A Certain Multiverse's Holy Right

The voice, light and melodious, carried a youthful sweetness that softened the stern look on Roy's face as he focused on the magic tome in his hands. A warm smile replaced his serious expression.

The clear, crisp voice from outside the door was one he had heard for over a decade—it belonged to his sister.

When facing her, Roy always did his best to hide any signs of worry or distress, presenting only his happiest and most carefree self.

That was what a responsible elder brother should do—to never let his gentle and delicate younger sister bear any burdens.

Roy was naturally inclined to excel in any role he assumed, and as a brother, he strove to be the best, never allowing himself to falter in his duties.

The creaky old door swung open, allowing a bright beam of light to flood the narrow crack. It illuminated Roy's view of a beautiful and pure young girl.

Her ankle-length golden hair, fine as sand on a sunlit beach, shimmered even in the dim, aged apartment, filling the space with a radiant glow. To Roy's troubled heart, she was like a beacon of hope.

"Lola, you're back."

Roy quickly stepped forward to the door, taking the basket from Lola's hands. As his fingers brushed her silky golden hair, he noticed a faint layer of dust gathering in his palm. Frowning slightly, he said with concern, "...Go clean your hair first."

Early 20th-century London resembled a massive black factory, earning its moniker as the "City of Fog." The streets left grime on every passerby, and homes required regular cleaning to keep thick layers of soot at bay.

"My hair doesn't matter; as long as the food isn't dirty, it's fine."

Lola's slender, delicate fingers carefully lifted the white cloth covering the basket. The cloth had already accumulated a layer of dust, but the bread and fruit underneath were clean and warm. Seeing this, Lola let out a sigh of relief, patting her gradually rising chest as she relaxed.

Roy reached out to smooth the strands of sweat-soaked, tangled hair from her forehead, prompting a sweet, innocent smile from Lola.

Lola Zaza Crowley, Roy's twin sister from the same neglectful father and deceased mother, had grown up in London with her brother. After their father abandoned them and their mother succumbed to illness, the siblings had relied on one another for survival, like two intertwined flames keeping each other warm.

Roy gazed at his sister. Her delicate brows and features resembled a blooming flower, her ruby lips a perfect touch of color, and her sapphire-blue eyes sparkling like the finest gemstones. Her face, soft and shy, carried a beauty that only grew more breathtaking as her features matured.

Unlike typical Western women, Lola's facial structure was less pronounced, her softness evoking an almost Eastern charm. Her porcelain skin was flawless, with a faint pink hue that seemed to glow, so delicate that it looked as though it might bruise with the slightest touch.

Feeling Roy's intense gaze, the fifteen-year-old girl's cheeks flushed a deep crimson. She turned her head away bashfully, avoiding his eyes, clutching the faded, simple dress she wore. In a quiet voice, she murmured, "...Mrs. Mary next door gave me extra fruit today."

"Hmm, Mrs. Mary has been very kind to us. I've only written a few letters for her—hardly worth mentioning. Her husband should be returning from the front soon. We shouldn't trouble her any further."

Mrs. Mary was their neighbor, a warm and generous woman who often shared fruit with Lola to help the siblings improve their modest diet.

Roy and Lola had never lived in an orphanage. Their late mother had left behind a small sum of money, likely provided by their father, Aleister. As an adult with past work experience, Roy had carefully managed this money to support their childhood years.

Afterward, Roy relied on his knowledge from both his past and present life, taking up small jobs like writing letters for people to barely make ends meet. In this era, child labor laws were practically nonexistent.

Though Roy was a transmigrator, he hadn't behaved like the audacious predecessors he'd read about, who would go around making grand historical changes. This was largely due to his unique identity.

As the son of Aleister Crowley, his status in this era wasn't an honor—it was a death sentence. Any attempt to draw attention to himself could invite countless magicians seeking vengeance. Keeping his head down and living cautiously was the only way to ensure survival.

"W-Well, there's enough fruit. I'll make some jam, and we'll indulge a little today by spreading it on bread," Lola said hurriedly, mistaking Roy's distracted gaze for something else. Blushing, she gripped the basket tightly, lowered her head, and quickly retreated out of his sight, her pale face tinged with embarrassment.

Roy let out a helpless chuckle.

But when Lola turned away, leaving only her back visible, Roy's smile gradually faded.

In her radiant golden hair, Roy saw something that made his heart sink—a bizarre pattern resembling an abstract painting by Picasso. The design was like a boundless starry sky, deep and oppressive, and within that cosmic mural, Roy clearly discerned the face of a demon taking shape.

In medieval times, people said that demons resided in women's hair. Now, on Lola's golden locks, a genuine demon seemed to have made its home.

"Lola..."

Roy couldn't help but call her name.

"What is it, brother?"

Lola stopped in her tracks and turned slightly, her head tilted inquisitively.

Though shy, she couldn't ignore her brother. Having grown up together and weathered life's hardships side by side, Lola saw her brother as her only family and her entire world. Despite the blush spreading across her face, she was determined to meet his every need and never let him down.

Roy said nothing. He stepped forward, wrapping his arms around her slender frame from behind. The significant height difference allowed him to lower his head and press a gentle kiss onto her golden hair.

Then, as if testing the waters, he softly spoke her name: "…Lola Zaza Crowley."

Suddenly, a stifling and oppressive aura erupted from her delicate body. Lola's innocent sapphire eyes dimmed, and a shadow of gloom not befitting a fifteen-year-old girl appeared in them. Her previously sweet smile twisted into something dark and sinister.

"I don't like that name, brother... I'll say it again—I want you to call me Laura Stuart!"

Lola shuffled into the cramped kitchen with heavy steps, the basket in her arms.

Roy's eyes narrowed as he bit his lip. Suddenly, he turned around to face the empty air behind him and muttered, "…What must I do to save her?"

Behind him, a radiant figure slowly appeared. It was an angel.