like that was still far beyond Roy's comprehension.
"Don't wear such a troubled look, foreigner… That's not something you need to be understanding right now. A grade-schooler should focus on arithmetic, not worry about university-level mathematics."
Scáthach, unable to watch such a gifted soul spiral into needless doubt, offered a rare gesture of kindness. Her voice was soft, like that of a gentle elder sister from next door.
Snapping out of his reverie, Roy managed a helpless smile. "...It really is strange hearing Your Highness Scáthach use modern analogies like that."
A Queen of the Land of Shadows, who stood outside of the world itself, speaking of "grade school" and "university"... it felt surreal to Roy.
Still, he noticed the tension between them had eased somewhat. It wasn't like the opening standoff where they were one breath away from violence. Was it that he was beginning to meet Scáthach's expectations?
Just as that thought crossed his mind, Scáthach reminded him, reality always hits harder than imagination.
"Don't daydream when you're facing an enemy, especially not in battle. That sort of distraction will get you killed."
Roy's instincts screamed. A streak of red—like lightning—shot toward him again. Though his mind registered it as Scáthach's cursed spear, his body simply couldn't keep up.
"Gh—!"
A low groan escaped him as pain lanced through his abdomen. Looking down, he saw the crimson spear skewering his kidney. The killing intent and demonic malice seeping from the weapon made his entire body quake, his soul shudder, and cold sweat pour from his brow.
In that moment, he felt oddly thankful: he was a Campione, a God Slayer. If he lost a kidney, it would regenerate. Had he been an ordinary man… he might have just lost more than a vital organ perhaps his manhood.
Clutching at the spear embedded in him, Roy attempted to pull it out—but instantly gave up, allowing Scáthach to wrench it free. A jet of blood sprayed forth in its wake.
He wasn't someone who excelled in brute force. Competing with Scáthach physically was hopeless.
He couldn't win in strength. He couldn't win in speed. Even his divine Authorities, those miracle-forged powers of divine origin, were little more than playthings before her might. Pale and breathless, Roy staggered backward, the sparks of logic in his mind flickering frantically, but no path to victory revealed itself.
The Mind's Eye could perceive the slimmest of openings, could snatch victory from a one-in-ten-thousand chance. But what if even that sliver didn't exist? What if the odds of victory were zero?
Then even the Mind's Eye would be rendered meaningless.
No… There's still one method left. One last hope… but…
Roy's thoughts turned to that right hand, his own, yet uncontrollable.
The right hand that bore within it all the miracles of the Christianity, the Holy Right, a limb that approached the very realm of omnipotence.
Against Scáthach, the Queen of the Land of Shadows, who could not cross the Abyss, but stood atop the human summit and gazed at the heavens above. Roy believed with certainty:
This hand could defeat her.
But it wasn't that his "Right Hand" lacked power—far from it.
The problem was the man named Roy. He was simply too weak.
He lacked the strength to fully control the hand's divine authority. As a result, he was shackled by limitations. Unless the "conditions of victory" were fulfilled, he couldn't unleash its true omnipotent power.
Would Scáthach give him the chance to reach that threshold?
Roy seriously doubted it.
"I have seen your strength and your courage… Now let me witness your will! Be warned—this is the desire of a woman who has lived in solitude for thousands of years. If you cannot satisfy me with your will alone… then remain here forever, as one of the dead! This is the Land of Shadows, a kingdom of the departed!"
Her words were laced with ambiguous, almost provocative undertones, but her fighting spirit surged as fiercely as ever. That half-revealed face beneath her mask gleamed with fanatic joy, making Roy wonder if this woman was, deep down, a bona fide sadist.
But he had no time to reflect further.
A storm of killing intent surged forth. Scáthach treated the distance between them as non-existent. Her crimson spears transformed once more into the fangs of a predator.
She truly was a monster worthy of slaying gods with mere martial prowess, a being so feared by the divine that they cursed her name. Scáthach's understanding of combat had long since surpassed what Roy thought was humanly possible. Though she wielded the power to level mountains and raze continents, she held it all back with terrifying precision. The twin spears in her hands felt no more violent than training blades in a mock duel.
There was no wind. No destruction. Not even the environment around them was affected. Her control was absolute.
Roy couldn't afford even a moment of distraction. Every fiber of his focus was dedicated to dodging her strikes. He could not see the spears. He could only rely on instinct—on reflexes honed through willpower alone.
His brain began to slow. His thoughts dulled. It was as though his consciousness had become detached, like a puppet whose strings had frayed, unable to discern self from world, form from color.
And still, he couldn't avoid all of her attacks.
Scáthach struck like a queen toying with her captive, wielding her whip with wicked pleasure. She could've skewered Roy's skull at any time, yet she didn't. Instead, she pierced his body in non-lethal places, stab wounds that carved deep gashes, revealed bone, drew blood… but never death.
She understood human anatomy intimately. She had slaughtered countless in her long existence.
Scáthach struck Roy exactly two hundred and seventeen times.
Not once did she aim to kill.
Only to hurt.
Gradually, Roy's pain receptors numbed. His mind, dull with fatigue, mocked itself, what a way to learn pain, to feel pain, to embrace pain. He chuckled bitterly in his head.
A real masochist, aren't I...?
"Huff... huff... huff..."
He didn't know how much time had passed before she stopped. Standing before him, Scáthach was calm and elegant, not even slightly out of breath. The seductive sway of her figure, the effortless way she held her spear, it was as if she'd barely warmed up.
Roy, meanwhile, stood trembling. Blood streamed from wounds across his entire body. He looked like a ragged sieve. The blood loss was dizzying. He was not a physical-type Campione, and to remain standing in this state… it was sheer force of will.
"...That's enough, isn't it...? If you're going to kill me, then do it already… Stop toying with me!"
Roy's hoarse voice was tinged with fury. He silently thanked Scáthach for not severing his vocal cords, at least he could still speak.
To Roy, her actions were nothing short of an insult.
She could've killed him from the start.
Instead, she played with him, like a child tormenting an ant. And Roy, whose pride knew no equal, couldn't stand the humiliation.
Even if, logically, he understood it wasn't her intent. That she truly fought him with sincerity. That this was a form of respect.
None of that mattered.
All Roy could feel… was that she was mocking him.
And so—
"Fuck you!!"
A rare profanity tore from his lips. His face twisted in rage. Scáthach had broken something inside him.
Slowly, from his right shoulder, a golden dragon's claw began to emerge.
That "Right Hand"—a third, alien limb that seemed to stretch to infinity, capable of blotting out the heavens themselves. As it extended, endless mysteries flowed across its surface, kaleidoscopic radiance cycling in eternal flux.
The Holy Right, Roy's trump card.
It pointed directly at Scáthach.
At this point, who gives a damn about conditions for victory?
Forget the prerequisites. Forget the careful timing.
If I die before using my ultimate move—what's the point?!
*******
(T/N: Holy Right here refers to the true capability of his right hand while also talking about Light of the Right Hand part of the Authority. Also, there probably won't be a chapter tomorrow since i will be really busy tonight and tomorrow's night as well. I will still try for a chapter if I can but no promises.)