A Certain Multiverse's Holy Right

"The angelic rite, 'Angel Fall'?"

Roy whispered, his voice tinged with intrigue. He had a vivid memory of this ritual from his time in the Index world.

"In the Kabbalistic Tree of Life, the number of humans and angels is predetermined. Under normal circumstances, a human can never ascend to become an angel. The purpose of this ritual is to forcibly demote an angel to the state of a 'human' at the moment the rite is enacted.

"...However, due to differences in the rules and metaphysical structures of this world compared to mine, and the lack of time to construct a large-scale ritual site, precise calibration is impossible. I can ensure the ritual will work, but its effect may only last for an instant.

"And utilizing an angelic rite as a human is an extremely dangerous act," Aiwass warned. "It introduces overwhelming 'toxins' to your soul, triggering your primal sins. A brief activation of the ritual is the safest duration—one that won't compromise your body or spirit."

Aiwass, typically detached and free-spirited, rarely intervened directly in mortal affairs. But Roy's uniqueness had piqued her curiosity, offering mysteries and surprises even beyond what gods and demons could hope to uncover. She was determined to protect his life, despite her limitations as a being of pure spirit.

If Aiwass had possessed a physical form, she might have intervened directly in this battle. For now, she remained Roy's faithful guardian angel, staying true to her role.

"So, I must decide the outcome in an instant?" Roy mused bitterly. "Under normal circumstances, I'd never gamble on such slim odds. But this is no ordinary moment. I have a gut feeling that if I let this chance slip away, I'll lose all my courage. My life would become a failure—just like Aleister's."

He licked his parched lips, his voice firm and resolute. "Fine. Tell me how to set up the ritual, Aiwass!"

"As you wish... Place the scepter symbolizing fire at the lowest point of the Kabbalah. Since the external angels are Michael and Metatron, we must align their symbols with Malkuth—the Kingdom—at the base of the Tree of Life, transforming them into their human forms. The silver knife should go at Victory, the magical numbers are 93 and 70... Central Beauty represents Michael, and the Crown is Metatron..."

Amid a raging desert storm, two divine figures clashed. One was a stunningly handsome archangel with fiery red hair, his wings ablaze like molten gold. He wielded a crimson sword shaped like a cross, confronting the ethereal being before him.

"Heretic! You, who dare steal my authority and gaze upon the face of God with cunning eyes like a serpent—I shall judge you today!" roared Michael, his righteous fury echoing like thunder.

Opposite him stood Metatron, a luminous angel adorned with thirty-six pairs of wings. His voice, gentle yet unwavering, responded, "Michael, you should kneel before me. To defy me is to defy the will of the Lord. You have made a righteous man into a Messiah, treating him as God's equal. That is the greatest blasphemy!"

Though Michael radiated the aura of an unyielding warrior, Metatron was calm and serene, embodying the role of the "scribe of heaven" as described in the Book of Enoch. The two angels represented polar opposites: Michael, the militant champion of righteousness, and Metatron, the ultimate divine administrator.

"Enough words! You deceitful snake, disguising yourself as an angel of light. I will cleave you asunder, like the red dragon, and cast you into hell where you belong!" Michael declared.

Their clash was cataclysmic. The earth split, the heavens tore apart, and a scene reminiscent of the apocalypse unfolded. The desert turned into a scorching furnace, blanketed by blazing winds and towering whirlwinds of sand.

Roy stood at a distance, his mortal frame battered by the storm. His skin tore and bled under the ferocious winds, the searing heat threatening to incinerate him. Yet he pressed on, his determination unwavering.

"This is a god's battlefield," Roy thought, his eyes fixed on the two combatants. "Even the greatest magicians would despair at such devastation. These Heretic Gods are walking calamities, bringing ruin with every step. To humans, gods—whether kind or cruel—are nothing but disasters."

In this world, gods weren't divine protectors but overwhelming threats, their mere existence a danger to humanity.

"I remember now," Roy muttered, clutching a shard of the Spear of Longinus tightly. "A Heretic God's strength comes from their self-belief. Both Michael and Metatron are deeply convinced of their identities. This faith makes them nearly identical to their mythical counterparts.

"But when two gods with such overlapping domains fight, the details of their myths become decisive. And Michael has a clear advantage."

The battle unfolded in ways Roy hadn't anticipated. He'd expected an even match between Metatron and Michael, their powers canceling each other out. But Michael was dominating.

"Metatron's myths are sparse, limited to the Book of Enoch. Beyond walking with God for 300 years, there's little to bolster his narrative. But Michael? He's the angel of war and victory, the one who defeated Satan himself. Nearly every major battle in the Bible is attributed to him.

"This is bad. If Metatron doesn't hold his ground, I'll have no chance to act, whether it's ambushing a wounded Metatron or defeating Michael after his victory."

Roy's worst fears came true as Metatron, injured, chose to retreat.

"Damn it! He's running!"

The angels' speed was far beyond anything Roy could match. If Metatron fled and Michael gave chase, Roy would lose them completely. Finding them again on Earth would be an impossible task.

The rarity of such a confrontation wasn't lost on him. Many Campione had become god-slayers by exploiting moments like these—capitalizing on battles between Heretic Gods to strike at their weakest.

This was his moment.

"I can't hesitate any longer. Success or failure—it's all or nothing now!"

Roy abandoned all calculated reasoning, his mind embracing the foolish courage of the moment. From his coat, he pulled out the original copy of the Book of the Law, the only artifact he had brought from the Index world.

"Michael!!!"

Amid the storm of burning sand, Roy charged forward, his voice breaking through the chaos. He screamed with all his might, calling out to the victorious archangel preparing to pursue Metatron.

This was it—the moment to begin the great undertaking of slaying a god!