A Certain Multiverse's Holy Right

Ponza Island was not large, spanning only about seven square kilometers, with its highest point reaching an elevation of just 300 meters.

Roy and Erica walked through the island's sparse forest. The trees were not dense, and the island itself, being a tourist destination, had long since been developed. Trails crisscrossed the landscape, making it easy for even a casual visitor to navigate.

As they moved through the forest, the faint roar of the ocean echoed in the background. Overhead, the birds that would normally circle and call in the skies were conspicuously absent, as though the island's wildlife had sensed the impending catastrophe.

The oppressive atmosphere weighed heavily on Erica, leaving her tense and uneasy. In contrast, Roy seemed entirely at ease. With one hand tucked in the pocket of his ornate red cardinal's robe, he strolled casually along the fragrant dirt path.

"Lady Erica..."

The sudden call startled Erica, snapping her out of her reverie. She realized she had unwittingly fallen two steps behind Roy. Quickly closing the gap, she adjusted her posture and tone before responding, "Yes, my King! What are your orders?"

"I was just making sure you weren't lost in thought," Roy said, pausing briefly and turning to face the young Italian girl. Her delicate features were framed by the scarlet gown that left her smooth shoulders bare, her collarbones as fine as porcelain. Her presence exuded a refined beauty, one that tempted a man's baser instincts.

Standing side by side, both dressed in shades of crimson—she with golden locks, he with silver—they cut striking figures against the forest's verdant green.

"I'll ask you once more," Roy continued, his tone light but his gaze sharp. "Are you sure you won't leave this place? Do you truly want to witness the battle between a Campione and a Heretic God?"

Erica did not hesitate. "I have just been knighted as your personal knight, my King. Even if my strength is insignificant in comparison to yours, as a knight, I cannot flee before the battle has begun. To do so would dishonor my blade."

She drew her enchanted sword, Cuore di Leone, her voice firm and her stance unyielding, like a lioness ready to defend her pride.

"Very well. That's your choice," Roy said, nodding slightly. "But this is my final warning: don't let your mind wander like it just did. Even the aftershocks of this battle could kill you. You must stay alert at all times. I will not assist you if you fall; your survival depends entirely on your own strength. If you die here, it will only prove that Erica Blandelli was nothing more than an ordinary woman."

At just fourteen years old, Erica had already attained the rank of a Great Knight, a title held by only the most elite of warriors. While some Great Knights were stronger than others, her rank alone placed her on par with the leaders of magical societies like Copper Black-Cross and Capital of Lilies.

Yet Erica's exceptional talents, her powerful enchanted sword, and her innate wisdom made her pride burn brightly. Having never encountered a Heretic God in person, she could not yet comprehend their overwhelming power. Perhaps, in her youthful arrogance, she even entertained the notion that she, too, might one day slay a god.

It would only be through direct confrontation that she would come to understand the insurmountable gap between human talent and divine might. Slaying a god was not a feat achieved through strength alone, but through equal parts cunning and luck.

Roy's repeated warnings made Erica more cautious. Gripping her sword tightly, she followed him out of the forest.

Ahead of them loomed a hundred-meter-high cliff, beneath which lay Ponza's lone village. Beyond the cliff stretched the island's famed crescent-shaped bay.

Standing at the cliff's edge was a figure.

The moment Roy's gaze fell upon the figure, he felt his blood surge, as though he were a predator scenting prey. His whole body seemed to thrill in anticipation, his senses heightened to their utmost limits.

"Metatron, the Heavenly Scribe!"

Roy stopped roughly a hundred meters away, his voice ringing out with authority.

The figure turned slowly to face him. It was the first time Roy had seen Metatron clearly. In Israel, he had only glimpsed the angel from a distance.

Unlike the dazzlingly handsome and valiant Michael, Metatron's appearance was ordinary, his demeanor serene and scholarly.

According to The Book of Enoch, Metatron was the angelic form of the man Enoch, who ascended to heaven and was transformed. Thus, his face retained the features of his mortal life.

Suddenly, Metatron's visage became hazy and indistinct, shifting in and out of focus before solidifying again. Roy's breath caught as he realized what he was seeing: through Metatron's face, he could glimpse a higher, more transcendent being. The angel's countenance merged with that of a divine, exalted presence.

In that instant, an overwhelming curse assaulted Roy. The curse entered through his gaze, a wave of divine wrath that attacked his mind and spirit. Roy's vast magical reserves and anti-magic resistance instinctively rose to counter it, but the sheer magnitude of the curse threatened to overwhelm him. His thoughts grew chaotic, his sanity slipping as an incomprehensible, holy concept pressed into his mind.

Realizing the danger, Roy immediately channeled his immense magical energy and visualized The Book of the Law. With great effort, he managed to suppress the curse, though his body was left noticeably weakened.

"My King!" Erica cried out in alarm.

Without a word, Roy moved swiftly, placing his hand over Erica's eyes to shield her. His broad, steady palm plunged her vision into darkness.

"Do not look at Metatron's face," Roy commanded, his tone grave.

The curse must have been one of Metatron's divine powers. Even Roy, a Campione, had barely withstood its effects. If Erica had so much as glanced at Metatron, she would have been driven mad—or worse, killed instantly.

"I created this commotion to draw out the false Michael," Metatron spoke, his voice calm but firm. "I did not expect that he had already been slain, and that his death had birthed a new Devil King on Earth."

With a resigned sigh, Metatron continued, his tone growing sterner. Behind him, thirty-six pairs of fiery wings unfurled, their blazing radiance casting an otherworldly glow. A luminous halo shimmered above his head.

"But whether it is the betrayer angel or you, O Devil King, my duty remains the same: to judge heresy!"

"Son of Fool, Devil King who has slain the heretical angel," Metatron declared, his voice booming with authority. "Come and face the Deputy of Heaven!"

As his words rang out, Metatron's form began to expand, his body blazing like a living inferno. In an instant, he grew to colossal proportions, befitting the towering stature described in The Book of Enoch.

"Deputy of Heaven?" Roy scoffed, a sardonic smile curling his lips. "Do not make me laugh, you heretical angel born of apocrypha. Today, I shall strike you down in the name of the Lord!"

Without waiting to assess further, Roy launched himself forward like a beast unleashed.

"BEAST777: I shall transcend the evils of humanity!"

He spoke his magic name, a proclamation of his intent to kill.

Activating the divine authority of The Hand of Jacob, Roy channeled immense magical energy into his left fist. Leaping high into the air, he descended like a falling star, his punch aimed directly at Metatron's towering form.

This was one of the seven techniques Roy had devised under The Hand of Jacob:

—The Saint Subdues the Dragon!